by Jean Sasson
Soon after arriving in Jeddah, I had also become interested in sewing my own clothes. Although my dresses were simple, I enjoyed studying fashion magazines and selecting the designs I liked, then carefully drawing a pattern on thin paper. If I had suitable material, I would very cautiously cut the fabric and sew the pieces together. Otherwise, I would send our driver to purchase materials and supplies. Making our confused driver, who had lived most of his life in a small village in Yemen, understand the importance of the specific weight and color of ladies’ dress fabric was never easy. I smile today when I think of those tortuous conversations, although it was not funny at the time.
But such was life in Saudi Arabia; we women remained in seclusion most of the time. I was rarely frustrated, but on occasion I felt my nerves frayed and needed a change of scenery. When that happened, Auntie Allia would volunteer to escort me on a rare trip to a commercial establishment to select a supply of pretty fabrics.
Such outings had their own frustrations. I often read postings on the windows and doors of dry goods shops declaring that women were forbidden to enter. Most Saudi-owned shops were managed by men from other countries such as Pakistan, India, or other Arab lands. Even if females are allowed to enter the store, most Muslim women did not feel comfortable conversing with a man not of their family.
Despite such obstacles, sometimes I would meet with success and my reward would be a lovely dress to wear for my husband or to exhibit at one of the female family functions. Other times I would be forced to throw the dress and the pattern in the bin.
I still painted on canvas, although less than before.
I still read, but because of my goal to become more knowledgeable about my faith, I mainly read religious teachings.
My hobbies kept me busy even though I was alone for many hours each day. Often I exhausted myself by mid-afternoon and required a long nap. I trained myself to wake up with ample time to attend to my appearance before my husband came home for the evening.
Once Osama returned, we would happily discuss his day and mine, and then we would have our evening meal. Sometimes we ate alone but more often with Auntie Allia and her family, which was very enjoyable. Of course, we would break off social talk for all the required prayers, with the men dashing off to the mosque and the women praying at home.
After family time, my husband often joined other men for impassioned discussions of political or religious topics. It is common in Saudi Arabia for men to spend the evenings with their male friends, rather than with their wives and families. The men will gather in various homes on different evenings of the week, where the men have a special room that is all their own. They will drink tea or coffee and some will smoke cigarettes and enjoy the camaraderie of their peers.
Like all women in Saudi Arabia, I would never attend such gatherings, but would remain with the women of the house. By the time my husband returned late at night, everyone would retire.
The best time for me was the sleeping time.
After a year or so of living in Jeddah, I had girlfriends I had met through my Auntie Allia. We would visit each other’s homes on occasion and sometimes discuss our husbands and our mothers-in-law. I was one of the few young brides who had no complaints about my husband, our marriage, or my mother-in-law.
One of the many blessings in my life was that we lived near Mecca, the Blessed, the most holy city for Muslims, which was only about fifty miles from my new home. I held Jeddah in great affection, but Mecca was the city I loved most.
Our Prophet Mohammed was born in Mecca, and Islam’s most holy mosque, the Grand Mosque, is the heart of the city. Because of this, Muslims from every corner of the world spend long hours dreaming of the day when their happy eyes will see the blessed city and their feet touch the sandy soil.
Osama was eager to take me there soon after I arrived in Jeddah—for obvious reasons, but also because he was proud that the rulers of the kingdom had chosen his family to maintain the holy mosques in Mecca and Medina, which was the greatest honor for a Muslim.
I remember my high excitement on the short drive to Mecca. To travel there from Jeddah takes only an hour, and less with Osama at the wheel. Mecca is 910 feet above sea level, so the highway slowly climbs to that elevation. Nothing had prepared me for the sensations that gripped me at the moment the city dipped into sight and I spotted the vista all Muslims ache to see.
Soon my feet were on the ground. In a dreamy daze I walked in the direction of the great mosque. To my despair, I soon found myself distracted. Although it is not a requirement to wear the veil at the holy mosque in Mecca, I did so in deference to Osama’s wishes.
I had not yet become accustomed to wearing the veil. Although Saudi women familiar with the abaaya appear svelte and elegant, those new to the veil and cloak are not so graceful. The face veil is kept in place by hairpins, while the abaaya is held closed with the right hand, giving the wearer a lot to coordinate. In my inexperience, I remember being worried that I might accidentally expose my face or my garments underneath the cloak. I first adjusted my face veil under my head scarf, then tightly grasped the edges of the cloak with my right hand. As I walked through the huge mosque area, I prayed that I would do nothing to attract attention, humiliating myself before other worshippers.
I was sure that I looked a fool, hanging on to my garment and placing each step with great care. Suddenly, in that most holy place, an unwelcome comic image popped into my mind. I remembered a story I had read as a child about a big black bird who is tricked into dropping some cheese. That children’s fable swirled around and around in my head as though an automatic switch had been flipped. As desperate as I was to savor this sacred moment, I could not get the fable out of my thoughts:
There was once a big black crow sitting high up in the trees.
In her beak she had a nice, round cheese.
