by Jean Sasson
Soon after our outing, Osama arranged for the family to move into the new building, then left Jeddah for Pakistan.
Although my husband never failed to be a kindly partner, I could see that his mind was overflowing with business not connected to our home or to our children. I was always supportive, and I yearned for success on the battlefield for two reasons: one, that the Afghans could live without danger and rebuild their shattered nation, and two, that my husband and the father of my children might come home so we could resume the life we had once known.
And so it came to be that I found myself alone with three babies.
Fortunately, I was unaware that we would never return to an ordinary life. From that time on, Osama was away from Saudi Arabia more often than not. That huge building never became the elegant home I had envisioned during those early years of marriage.
Even with maids to help with my three boys, and a driver responsible for acquiring our supplies, my life resembled a fast-moving spinning wheel. I did not want to miss a moment of my sons’ baby days, so I was often fatigued. Adding to my exhaustion, I found myself pregnant again in July of 1980.
The fourth child I carried kicked with such enthusiasm that I suffered from the inside out. Surely, after three sons, it was time for a dainty female, yet it was hard to imagine the baby inside me that was bursting with abundant energy was a delicate girl. Surely the child must be male!
Thankfully Osama was careful to mark the date in March 1981 and return home from Pakistan to be by my side when it was time for me to give birth. When I told Osama that I must go to the hospital, he was as excited as he had been with our first three. My husband was a man on a mission; he settled me in his automobile and raced to the Bukshan Hospital, driving through Jeddah neighborhoods at such a speed that familiar structures appeared as a blur.
Despite the intensity of the labor pains racking my body, I felt myself the luckiest woman in the world.
A Note Regarding Osama bin Laden’s Political Activities
JEAN SASSON
During the years that Najwa married, moved to Saudi Arabia, and began having children, Osama bin Laden completed his high school education at the Al-Thager Model School in Jeddah, and in 1976 enrolled in the King Abdul Aziz University in Jeddah, where he studied economics and management. Najwa says that, despite reports claiming otherwise, Osama never graduated from the King Abdul Aziz University, but left three or four years after enrolling, only a few terms before graduation. His personal awakening had roused him to move on to the political movement sweeping the entire Middle East.
Actually, throughout Osama’s formative school years, the Muslim Middle East underwent an Islamic awakening, called the Salwa. The beginnings of the Salwa could be traced to the 1967 war with Israel, when Egypt, Jordan, and Syria suffered a demoralizing military defeat. That’s when many thousands of young Arab men began to question their leaders and the internal problems of their countries, as well as their losses to Israel. The Islamic awakening would gain in strength when many young Arabs began to demand change.
Although Osama was politically quiet during these years, his passion for Jihad, or holy war, was forming. During this time Osama met his first mentor, the activist Palestinian teacher and writer Abdullah Azzam, who inspired him to devote his life to something other than increasing the bin Laden fortune.
Abdullah Azzam was born in 1941 in Hartiyeh, Palestine, at the time the British were occupying his country. He attended school in his home village before studying at the Khadorri College, then worked as a teacher in Jordan before obtaining his BA in Sharia law in Damascus. When the Israelis occupied the West Bank after winning the 1967 Six Day War, he fled to Jordan, where he joined the Palestinian Muslim Brotherhood.
From Jordan, Abdullah Azzam became a part of the Palestinian resistance coalition, but grew contemptuous of Arab rulers, believing that the current rulers were too comfortable maintaining the status quo. Abdullah Azzam was adamant that the Middle East map drawn by Great Britain and France after World War I should be redrawn by Arabs.
Then in 1978, simmering troubles in Afghanistan ignited into a fire. After pushing for greater influence in the region, the Soviets backed a coup in Afghanistan to install a purely communist government. A second coup toppled the communist puppet government, and the Afghan president and most members of his family were assassinated. A Russian-backed president was appointed. Soviet tanks and troops fully invaded Afghanistan in December 1979.
