by Jean Sasson
When I entered his office, I was met without affection, yet my argument had touched a nerve. “Yes, Omar,” he finally said, “your mother can travel to Syria for the birth of this child.” He gave me an unpleasant look, a final chance for me to change my mind.
“Yes, my Father. I will take her.”
He threw both hands up in the air. “Remember Omar, this is between you and your God.”
In other words, my father believed that by leaving him I was not being true to my faith. I repeated, “Yes, my Father. This is between me and my God. I will take her.”
My father sighed, then called for one of his men to give him a small amount of money. He motioned for me to take it from his hands. “If you are frugal, this will get you to Syria. Your mother’s safety is your responsibility.”
“And the children? Can my mother take her youngest children with her?”
My father sat silently, then gave a limited permission. “She can take Rukhaiya. And Abdul Rahman.”
Rukhaiya was only two years old, so that was not a surprise. And Abdul Rahman needed to be with his mother. But there were others who required our mother too.
“Iman? Ladin?” Iman was still a young girl, only nine years old, and Ladin was only five, although soon to turn six. Both children were timid, afraid to be without their mother. I did not want to leave them, because once I had my mother out of Afghanistan, I had hopes of convincing her not to return.
My father was too cunning, for he knew that my mother could not bear to part permanently from Iman and Ladin. “No. Iman and Bakr [as my father called Ladin] must stay with me. Only Rukhaiya and Abdul Rahman. No more.”
I started to speak again, to plead for those little children, but he held up one hand. “No. You know better than to question me. Do not ask me again. Only Rukhaiya and Abdul Rahman.”
I nodded. I had done what I could. I would worry about the other children later. For now, I would get my mother to safety.
After gaining his approval, I moved rapidly, rushing home to tell my mother that we were leaving soon. Although she had never expressed a desire to leave, I saw the relief wash over her face, though she became sad when I told her that Iman and Ladin would have to stay behind.
But I couldn’t think about that at the moment.
We were leaving Afghanistan.
Bitterness accompanied the pleasure. When my mother and I told Iman and Ladin that she must go away for a while, both became nervous and frightened. After some explaining, little Iman accepted her fate passively, for she was accustomed to doing what others told her, but Ladin was a different story. He wept pitifully, inconsolable that his mother was going away without him. Even the thought of a new baby sister or brother did nothing to ease his anguish.
I was plagued by the idea of the big plan Abu Haadi had warned me about. I prayed that the plan would be canceled, or at least postponed until I could arrange to retrieve Iman and Ladin.
The day we departed was nerve-racking. Ladin was continuing his campaign to go with us. Finally he broke down altogether, crying noisily, following my every step, tugging on my trousers, pleading, “Brother, take me. Brother, take me.”
It crossed my mind to grab Ladin when no one was looking, to whisper for him to be very quiet, to hide him under the bedding in the back of the vehicle, but I never had the chance. My father and his men were watching, their eyes as keen as hawks, missing nothing. Besides, my father had decided that my sister Fatima and her new husband Mohammed were going with us to the border of Pakistan.
Truthfully, I was pleased. The road was dangerous; Afghanistan had more than its share of bandits, but they might think twice before attacking three armed men.
I called out to my mother that the time had come to leave. She slowly walked toward me, with Fatima by her side. My sister was holding little Rukhaiya in her arms. I would be the first to drive, so I settled in behind the wheel. Mohammed and Abdul Rahman sat in the front, while my mother and the girls got into the back.
That’s when I saw my father walking up to the vehicle. My heart skipped a few beats, worried that he had changed his mind. But he was only there to say goodbye to my mother. They exchanged some quiet words that I did not hear.
I felt no sadness at leaving my father, for I had begun to defy him years before. The tragedy for me was leaving Ladin and Iman behind. Abandoning my small siblings to an unknown fate was the most difficult thing I have done in my life.