Along came a fox, as clever as they come,
“Mmmmm,” he thought. “I’d like to have a bite of that cheese.”
“Oh crow,” called the fox, “if your voice is half as beautiful as those
fine feathers I see, it would please my ears to hear
you sing a little melody.”
Well the crow had never heard anyone say such a nice thing.
So, she opened up her beak and she began to squawk and sing.
Down came the cheese into the waiting mouth of the fox.
“Oh no! You have my cheese,” squawked the crow.
Meanwhile, the fox was licking his lips.
“You got the compliments, and I got the cheese!
It’s a fair enough trade!”
Did my lack of grace made me as conspicuous as a big black crow? The idea brought forth fears, followed by giggles. I struggled with my secret thoughts until the emotional impact of the mosque and my nearness to God helped to calm my mind and erase the bizarre image. I lumbered on, graceless in the midst of so many Saudi women who glided along as elegantly as skilled ice dancers.
By the time I located the spot delegated to female worshippers, the black bird had flown. Never did I reveal my inappropriate thoughts to my husband, who would have been angered by such irreverence. I felt humbled as I knelt to say my heartfelt prayers to God, knowing that he would forgive me for my sins both great and small. Such awe filled my soul that my eyes overflowed with fat tears that rolled down my cheeks.
Within a year of my marriage, my body began to feel strange. I confided in my Auntie Allia, who told me that all the signs made it clear that I was pregnant.
Expecting a child was the loveliest feeling I had ever known. Osama was very happy about my news, and like all Saudi men he expressed his sincere wish that our firstborn be a son. A son for our first would be nice, I thought to myself, but I had always wanted a small daughter so that I might dress her in frilly dresses and braid her long hair. But in truth, like most mothers, I wished for nothing more than for God to give me a healthy baby.
Everyone was more than joyous about the upcoming event. My husband and h
is family remained solicitous about my health and state of mind for the entire nine months, so I was a pampered expectant mother. There was nothing I needed that I did not receive. I gave thanks to God that I did not suffer during the months before my first child was born. My parents were told and they were pleased as well, although sad that they would not be with their daughter during the happy occasion.
After having such an easy pregnancy, I was surprised by the difficulty and pain of childbirth. I did not go to the hospital but was attended to at our home by a well-trained midwife. The birth was so excruciating for me that my anxious husband announced, “From now on, Najwa will be taken to a hospital for the birth of our children.”
Never have I been so happy to see a face as I was to see the face of our firstborn. He was a healthy baby, thanks be to God for His blessings. We named our little son Abdullah and were in high spirits that he was with us. That first birth was a long time ago, in 1976, but I do remember that there were some problems with feeding him. I was a young and inexperienced mother and did not have the answer to everything. Happily all was resolved over time and Abdullah grew into a healthy toddler.
After Abdullah was born, Osama hired a second Ethiopian maid by the name of Naeemah. What happy days those were! We were a young couple without the usual worries of so many newlyweds. We had our healthy son, we enjoyed close relations with both sets of parents, and we had enough money for our needs. We were blessed.
How I wish we could have stayed in that happy place forever.
We were so occupied with our young family and my husband was so involved with his work and his schooling that the time passed as rapidly as a strong wind. Everything seemed the same to my heart and mind, yet everything was changing.
Within a year of his birth, Abdullah was a precocious toddler and I was pregnant once again. In 1978, the same year that I passed from being a teenager and turned twenty, we were blessed with a second son, Abdul Rahman.
In early 1979, I found myself pregnant again, feeling that God would surely bless me with a daughter this time. Many Saudi wives envied me, for sons are most prized in my culture; still, I secretly dreamed of a little girl.
My husband, who would soon be twenty-two years old, was attending college at the King Abdul Aziz University. His main course of study was in economics and management, although he took a particular interest in his religion classes. My husband also devoted time to the charity work that is so important to a true believer.
Even though I have never been involved in public life, I did overhear various discussions of events shaping the world. I heard something about the troubles in Iran, a Muslim nation near Saudi Arabia, where protesters were unhappy with the Shah and instead favored a religious government. Sure enough, in January 1979, the Shah and his family were forced to flee, making way for a Muslim cleric by the name of Khomeini to rule the large country.
As my husband became older and more educated, I noticed that a new and broader awareness of the outside world began to occupy his mind. He would occasionally comment on his disappointment with the politics of the world, and in particular with the fact that Islam was not held in greater respect. No one in our family took umbrage at his new political awareness and religiosity; Osama was highly praised for his keen interest in supporting Islam.
One evening he arrived home with a surprise announcement: “Najwa, we are going to travel to the United States. Our boys are going with us.”
I was shocked, to tell you the truth, as this was the first occasion I would accompany Osama on a trip. At that time Abdullah was a toddler and Abdul Rahman was still a babe in arms, less than a year old. Pregnant, and busy with two babies, I remember few details of our travel, except that we passed through London before flying to a place I had never heard of, a state in America called Indiana. Osama told me that he was meeting with a man by the name of Abdullah Azzam. Since my husband’s business was not my business, I did not ask questions.
