by Jean Sasson
Someone did as he asked and soon the enclosure was filled with five or six men, none, other than my father, accustomed to taming horses.
But eventually poor Lazaz was cornered and secured. On that day my father ordered Lazaz to be “twitched,” which means a short loop of rope is attached to a piece of wood that is put around the muzzle of a horse and tightened until it is painful. Arabs believe that the tightness releases a chemical that subdues a difficult horse.
Before long my father had returned Lazaz to the point that he could be ridden, and from that day, for as long as we lived in Khartoum, Lazaz was relatively content.
I am sorry that in addition to his good activities, I know now that my father continued to be involved with his militant activities, although due to my young age I was not privy to specifics.
Meanwhile, our father remained convinced that as Muslims, we should live as simply as possible, scorning modern conveniences. Although we were allowed to use the electric lights in our villa, all were forbidden to use the refrigerators, electrical stoves, or the cooling or heating systems. Once again, our mother and aunties were forced to cook meals for their large families on portable gas burners. And, with Sudan’s hot climate, all suffered without air-conditioning.
None of the children agreed with our father about these ideas, although his wives refused to express their opinions. In fact, when we knew our father had traveled out of Khartoum, my older brothers and I would sneak to turn on the refrigerator, or even flip the switches for the air-conditioning. But our mother was so terrified that our father would discover our rebellion that we would soon go back to his rules.
I overheard some of his faithful Mujahideen quietly complaining because they were not allowed to use the modern conveniences either. Those men had lived a harsh warrior’s life for too many years, and saw no reason for needless suffering when surrounded by modern conveniences.
Even when guests from wealthy Gulf countries arrived to stay in the guest house, my father’s rules were not relaxed. Many times I saw prosperous businessmen and royal princes sweating profusely, some of them made cranky by the impossibly high temperatures. After hearing numerous complaints, my father finally purchased a supply of small hand fans made from woven grass, which the Sudanese sold in the open market. I had to stifle my laughter watching those high-ranking visitors frantically fanning the warm air around their heads and bodies.
My brothers and I spent much time scheming to flee the al-Riyadh neighborhood so that we could escape our father’s mad world. Being active boys formerly accustomed to living the life of prisoners, we began to test the boundaries of our newfound freedom, lingering out of our family home for longer and longer periods each day.
In the beginning we were only brave enough to hang about in the family garden. Looking for anything to fill the empty hours, we asked some of our father’s workers for construction materials to build houses in the garden trees. Those men were agreeable, finding us what we needed. Our tree homes became quite elaborate with each boy having his own personal space.
Our unexpected liberation tasted sweet! Suddenly we had freedom to play games or hang around the neighborhood, just as the children in Jeddah and Medina used to do, the “freedom kids” that we had watched with such envy.
We even had money to spend, something new and tantalizing for us, although we did not obtain the money in a purely honest way. Our father was of the opinion that his children should never be given money, not even for school snacks. We needed pocket money for basics, but he said, “No. You need to suffer. Hunger pangs will not hurt you.” Improbably, our father was different from so many fathers who wanted nothing but the best for their children. Our father appeared to relish seeing us suffer, reminding us that it was good for us to know what it felt like to be hungry or thirsty, to do without while others had plenty. Why? He said that we would end up being the stronger ones. Those with plenty would grow up weak men, unable to defend themselves.
His was an opinion that found no agreement with his sons, but of course, we were not allowed to oppose our father. If we protested, there was no possibility of a calm discussion between father and son. Instead, he would quietly order us to stand to be beaten. His wooden cane was his favorite weapon, but there were times he became so excited when hitting his sons that his heavy cane broke into two pieces. When the cane snapped, he rushed to grab one of our sandals by the door, using that to hit us.
It was not unusual for the sons of Osama bin Laden to be covered with raised red welts on our backs and legs.
In the past our drivers in Saudi Arabia would feel for our pitiful situation, coming to see that our father was cruel. Those poor drivers tried to compensate, being gentle and kind, and slipping us small amounts of change, money they could ill afford to give. But in Sudan, we had no such luck. The men working for our father did not live as closely to our family and were unaware of our personal situation.
Being clever boys, however, we found methods to obtain a little small change.
In those days our mother had an allowance from our father, so she had money to spare. From the early days of her marriage she had acquired a habit of concealing money in her bedroom. She would tuck bills under magazines, in books, or in drawers. We knew all her hiding places. My brothers and I would take turns looking out for our mother while one brave boy would dash into her room for a quick search.
Since Mother never once mentioned mislaid money, we concluded that she recognized our needs, yet would not go against our father’s wishes to actually give us cash. Rather than disobey our father, she left currency where she knew we could easily find it. Were this not her intent, I’m sure she would have spread the word that her money was being stolen.
After finding her stashes, we would slip from the house and dash to some of the small markets scattered throughout our neighborhood. There we would splurge on snacks and soft drinks. We were never discovered, much to our relief, for we knew the penalty for outright disobedience.