Almost immediately, Muslim guerrillas launched a Jihad against the Russians. The United States, Great Britain, and other Muslim nations supported the guerrillas. The Soviets were surprised by the strength of the resistance, and would soon take heavy losses.
Enticed by Abdullah Azzam’s political message, Osama was mentally ready to respond to the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Soon afterwards, he left college to devote his time to working on behalf of the Afghan resistance fighters, known as the Mujahideen. Abdullah Azzam was his partner, and the two men met in Peshawar, Pakistan, on the border of Afghanistan, working closely to organize a method of delivering food, medical supplies, and weapons to the Mujahideen.
Chapter 3
Mother of Many Sons
NAJWA BIN LADEN
I soon discovered that my fourth child was indeed yet another son. Although I suffered a flash of disappointment when the doctor failed to announce the birth of a daughter, everyone around me was so overjoyed that my face flushed pink with pleasure. I reminded myself that many are the women in Saudi Arabia whose heartfelt prayers for sons go unanswered.
Boys are so favored in Saudi Arabia that a woman who gives birth only to sons is considered to be blessed by the hand of God Himself. Now that I had four sons, I witnessed many envious faces.
My husband and I named our fourth-born Omar Osama bin Laden. From the moment I looked into that baby’s soulful eyes, I admit to a certain special tenderness. Although I had loved all my children with a full heart, something about Omar tugged at my core. Perhaps that is why I nursed Omar longer than my other children.
My husband was deeply pleased. He repeated more than once that the birth of our children was in God’s hands, and that Omar was from God, another blessing in our growing family.
Soon my husband took yet another trip to Pakistan to support our Muslim brothers in Afghanistan. Some trips lasted for more than a month, giving me extra time to amuse myself with little Omar. One day I noticed that Omar’s blond hair was growing. Without thinking, I began to braid and pull Omar’s hair into various chic styles, some fashions resembling the braids I had seen knotted into the tails of some of my husband’s horses.
Omar was such an unusually beautiful baby that my urges took me further than hairstyles. I found myself designing and sewing little girl dresses, using Omar as my model for the clothing. It seemed a natural step to leave him in those sweet little clothes; after all, he was only a tiny baby who knew nothing of what he wore. Before long I was outfitting him entirely in little girl clothes. Pink was the best color for him because the shade looked so juicy up against his skin, as smooth and soft as velvet.
What fun I had with that precious baby! I was encouraged when my girlfriends declared that Omar grew more beautiful with each passing day. No one around me expressed criticism, so I failed to realize the consequences of my actions until my husband came home. As soon as Omar toddled into the room, my husband noticed Omar’s long hair and feminine attire. My stomach fluttered with nerves as I watched to see what Osama might do or say.
At first Osama’s face wore a puzzled expression as he squatted to the floor and tugged with his slim fingers on Omar’s curls and girlish costume. He looked at Omar, then back at me, and back at Omar once again. Osama’s long fingers brushed the pretty dress on our son and quietly announced, “Omar, this dress you are wearing is for a girl. You are a boy.” He lightly brushed Omar’s hair with his hand. “This hairstyle is for a girl. You are a boy.”
My heart plunged in dread, for never did I seek
my husband’s displeasure. In fact, I was known to be the most obedient wife.
Finally my husband gazed up at me. He did not shout, but spoke even more softly than usual, his voice as smooth as silk. “Najwa, Omar is a boy. Put him in boy clothes. Cut this long hair.”
I nodded mutely and did as I was told, at least temporarily.
My entertaining fantasy was over, at least when my husband was home. But I was still feeling naughty inside, at least on that one issue. As soon as Osama returned to Pakistan, my rebellion once again crept to the surface. I was so easily enticed by Omar’s beauty that I instinctively pulled those girly dresses over Omar’s head. My small joy continued until the afternoon when my husband walked into the house unexpectedly and I was caught in the act of admiring a pretty pink dress on Omar, whose hair was bouncing with curls.