As I drove away from my father and the violence of his life, I took one final look at his tall figure, disappearing into the distance. That’s when I knew that I was not leaving Afghanistan to look for happiness. I was searching only for peace.
Chapter 27
To Syria
NAJWA BIN LADEN
I felt Osama’s eyes upon me as I walked past to settle myself in the black SUV. I wondered if my husband would say goodbye, because he had been strangely quiet about my departure. As soon as I settled in the back seat of the vehicle, my husband headed in my direction, stopping to peer intently through the window at my burqa-clad self.
My husband surprised me with his words.
“Najwa, no matter what you might be told, I will never divorce you.”
Wordless, I stared. Divorce? I had not been thinking of divorce. I was only going to Syria to have my child.
Osama then said, “As soon as you can travel, return with the baby.”
“My husband, I will,” I replied. “I will return with the child as soon as I can.”
Osama smiled, knowing that I meant what I said. In all our years of marriage, I had never lied to my husband.
The ill feeling was palpable between Omar and Osama. Omar did not turn back to speak to his father and Osama did not make any effort to talk to his son. I was not privy to what had happened between my husband and my son, because neither speaks easily of private matters, but something serious had created a schism. Since Omar had become a teenager, his path had swerved from his father’s. I only hoped that time would bring them close. I knew from his earliest days that Omar had loved his father with more feeling than any of my children, but that love had been damaged.
Just then Omar started the engine of the car. He drove away, his neck strong and rigid, determined to leave without any emotion, but at the last minute I saw my son’s neck rotate as he relented and took one final look at his father. I looked back, too, although I am sorry I did, for my eyes could see nothing but my tiny son Ladin standing lonely by the side of the road, weeping for his mother. Iman was standing near her older brother Mohammed, keeping up her brave facade. But little Ladin’s face showed all the emotion of his heart. Unable to restrain himself, Ladin began running along beside our vehicle, still crying out to Omar, “My Brother, please take me with you. Please let me go with my mother. My Brother, I beg you.”
Omar wound down his car window and waved, shouting, “We will take you next time, Ladin. We will.”
My mother’s heart was broken. My two youngest children were clearly frightened. But the evening before I had talked with them both, and had given them my heartfelt promise: “I will be back. Be brave. I will be back.”
And I would. I had no intention of leaving my children forever. I would return.
I sighed deeply and turned my attention to Fatima. I knew that Fatima and her husband were going no farther than the Pakistani border, where Omar, Abdul Rahman, Rukhaiya, and I would transfer to a taxi which would take us to a Pakistani airport. From there we would fly to Syria. “Fatima,” I said, “take special care of Iman and Ladin.”
“I will, my mother. Do not worry.”
We were all quiet for long periods, for any journey by road in Afghanistan is dangerous and exhausting, and passengers tend to keep their attention on the hillsides hugging the road. Although Osama had arranged for us to travel in his newest and best vehicle, a large, reliable SUV, the roads were so dreadful that within a few miles we felt as though we had been beaten with big sticks.
My pregnancy of seven m
onths was no fun. I felt awkward, unable to find a comfortable position. Rukhaiya was only a toddler so she required a lot of attention, climbing over my body from me to Fatima and back. Fatima had been assisting with her younger siblings for as long as she could remember. I knew that my Fatima would make a wonderful mother, but due to her youth, I hoped any pregnancies would be far in the future.
Fatima’s husband, Mohammed, reported that the car journey would take three days, and those days would be hazardous. Afghanistan remained an unruly land with ongoing tribal squabbles and gangs of bandits lurking to rob travelers. We had heard that bandits often murdered their victims. I put worry out of my mind as best I could, knowing that all three of our men were proficient with their Kalashnikov assault rifles. In addition, each carried a pistol and plenty of grenades. Of course, every man in Afghanistan was armed thus, so anyone who attacked us would be equally prepared.
