by Jean Sasson
The man’s voice was stern. “Yes, they will,” he said, snatching the ball from my hands and throwing it back into the truck.
At that time, a man about twenty years old came forward and retrieved the ball, tossing it to me, saying, “Catch!”
I caught it, so excited that I couldn’t restrain my glee.
He smiled. “You keep it. It’s yours.”
I couldn’t believe my good luck. I asked his name and he said, “Shafiq al-Madani.” I never forgot his kindness, and can see his face today if I think about him. He was not very tall, but looked wiry and tough, with short black hair, a thin beard and long sideburns. Yet he had a sparkle in his eye, deriving genuine pleasure from my joy.
A few weeks later I was struck by sadness when my father told me that the man named Shafiq al-Madani had been killed in the war. During a battle, Shafiq and two other men had ventured into the dangerous area between the Russians and the Afghans, and walked directly into a line of tanks and heavy weapons. The three men quickly retreated, but the Russians followed.
Knowing they were outnumbered and escape was impossible, Shafiq volunteered to cover the men as they fled, saying all would die unless one remained behind. The two men protested, but Shafiq insisted. As the men were dashing away, they heard many shots and at the top of the ridge turned back to see Shafiq lying dead, his gun still clasped in his arms.
My father was particularly sad because he remembered a melancholy exchange with the young man only a week before he died. Shafiq said, “Oh Sheik, my one prayer to God is that He not dig a grave for me in Afghanistan. I can die all right, but I don’t want to be buried in the ground.”
My father remembered the young hero when purchasing the boat, wishing that Shafiq could have lived to ride the waves, rather than be buried in a dirt hole in Afghanistan. I admit I had visions of our family making a daring escape from invading Iraqi troops by launching the boat named Shafiq al-Madani.
Perhaps Saudi Arabia would not be attacked and my father could take me out on the Shafiq al-Madani for a pleasure ride rather than a wild escape.
My father was a patriot in those days, loyal to his country and his king. My father already knew that he had displeased the Saudi royal family with his public comments about Saddam, so he cautioned his employees: “If any of you are ever attacked or even arrested by the police or soldiers, do not protest. Raise your arms in surrender and go in peace. Do not run away. Do not defend yourself. I will see to your freedom.”
Time and again my father repeated, “The bin Laden family supports the royal family. My own father was a trusted friend of our first king, Abdul Aziz. Now the sons of our father support Abdul Aziz’s sons.”
As a son of Mohammed bin Laden and a war hero, my father still maintained loose contact with the royals. Convinced that Iraq would cross the Kuwaiti border to invade Saudi Arabia, he approached the royal family with his ideas. During that tumultuous time he met with a number of princes, but most importantly, called on the powerful interior minister, Prince Naif bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud, who was a full brother to King Fahd bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud. My father offered the royal family his services in fighting Saddam, volunteering to bring in twelve thousand well-armed veterans from the Afghan war still under his command. He assured Prince Naif that he could have his soldiers equipped to defend Islam’s holiest land at lightning speed. All he needed was royal approval.
It is the Saudi way that no important decisions are taken hurriedly. The royal family did not say yes, and they did not say no, but told my father that they would get back to him.
Meanwhile, Saddam increased the tension by making hateful public statements about the Saudi rulers and menacing our borders with his huge army. American leaders arrived in the kingdom with great fanfare, attempting to convince the royal family to allow the U.S. military access to Saddam from our land. To my father’s shock, he soon discovered that his offer to defend the kingdom had been ignored.
He learned through the Arab media that it would be a huge coalition of military forces, led by the United States, that would defend Saudi Arabia. My father believed that his fighting force could trounce Saddam. I heard him demand in great anger, “Are Saddam’s armies more powerful than the mighty Russians? No!” He muttered, “We do not need the Americans!”
While my father announced his bitter feelings to family and friends, he did not speak out in public, for he remained a loyal supporter of the Saudi royal family. For many years the bin Laden and al-Saud families had worked closely for the advancement of Saudi Arabia. Yet the rejection was distasteful, for he had told family, friends, and acquaintances that he had offered his military services to the royal family.
There was another important issue besides pride. In my father’s mind, the whole of Saudi Arabia was Islamic holy land and should not be contaminated by the presence of Christian or Jewish soldiers from America and other western nations.
Since the formation of the Jewish state in 1948, few Muslims considered America a friend to the Arabs. Now, many besides my father were convinced that the American government was using the crisis as justification for establishing their forces in Saudi Arabia so that they might use our country as a base to flood the region with their unwelcome secular views.
My father’s loyalty to the royal family soon changed.
I was enjoying a fine day because my father had invited me to accompany him on his routine appointments in Jeddah. We were walking from one business to another when my father was approached by a trusted employee, a man who appeared noticeably tense even to my youthful eyes.
The man whispered in my father’s ear.
My father’s face paled.
I’m certain that my face paled, too, when I heard that government forces had raided our Jeddah farm earlier that morning. We heard that heavily armed Saudi troops had surrounded the farm before arresting our farmworkers and the war veterans.