With our newfound funds we even took up a hobby. We became interested in pigeons, for it was a popular pastime in Sudan. We had heard that the village close to our compound was the best place to purchase high-quality pigeons. Luckily we had personal means of transport, because our father had decreed that the oldest boys could have bicycles. This had happened shortly before we left Saudi Arabia around the time I was nine years old. Before then, we could not have bicycles or any kind of mechanical transportation. I remember pleading with my father for a bicycle or a motorbike, telling him that I must have one for short trips. I’ll never forget his words, “If you need to travel, Omar, travel on a goat.”
But for whatever reason, one day he simply changed his mind and commanded one of the family drivers to purchase Abdullah a motorcycle, a Quad bike, and that the rest of the boys could have bicycles, the most expensive that money could buy. That was one of the happiest days of our young lives. We loved our bicycles so much that we had brought them with us from Saudi Arabia. They proved to be very handy in Khartoum. In fact, we were going to use them to venture out and seek pigeons for sale.
My older brothers and I conspired as to how we might start a pigeon family. We plotted as carefully as if we were going on a military campaign. We knew that we had to wait until our father was out of the city for he did not like us to leave the neighborhood. We began noticing when the security gate guards took a break. Soon we realized that most of the guards took lengthy breaks from their posts during the hottest hours of the day. We waited until our father left on a trip before gathering our bikes to wait until the midday sun was blazing. Sure enough, one by one, the guards drifted away, going to their villas for a cool drink and a nap. That’s when we jumped on our bikes and burst through the unguarded entrance of al-Riyadh Village.
We pedaled furiously, traveling the highway with the wind in our faces and our hair blowing. Freedom had never tasted so sweet. Our mission was successful because we found what we were looking for in the adjacent village. Pigeons were famous ther
e and we looked them all over seriously before purchasing our first breeding pair. That first pair was very expensive, costing us 5,000 Sudanese pounds. But we had become bolder over time and took larger amounts from our mother’s stashes. Still, she never inquired about missing money, so we knew that she knew.
Although our mother’s life was one of extreme seclusion, and she was a wife who obeyed her husband’s every wish, when it came to her children she found ingenious methods to help us bend our father’s overly stern rules. Not a word was spoken about such matters, for she would never go directly against our father, yet she helped us to survive our bleak lives. My mother was a very wise woman in such situations.
Our pigeon hobby escalated. One small cage with two pigeons soon grew to larger cages with new breeding pairs. Oldest brother Abdullah was not so interested in pigeons, for some reason, but Abdul Rahman, Sa’ad, Osman, and I became obsessed. We personally built our cages. Then we helped Mohammed build his cages, because he was so young at the time. Before long the entire garden was filled with pigeons in cages. We loved those pigeons, spending many hours taking care of their needs and celebrating when little pigeons hatched. We neglected to worry about how our father might react to our hobby, although we felt that he wouldn’t forbid it since pigeons are popular with many Muslims. Besides, in the beginning stages of our hobby we once noticed him when he arrived at the house to visit our mother. On that day he had casually glanced at the one small cage and the first two breeding pigeons. His expression didn’t change and he just kept walking, so we let our guard down.
Then one day he walked into the garden and paused. His expression was one of disbelief. His face flushed a bright pink color as he studied the massive cages, pigeon houses, and what looked like hundreds of pigeons. Father was visibly shocked.
Knowing we were in big trouble, my brothers and I attempted to hide, but he spotted our timid selves lurking in the background.
With anger sparking like lightning in his eyes, he said, “Come here.”
We moved slowly, believing that we were going to feel the effects of his heavy cane.
He didn’t shout, but the fury in his soft voice was scary. “What is this?” He gestured with his hand. My voice stuck in my throat, and without giving us a moment to respond, he ordered, “Get rid of every pigeon. If those pigeons are not out of the garden by nightfall, I will personally slit the throat of each one.”
With an angry glare at each of us, he turned on his heels and walked away, his tall figure rigid with rage.
My brothers and I knew that he was capable of killing them all, so we scrambled to find them a home. After pleading with one of the family’s drivers, he agreed to help us transport our pet pigeons to one of our father’s many farms. Those pigeons were gone by nightfall. What happened to them after that, we never knew.
Of course, we were sad to lose our pets, as we had grown to love each and every feathered friend.
Certain people were as taboo as those pigeons. There were some Sudanese that our father would not allow us to meet. We didn’t know that he had a rule against socializing with Christians until we got into trouble trying to meet them.
We noticed the Christian children soon after arriving in Khartoum. The family, consisting of a mother, father, and several sons and daughters, lived in a house across the street from our own. They were hard to miss for they were fair-skinned. They also behaved differently, children sauntering about with a relaxed ambiance. We Muslim kids lived our lives in fear that we might accidentally commit a forbidden act.
We had observed those Christians for some time, but didn’t have the courage to introduce ourselves. Then one evening my brothers and I were startled when we spotted the Christian children leaving their home. They were dressed in funny costumes that made them look like ghosts and monsters and other strange creatures. Those curiously dressed kids were also balancing small orange pumpkins on a stick. Each pumpkin had been cut so that they appeared to have a face. A candle was placed inside the pumpkin. We noticed that some Muslim children living in the compound were allowed to join them and to go to the soccer pitch where they had a party.