I was worried about Abdul Rahman because he had become quite ill on the trip and was even suffering with a high fever. Osama arranged for us to see a doctor in Indianapolis. I relaxed after that kindly physician assured us that Abdul Rahman would soon be fine.
When people make the unexpected discovery that I have visited the United States, I am sometimes questioned about my personal opinion of the country and its people. This is surprisingly difficult to answer. We were there for only two weeks, and for one of those weeks, Osama was away in Los Angeles to meet with some men in that city. The boys and I were left behind in Indiana with a girlfriend whom I would rather not name for her own privacy and safety.
My girlfriend was gracious and guided me on short trips out of her home, for I would have never ventured out alone. We even went into a big shopping mall in Indianapolis.
I was surprised that the landscape looked very flat, and so different in many ways from Saudi Arabia. As for the people, from what I experienced on that brief outing, I came to believe that Americans were gentle and nice, people easy to deal with. As far as the country itself goes, my husband and I did not hate America, yet we did not love it.
There was one incident that reminded me that some Americans are unaware of other cultures. When the time came for us to leave America, Osama and I, along with our two boys, waited for our departure at the airport. I was sitting quietly in my chair, relaxing, grateful that our boys were quiet.
Suddenly my instinct warned me to look around. Sure enough, I saw an American man gawking at me. I knew without asking that his unwelcome attention had been snagged by my black Saudi costume, consisting of a face veil, head scarf, and abaaya. That curious man was exhausting himself pacing back and forth in front of me.
Little could he know that under the veil, my eyes were fastened on him, too. That funny man was wearing out his shoes coming one way and then going another, each pass bringing him closer to me. With a jaw dropped open in surprise, and curious eyes growing as large as big bugs popping from his skull, he actually stopped to gape at my veiled face. I did not react, of course, even though he took enough time to stare at me from every possible angle.
I wondered what my husband was thinking. I took a side glance at Osama and saw that he was intently studying the curious man. I knew that my husband would never allow the man to approach me, so I was not worried about what would happen.
Later when my husband and I discussed the incident, we were both more amused than offended. That man gave us a good laugh, as it was clear he had no knowledge of veiled women, or that the Muslim woman under the black cloak covered her face and body because she chose to do so.
We returned to Saudi Arabia none the worse for our experiences.
Thankfully Abdul Rahman’s health improved, and I had an easy time when my third child was born. Sa’ad came to us as a smiling baby. Of course, Osama received many congratulations on being the father of three sons in a row.
Other dramatic events occurred during the year 1979, bringing much worry to Muslims, although to tell you the truth I was so busy with three babies that I noticed little of the world outside my four walls.
One significant event adversely affected my own family, including the lives of my children born and yet to be born. In December of 1979, the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan, beginning a brutal occupation against our Muslim brothers. Although many Saudis and Muslims from other lands were dismayed by the attack, my husband appeared more agitated than most. He constantly sought news of what was happening in Afghanistan, whether from Muslim sources or international news media. The more he learned, the more anxious he became.
I had no idea what might be happening in that faraway land, but whatever it was, my husband was highly affected. When I gathered my nerve to press for information, Osama simply said that a great evil had taken over a Muslim land. He was more upset than I had ever seen him regarding stories of innocent Muslim women and children who were being imprisoned and tortured to death.
The accounts he knew but refused to share must have been horrific,
for it seemed that my husband’s heart had been burned to a crisp.
By this time Osama was an adult in every way, and his reactions were those of a man who knew what he must do. He was at the forefront of the Saudi campaign to offer assistance to our beleaguered brethren in Afghanistan. In the beginning, his busy campaign emphasized the gathering of money to support the tribal leaders in Afghanistan who were fighting a fully fledged war against the invader. There were successful money drives at the mosques, and within the bin Laden family unit, for they were a very generous family. All wanted to contribute, but few worked harder than Osama to raise funds on behalf of the Afghan victims.
Soon, the war in Afghanistan began to take over my husband’s life.
Osama made plans to travel to Pakistan, a neighboring country to Afghanistan where many Muslims were gathering. My husband said that he would take the charity funds he had collected and purchase food, medical supplies, and weapons. After arriving in Pakistan, he would organize trucks and drivers to deliver the supplies to the Afghan fighters.
Before Osama left on his trip, he surprised me by purchasing a large twelve-apartment building in Jeddah, not too far from the home of his mother, which he said would be our new home. My feelings were mixed; I was glad because our growing family needed space, but sad because I had grown accustomed to the company of his mother and her family, all of whom I loved.
Osama took me to see our new building located in the Azazia Village 8, close to Macarona Street. The building was nicely built out of pale colored stone. I was rather astonished by the size, thinking to myself that I could never have enough babies to fill up that huge building.
When we went inside I saw that the apartment had many plain rooms that were simply decorated with traditional Persian carpets and Arabic-styled cushions lined up against the walls. I had always fancied our home to be adorned with draperies and furniture and special decorations, but who knew when Osama would return from Pakistan? It would be impossible for me to go around the city alone to purchase new furnishings.