Osama did not speak. He stood staring, his expression telling me that from that time on I should not tempt fate. And so I let go of my little sin, once again cutting Omar’s hair into a boyish style and quietly folding away those little girl dresses. Yet hope remained alive that one day a daughter would grace our home to fill those precious dresses.
Although there were many happy occasions, that was also a time filled with worries. After Omar was born, my husband began spending too many long weeks in Pakistan. When I accidentally overheard him tell other family members that some of his trips now included Afghanistan, I felt ill at the thought of the father of my children being in physical danger. Yet I did not dare complain, for my husband had made it abundantly clear that it was not my place to comment on anything outside our home.
We did not have a television, for my husband did not believe his family should be corrupted by such images, yet I learned through conversations with girlfriends and other members of my limited circle that my husband had become a well-known Saudi hero. I heard silly talk that many people wanted to inhale the very air that Osama breathed.
While it was no surprise that he and his brothers in the large bin Laden family gave much money to the cause, because it is well-known that the devout are generous when it comes to Muslim charities, everyone was astonished that a wealthy bin Laden son actually risked death or injury on the front lines.
Without knowing the specifics of my husband’s military or political life, I felt keenly that there was danger in that Afghan air. Every day I prayed that God would keep him safe for me. I knew that my worries were not unreasonable after he returned to Jeddah with red raised scars all over his body. My own eyes told me that he continued to involve himself in dangerous missions, for he was wounded more than once.
I was also alarmed when Osama confessed that he had learned to fly a helicopter. After observing my anxious expression for a few days, my husband brought in a large round stick and placed it in my hands.
“Now, Najwa,” he instructed, “hold the stick comfortably with your two hands, like this, and slowly move it around while you walk through the room.”
I did as my husband said.
“Is that difficult for you?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Then do not be worried about my safety. To pilot a helicopter is as easy as moving that stick.”
On another occasion when I asked a few questions, he ordered, “Najwa, stop thinking.”
That was that! Afterwards, I tried to push away any thoughts of what Osama was doing when he was not by my side.
But one day when he was in a particularly good mood, he told me a little story that he had found amusing. Elated that he was finally sharing something of his adventures, I sat at his feet as solemn as an entranced child, so immersed in his story that I felt myself a participant in his adventure.
“There was one night that we went on a particularly dangerous mission inside Afghanistan, near the Pakistani border. The terrain in that mountainous region is so rough we could travel only by horse. There was an ongoing battle and our men needed armaments. Our mission was to deliver weapons to our fighters as quickly as possible, so we had to travel an exceptionally perilous route. Our horse train was so close to the Russian soldiers that if they lifted their eyes to look to the perimeter of their camp they would see us. We knew that we must pass through that enemy area as quietly as a feather falling from the sky.
“But there was a special worry. One of our fighters was riding a noisy little horse who was a talker. My, how that horse enjoyed whinnying. My men and I discussed how we were going to keep our talking horse quiet. Finally my closest friend on the mission had a clever idea. He took a small sack out of his bag, a sack made of coconut hair. He nodded at me with a small grin on his face, waving that rough sack. I had no idea how he thought that might solve the problem, but found out when he leaned forward, balancing himself close to the little horse’s face. The next time our talker opened his mouth, my friend pushed the sack in his mouth. Feeling the pressure of the sack, the startled horse quickly closed his mouth.
“Anytime the horse thought to open his mouth to talk, in went the sack. I had to force myself to look away or I would have laughed, alerting our enemy to our position.”
My husband, who was the most serious person I’ve ever known, rarely expressed even the most casual amusement, but suddenly he chuckled at the memory. I giggled, too, imagining the surprised expression on the little face of that chatty horse.