Never had we seen such a sight. Anyone in Saudi Arabia who appeared in public dressed as ghosts and goblins would have been arrested, tried, and imprisoned as witches, possibly put to death. We watched with envy as those children moved through the streets, kids in comical costumes carrying lighted pumpkins. They were laughing and playing around, making a lot of noise. (I was an adult before I discovered that what the little Christian kids were doing was called celebrating Halloween.) My brothers and I longed to join in the fun, but of course, our father disapproved of anyone walking around looking like a monkey or a monster, so we were forbidden to join in. Still, we thought we might sneak out later and meet those interesting children, but little did we know that our father had passed the word to his security guards to keep us apart from them.
One afternoon a few weeks later we watched as those Christian kids came outside to play. We thought our chance had come. So we ran outside, hoping to meet up. Just as we were about to introduce ourselves, one of our father’s armed security guards came running at us with such hostility that we drew away in fright. That man was shouting in the most horrible angry voice that any of us had ever heard, “Get in the house! You are not allowed! Get in the house, NOW!”
He was so heated with rage that I thought he might shoot at us. My father’s men were so neurotic to please their “prince” that nothing would have surprised me.
We took no chances. We ran into our house and the Christians ran into theirs. We were later told that we had almost committed a double taboo, because we were not allowed to play with girls or with Christians, ever.
That was that!
Not long after arriving in Sudan we suffered a bit of a family shock. Auntie Khadijah left Khartoum to return to Saudi Arabia. She had always been kindly to all the children of her husband. Most disappointing for me was that Ali left with her. Aware of my father’s traditionalist beliefs, I was surprised, for many believers insist upon maintaining control of all their children, no matter the child’s age. Auntie Khadijah was fortunate to keep custody of her three children, and in particular Ali and Amer, her two sons.
I was only a child so I never knew their private reasons for divorce, although I speculated as to the cause. Perhaps my father had become too radical for Auntie Khadijah, for although I was too young at the time to fully understand the dangers attached to his uncompromising and militant behavior, I’m sure his adult wives were much more aware, particularly Auntie Khadijah, who was an educated woman.
Perhaps she left because she found no pleasure or reason for the trips into the wasteland to spend nights in a burrow in the ground. Or perhaps she grew weary of being confined to her home, unable to go to a shop or visit other women. Her only companions were my mother and other two aunties. There were many reasons that might have prompted her to ask for a divorce and leave Sudan.
After she had departed our father acted as though she had never been part of our family, yet nothing was ever quite the same after she left. Although we kids adjusted to our Auntie Khadijah’s absence, we missed Ali. We had been playmates for many years and had been taught to be loyal to all our half-siblings.
Ali was the oldest child of Auntie Khadijah and was considered old enough to return to visit his father. His one visit to Sudan a year later was awkward and brief and he never returned. Neither did he visit us in Afghanistan.
But we were active boys with boundless energy, so we recovered from the change. After our father forbade us our pigeons, we scouted around for other activities to fill our time. The Nile was only a few minutes away from our home and we desperately wanted to go and take a swim there. Much to our pleasant surprise, our father agreed to our idea and even accompanied us. Who would have guessed that he wanted a swim, too?
Twisting wormlike through Sudan and Khartoum, the slim Nile was deceptive to a swimmer’s eyes. My brothers and I always spurred
the others on, taunting until all dove into the dark waters and swam for the opposite shore.
The waters were rough and the distance longer than it looked.
Yet none of us would admit fear to the others, so in the process we all became excellent swimmers, and avoided any serious problems. However, one of my father’s friends nearly drowned. On that day we were all swimming when suddenly that foolish man excitedly leapt into the water like a teenager. Before we knew it, the strong current was washing him away. We all began to shout, alerting our father. None of us could catch up with the man. The last we saw he was in a panic, his head bobbing up and down, his arms desperately flailing. When he disappeared from view, we assumed the Nile would become his watery grave. But there was a happy surprise when some Sudanese fishermen found the poor man splashing and crying out for help some distance downriver. They were kind enough to bring him back to us. We were all smiles when we saw that he had survived. My stern father said that he had acted like a fool, and advised him, “Steer clear of the Nile,” and I believe that he did.
Our father even allowed us to take our beloved horses for Nile swims to give them respite from the heat. Our father’s friends loved to hang on to the horses’ tails for some strange reason and we would pull them across the Nile. At other times our father gave the order for his cattle to be led to the Nile and we enjoyed riding their backs or splashing them with the cool water. Those cows seemed to like the Nile as much as we did.
One funny episode occurred when my father had one of his Egyptian employees build a boat. The boatman’s building skills were poorer than my father believed, as the finished boat proved a big disappointment. The boatman claimed to have coated it with some special substance that made it go very fast, and indeed, that appeared to be the case, for on the day of the big launch, the boat proved impossible to control, spinning one way and then another before lurching forward at a high rate of speed.