Since my father’s return from Afghanistan, he had arranged for approximately one hundred of his former Mujahideen fighters to be given visas to live in Saudi Arabia, where he settled them on our Jeddah farm. Many of those men had been refused entry to their own countries for one reason or another, and I believe that is why my father brought them to Saudi Arabia.
Our employees and the war veterans followed my father’s instructions by peacefully holding up their hands and following orders. Despite their humble behavior, we were told that they were taken away to jail. All the supplies my father had so carefully gathered were confiscated. After months of work and millions of Saudi riyals, nothing was left.
My father was so furious that he could not speak. But he could still move rapidly. I ran to keep up with his long strides as he rushed to his office in Jeddah.
From there he placed a telephone call to Crown Prince Abdullah, the half-brother of King Fahd, and the man who would one day be king, Inshallah (God willing). I listened quietly as he recounted the details of the raid to the prince.
Their conversation was brief. My father said that Crown Prince Abdullah had known nothing of the raid, but promised to investigate the matter and return with an explanation. My father thought highly of the crown prince and felt in his heart that he had been told the truth. Still, the sting of the incident had altered my father’s feelings forever, starting him on a tragic road that would destroy many lives.
He became even more angry when no further explanation was forthcoming, although my father had ongoing conversations with several high-ranking princes who said they represented Crown Prince Abdullah or King Fahd. We were relieved when the royal family ordered the release from jail of our farmworkers and my father’s war veterans.
During the autumn of 1990, members of the American military surged into Saudi Arabia. While many Saudi men were offended by the sight of a mainly Christian western army defending their honor, they were doubly traumatized by the full realization of what it meant to be protected by America and other western allies: The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was flooded with female soldiers.
> At the first sight of a capable-looking female soldier, my father became the most outspoken opponent of the royal decision to allow western armies into the kingdom, ranting, “Women! Defending Saudi men!”
No insult could be worse! My father became frustrated to the point of declaring that he could no longer accept the pollution he claimed hung in the air above any non-Muslim. He let loose a barrage of criticisms, verbally attacking the royal family, the Americans, the British, and anyone else he believed was working against the good of Islam.
My father spoke at the local mosque, sent out flyers, and made audiotapes, all criticizing the government, which he claimed was making Saudi Arabia a colony of America. The royal family became increasingly unhappy, rightfully so, for they were responsible for the well-being of all Saudis, and had made the wise decision not to put the country’s fate in the hands of my father and his twelve thousand Mujahideen, despite the fact no one denied that the men were brave fighters.
Although I loved my father, and had difficulty criticizing him, I must say that I believe the royal family behaved responsibly, and for the good of all Saudis.
My father was not appeased when the fight to dislodge Saddam’s military from Kuwait was a great success, ending quickly with very little loss of life. In fact, the easy victory seemed to anger him further, making me believe that he would have preferred defeat by a Muslim sword to victory at the hands of the infidels. His fury intensified once the Gulf War ended and it became clear that some American soldiers would remain in Saudi Arabia. He spoke from the mosque, saying, “The continued presence of American soldiers is proof that my prediction of secular pollution has begun in earnest.”
I do not know all the details, for I was still young and my father did not consider me his confidant. Yet I sensed from my father’s dissatisfaction that an unwelcome change was coming to my family.
Of course, I know now that my father initiated a quarrel with the royal family. Although they calmly and wisely attempted to defuse the squabble, my stubborn father rebuffed their appeals for rational dialogue, magnifying his complaints until a small sore finally festered into an ulcerated boil. His attacks became so unreasonable that the royal family finally threw up their hands in exasperation. Prince Naif, the minister of the interior, informed my father that he was forbidden to leave the kingdom. In Saudi Arabia, such a government action is generally the first step to losing one’s freedom. Was prison in my father’s future?
My father’s elder brothers struggled to bring him to a place of peace, reminding him of the loyalty our family owed the royal family, but my father was immovable, refusing to modify his activities.
Tension filled our household. Every aspect of our personal lives revolved around our father. When he became disgruntled, his displeasure trickled down through the family circle to every wife and every child. In the midst of the crisis, my father unexpectedly ordered my mother to take Abdul Rahman and her two young daughters and travel to Syria for a long holiday with her parents and siblings there.
Except for Abdul Rahman, all the sons of my father remained in Jeddah. Then one day my father simply disappeared without telling us anything. We were informed by one of his employees that Sheik Osama had left the kingdom for some business. My brothers and I wondered how he had accomplished the impossible. Remembering his powerful boat Shafiq al-Madani, I hoped that my father had not made a daring escape without me.
I was relieved to learn that was not the case. My father had convinced one of the princes to allow him to leave the kingdom in order to attend to some important business in Pakistan, giving that kindly prince his word that he would be back in the kingdom before he was missed.
We waited for my father’s return, but we waited in vain. When my mother returned from Syria, the family was further informed that our father was never coming back and we were leaving as well. From now on, we would be living in Africa.
I looked around at our home. I cared little about personal items and could think of nothing beyond my favorite horses stabled at the ranch. What would happen to the beautiful mare Baydah? Or to our favorite stallions, Lazaz, a chestnut Arabian with a white blaze, and Adham, who was also white with a black mane and tail? Adham was my father’s special horse, a warrior horse fit for a king.