Other times I listened carefully as he spoke with our older sons about his military life. I cannot recall the date, or even the ages of our sons on the occasion, but I do remember once when he had been home for several weeks and enough time had passed that the tension in his mind and body was not so acute. He was sitting with a cup of tea and called our older sons into our sitting room, inviting them with his hand to sit. Knowing that most little boys dream of becoming soldiers, he had decided to share something of his life with them.
The boys looked a bit nervous. Their father was usually too busy for his sons, so they were worried as to why they had been summoned, afraid they had committed some act of disobedience and were about to be punished.
Although it was improper for me to sit in a circle of men, even if that circle was composed of my husband and sons, I remained in the room, busying myself with one thing or another so that I might overhear their talk.
My husband was in quite the rare good mood, entertaining our boys with his tale. “One night we were fighting and out of nowhere came a Russian helicopter. It was difficult to escape uninjured when such a thing happened on the battlefield.
“On that night we were in a specific region in Afghanistan where there was a large flat area where the terrain slowly gained in altitude until the ground reached some mountain caves. I was inside a cave when I heard the approach of a helicopter. I moved to the mouth of the cave to observe our exposed fighters. Caught in the open, without time to seek shelter, I knew that there was little any of us could do to save them. I was fated to stand and watch a massacre, or so I thought.
“My heart pounded as I watched my fighters scatter. When the helicopter gunner began to fire upon my men, fighters began to dart from side to side. Some of them began to run backwards, then forwards. I was pleased to see that they had remembered their training as they had been told to keep moving to make themselves a harder target. With such rapid, unpredictable movements, our brave fighters were not giving the Russian gunner an easy shot.”
I glanced at my young sons. Being immature boys, they felt the excitement of it all, rather than the danger. Their faces were bright with wonder, hearing from their father about life and death during a heated battle. Their boyish minds were imagining those fast-footed soldiers dashing to and fro under the lights and bullets of the deadly machine.
My husband looked around at our boys, satisfied by their reaction to the story.
“That helicopter gunner was full of fighter heat. He was resolved to kill every man on the ground. Finally the battle became so intense that bullets flashed through the air like a fiery storm. Several of my soldiers were so disoriented to be caught out in the open
that they stopped running. I watched as they kneeled in the sand. For a short moment I thought they were going to offer prayers. But instead they began frantically scraping holes in the dirt. Then they leaned forward to bury their heads in those small holes. They reminded me of insects going underground. They even patted the dirt around their heads.”
Several of my boys let out a whoop of laughter, imagining those warriors with their heads buried in the sand.
Osama explained further, “The strange sight of all those posteriors in the air caused the helicopter pilot to fly away. Possibly he thought they were digging a new weapon out of the sand.”
Our boys laughed boisterously, happy to be pulled into their father’s adventurous life.
On another occasion, my husband expanded on his adventures, his soft voice louder than usual. Once again, I listened quietly.
“You boys have heard me speak of Abdullah Azzam. He was the best co-ordinator, organizing rallies and meetings all over the world, gathering donations, recruiting Muslims to go to Afghanistan to fight against the Russians. After recruiting, Abdullah would travel to the war zone and fight on the front lines himself.”
I suddenly remembered that Abdullah Azzam was the man my husband had met in America when we had paid a visit to that state of Indiana. He was not only very smart, but very brave, according to my husband.
“On this past trip I was with Abdullah Azzam on the front line in Afghanistan. Suddenly our position was attacked by one of those dreaded helicopters. Missiles began flashing in every direction. We knew we would be killed unless we could find shelter.
“Suddenly God provided refuge! I saw two openings in the rocky mountainside. There were two small caves, very near to each other. Abdullah Azzam must have seen them at the same moment as his feet and mine grew wings as we raced across the battlefield. I don’t know why but when I dashed into one cave, Abdullah Azzam ran into the other. I looked back as soon as I had safe shelter to see a missile perfectly hit the cave where Abdullah Azzam had gone. The missile triggered a landslide bringing down mounds of dirt and stones that completely clogged the entrance of the cave.