None of our men carried on a conversation, but spoke in short bursts, reporting what they could see out the windows of our vehicle. Omar insisted on driving, so Abdul Rahman looked for signs of danger on our left side, while Mohammed looked to the right. Fatima carefully watched behind us, to make sure no one was coming up from behind. I felt myself in good hands, to tell you the truth.
I tried not to think about what we might do if criminals came after us, although I went over in my mind what Osama had taught me about weapons. Several times after moving to Afghanistan, he had taken me and my sister-wives to an isolated place to show us how to hold a gun in our hands and what levers to push to make the bullet fly out of the barrel. Each of us had held our husband’s heavy gun and done as we were told, but Osama soon saw the reality, that it was nothing more than a little fun for us to try to hit the targets he placed against the big rocks. I don’t believe that any of us ever came near those targets. Now that the day had come when I might actually need such skills, I wished I had tried harder to become an accomplished gun-woman.
Omar was so worried for our safety that as soon as the sunlight began to fade, he insisted we take our vehicle well away from the road. Darkness brought the greatest danger for travelers. We left the road and climbed a few high hills, with Omar parking the vehicle on a high spot so that our men could take turns looking out over a wide area.
My darling Fatima insisted that she and her husband sleep on the ground outside the car. Abdul Rahman slept with them. Omar refused to rest, keeping watch with his big gun. Little Rukhaiya and I slept as comfortably as a heavily pregnant woman and a small child can in a small space inside an car.
We traveled like this for three days and two nights. We were not alone in that car, I’m sorry to say, because fear, danger, and discomfort were our constant companions.
At the end of the three days, we were all in need of a good bath, but no one cared, for we had arrived safely. The sad part was that we had to say goodbye to Fatima and Mohammed. Mohammed said that he was going to take a rest on the Pakistani side of the border, then drive straight through. How he would manage that, I had no idea, but my daughter had married a strong man with a lot of determination. If anyone could do it, Mohammed could.
Omar, Abdul Rahman, Rukhaiya, and I made the rest of the Pakistani journey in a taxi. I couldn’t help but recall how our family used to travel, in long black cars with escorts. Now we were poor and no longer enjoyed special treatment. Life had changed in many, many ways.
We went to the airport and boarded a plane to Syria. We were pitiful-looking travelers, soiled and tired, but I was still under the burqa, so no one knew that it was Najwa Ghanem bin Laden under the billowing cloak. This garment had its advantages.
Words cannot describe the joy in my heart at seeing my dear mother and my beloved siblings after seven long years.
Syria was a world of calm after life in Afghanistan. There was no excitement for a change, which was good for me. I visited my family, and I rested. By the time I had my eleventh child, two months after arriving in the country, I felt healthy and fit, like my old self. I told Omar that he had been right, that I needed greater care for this birth. My child was a little girl, called Nour, the name Osama had chosen in honor of his half-sister Nour, who had died in 1994.
While gazing at little Nour in my arms, I was struck by the thought that after twenty-five years of marriage, and at the age of forty-one, I was the mother of eleven children. As a young teenage girl in my mother’s home, never had I dreamed of having eleven children, although I loved each child with a pure mother’s love.
During this time, my son Omar was making plans. My son had never accepted the loss of his heritage, and his goal was to be reinstated as a Saudi Arabian. His father’s family was offering their kind help, and it seemed Omar would succeed, although time was needed for his application to be approved.
That’s when I discovered that my son was not only making personal plans, but had ideas about other members of our family. Omar wanted to return to Afghanistan only in order to bring Iman and Ladin out to live in Syria.
I took my time speaking, for I wanted Omar to understand that I could not abandon my children. Finally I replied, “My son, Iman and Ladin must remain where they are. I am going to them. They are not coming to me.” I paused, glancing at little Nour. “When Nour is three months, I will return with her to Afghanistan.”
Omar pleaded, “My Mother, I have heard rumours. Great harm is coming. You must stay out of Afghanistan.”