I was soon given the heartbreaking news that Baydah would be left behind, because there were Saudi laws forbidding Arabian mares to leave the country. My only consolation came from hearing that we would be allowed to take Lazaz and Adham. There was no law restricting the export of stallions.
Yet had I known what the future held for those two beloved horses, I would have done anything necessary to keep them safe in the sands of the kingdom.
PART II
Our Life in Khartoum
Chapter 10
To Africa
NAJWA BIN LADEN
I believe that God decides all things. My faith sustained me even as I was boarding the Saudia commercial flight leaving Saudi Arabia, a country that I had grown to love with the same intensity as I loved Syria, the land of my birth.
My steadfast devotion to God was linked with my confidence in my husband. I trusted my husband too, too much. My mind had always confirmed to my heart that all of his ideas and plans were for the benefit of his wives and children. After all, for the past seventeen years Osama had made each and every important decision for his family. There was no reason for me to be wary of anything my husband told me or chose for me.
My unquestioning trust meant that I was a consoling influence, which I am certain was reflected on my face. Ever since I was a child, I have been incapable of feigning an emotion I do not feel. My serene manner shaped my children’s demeanor, too. They mainly expressed curiosity and happiness, most of them looking on our flight and journey as an adventure interrupting the routine of school and home.
While our personal items were being transported by cargo ship away from Saudi Arabia’s long shores, my husband’s family was soon airborne, lifting into the indigo-colored skies of Jeddah to soar over the open desert.
There were eighteen of us. Each wife had been assigned seats with her children in various parts of the plane. While there were passengers unknown to us between our sections, we took no notice of those travelers. We exchanged many glances, looking forward or backward, peeking through our veils, silently inquiring if all was well with the others. Over the years the wives of Osama had become uncommonly dear to one another, considering we were married to the same man.
Osama’s first family was comprised of me and our eight children. Abdullah, a dear boy who cared deeply for his younger siblings, was fifteen years old at the time. Abdul Rahman, my second son, who was known to exert himself in whatever might catch his fancy, was thirteen. Both older sons were very quiet, behaving responsibly.
Chatty Sa’ad, often called the “joker” by his brothers, was twelve years old. As usual, high-strung Sa’ad appeared delighted to have a captive audience, making conversation with anyone who would listen.
My most sensitive child, Omar, who at the tender age of ten was beginning to prove himself an earnest and sincere adviser to his siblings, was sitting rigidly with a tense expression on his face. My mother’s instinct told me that Omar was still troubled over the fate of our mares on the farm. My fourth-born son loved animals and was always worried about one creature or another.
Eight-year-old Osman and six-year-old Mohammed were frolicking in youthful high spirits. Both were wriggling and giggling over something or other.
My four-year-old daughter, Fatima, was perched daintily beside me. Dear to my eyes was my one-year-old daughter, Iman, who copied every movement made by her older sister. My little daughters were such a profound joy for me.
Osama’s second family was Khadijah and her children. She had established herself only a few aisles away from me with her well-loved sons, Ali, who was a very serious and sweet seven-year-old boy, and Amer, her cherished two-year-old.
Osama’s third family was my closest friend in our �
��wife-family,” Khairiah, who was keeping close watch over Hamza, her active three-year-old boy, who was full of charming tricks.
Osama’s fourth family consisted of Siham and her three children. There was Kadhija, her pretty four-year-old daughter; Khalid, her happy three-year-old son; and finally, little Miriam, the premature baby who had been born the same day as my precious Iman, but who was now healthy, thanks be to God.
And so it came to be that four wives and fourteen children were on their way to their one husband and one father.
My husband’s face kept appearing in my mind. I was keen to see Osama, for it had been some weeks since he had mysteriously departed from Saudi Arabia. I had been told few details since that time, other than his startling instruction: “Najwa, do not leave one dish in Saudi Arabia.”
I knew that Osama would be waiting to greet us when we arrived at our destination. I prayed that God’s plans included just resolutions to all the problems my husband was facing, and that God would see fit to hand him the keys to the newly locked doors of Saudi Arabia. Then we might return to the home we had just left.
My musings, along with my two active little girls, kept me so occupied that two hours passed rapidly. Soon the pilot of the plane announced that we must prepare ourselves for landing.
I gazed through the small porthole window as we drew closer to our new home, Khartoum. Since I had never visited the country I would now call home, I was filled with curiosity.
Pressing my face against the window, I could vaguely see through my veil and watched the bare ground rising up beneath us. Teeny buildings and thread-sized roads slowly grew in size. My eyes promptly saw that Khartoum was vastly different from Jeddah.
The previously small town of Jeddah had become a thoroughly modern city over the past ten years, boasting tall contemporary buildings and the most modern highways. In contrast, Khartoum appeared to be comprised of sun-baked, mud-brick buildings, none higher than a few storeys. I could not be certain from my viewing spot, but many of the roads appeared to be unpaved. As we drew near to landing, the dirt and dust began to increase.