I had heard Omar’s warning more than once, yet I was but a miserable fragment of a woman without those six children I had left behind in Afghanistan. I was also the wife of a man whom I had never disobeyed. “Omar, I will be returning to Afghanistan, my son. That is where my husband and children are.”
Omar was persistent. “My Mother, please stay away from Afghanistan. A great harm is coming.”
“Omar, if danger is coming, then I must return. I have small children there. They will need their mother.”
Neither of us could erase Iman and Ladin from our thoughts, for Omar blurted, “I cannot sleep. If only I had stopped the vehicle and seized Ladin as he was running along beside me. If only I had grabbed Ladin.”
I looked at my son, a feeling of sadness gripping my heart. I knew my place in life. I was the wife of Osama bin Laden, and I had many children with him. I had to return to my place in the world, which was with my children. But Omar was another story. My most sensitive son had never accepted the life he had been given. He would never be happy with his family, yet I feared he would never be happy without his family.
Osama soon called me, to find out whether the child had arrived safely. He asked when Omar was bringing us back to Afghanistan. That’s when I told him that Omar might not return. Osama paused, but said nothing except that I should arrange to fly from Syria to Pakistan. He would send Osman, our fifth son, there to meet us. If Omar was not returning to our family, then Osman would be responsible for his mother.
The day arrived when I said goodbye to my family in Syria. Omar was still there, waiting for approval of his Saudi passport, at which time he would go to Jeddah, to resume his life there, as had my eldest son, Abdullah.
Before I left, Omar made one last appeal, but my answer was the same: “I must return to my place in life, my son, and that place is with my children.”
And that was that.
The return trip was so unpleasant that I have mainly blocked it from my memory. I missed Omar more than I had imagined, for my fourth son had been my staunch protector since he was a teenager, but now he was in Syria, and I was traveling without him. I did have Abdul Rahman and Osman with me, but both were involved with the dangers of the road journey. I, alone, cared for a tiny baby and a toddler. Both babies cried many tears during that nightmarish journey.
Despite the danger Omar warned was awaiting in Afghanistan, nothing had ever looked quite so welcoming as the walls of our compound in Kandahar.
My husband came quickly to see me and the new baby. Little Ladin was a jumping bean, so excited that his mother had ret
urned. Darling Iman was equally pleased, but stood quietly, waiting for her mother’s touch. My sister-wives were all well, happy that I was back so that we could catch up on each other’s news. By this time it was early in the year 2000, and I spent the rest of that year enjoying my children, although I missed the ones who were not with me, especially Omar.
The biggest surprise came late in the year when my young son Mohammed, who had just turned fifteen, started talking of marriage.
Mohammed claimed to be in love with the daughter of Abu Hafs, my husband’s closest friend and highest-ranking commander. Although Mohammed had had no occasion to spend time with Abu Hafs’s daughter, he had seen her, and had fallen obsessively in love.
My husband and Abu Hafs told Mohammed no, that he was too young, as was the bride, who was several years younger than my son.
But my son had inherited his father’s willpower, refusing to take no for an answer. He so annoyed his father and Abu Hafs that the men conferred, agreeing to allow the youngsters to have a chaperoned meeting, which is considered proper in our society. The two children were so delighted with each other that the two fathers agreed upon an engagement, a long engagement—at least that was the plan.
So the engagement was announced and the proper papers were signed. Of course, the marriage was not consummated due to the young age of Mohammed and his bride.
Everyone hoped that the formal arrangements would soothe Mohammed into waiting until he became seventeen in 2002, a suitable age for a groom, according to my husband.
Our son had other ideas.
One night in October of 2000, while everyone was sleeping, my restless son slipped from his bed, sneaked to my husband’s stables, and took a horse. He galloped that horse over dangerous territory for six hours, traveling more than thirty miles from our country compound to the city of Kandahar. He arrived at the home of Abu Hafs shortly before dawn.
Abu Hafs was startled by a loud banging on his door.