by Jean Sasson
I retraced my steps, and returned the money to my mother’s secret place. Wanting to brag about my adventure, I stupidly confided in my older brother Abdullah. Abdullah looked at me sternly before marching to my mother to inform her of my late-night journey. I escaped serious punishment only because Mother was incapable of being tough on any of her children, even when we deserved a reprimand.
When my father learned of my escapades, he called me a “little villain” and ordered his men to install a barbed wire fence on top of the wall that circled our grounds. My father’s men were diligent to make the fence “rascal-proof,” as they called it. The fence was erected in the shape of a Y so that it would be impossible to scale. Proud of their work, they congratulated each other, talking about how the sheik’s son would never scale such a fence, adding that the cleverest thief would never rob the bin Laden home.
We were locked in and the world was locked out.
Within the week I had made my first of many breakouts, discovering that if I climbed the wall under the gatehouse where the guards were posted, there was one spot where I could hang by my legs and fling my upper body onto the street lamppost, first catching it with my hands and then easily sliding down that post until my short legs hit the pavement.
When the fence builders discovered I had cracked the “rascal-proof fence” to make daily escapes, they were humiliated. After that incident, my father began keeping me by his side anytime he was in Jeddah, taking me everywhere he went, claiming that his fourth son was the one who led the others into mischief because by this time my brothers were beginning to emulate me.
My brother Osman was the next one born after me. For years he was the smallest of the sons, but one day he started growing and couldn’t stop, growing fat and remaining overweight for several years. Then Osman began a rapid weight loss and became skinny, growing in stature until he reached the same height as our father. Osman was such a quiet boy that he never saw the purpose of a joke; in fact, the telling of a joke would make him angry, leading him to walk away to sulk. He was religious, but not as overly religious as our father. He did resemble his brothers in one way, as he liked animals and often rode horses.
Mohammed was the baby son for years, concentrating on playing. Little Mohammed yearned for toy cars, but because our father forbade toys, we older boys made it our business to slip to the stores and purchase toy cars for our baby brother.
As the first girl after five sons, our baby sister Fatima was a novelty, a pet whom we all loved. She entertained the family for hours as she first learned to crawl and then to walk. My mother had dreamed of a daughter for so many years that she loved playing with Fatima and dressing her in frilly clothes. She had a beautiful face and her hair was curly and grew so long that it hung down her back. As she grew older she watched our mother and copied everything she did.
I often studied my father’s conduct with the younger siblings. He appeared to enjoy lounging on the floor and rolling around with the babies, allowing Mohammed and Fatima to crawl on his head and chest. He even hugged and kissed them. I couldn’t recall my father being so affectionate when I was a baby, although my mother claimed to remember such moments.
Soon after my father married his fourth wife, I learned that our entire family was moving to Medina. I was not troubled in the least because I was too young to realize the implications of leaving Jeddah.
Chapter 7
Moving to Medina
OMAR BIN LADEN
In the beginning, Medina was an exciting place to live. My eyes bulged when I caught sight of the enormous villa—even bigger than our large apartment house in Jeddah—that would be our home. But disappointment loomed. The exterior of our new home appeared a mansion, but we discovered that the interior was simple to the point of being stark. The vast floor space was empty other than a few inexpensive Persian carpets on the floor, cushions lined against the walls, and thin mattresses for sleeping.
I often wondered why our beautiful mansions were so plainly decorated. Once I asked my mother and she confessed that when she was a young bride she had dreamed of having a beautifully decorated home, but she had long ago left those dreams behind.
My father’s frequent absences, added to her almost continuous pregnancies, had left her without the opportunity to decorate in the early years of their marriage. Then, after they moved into their own home, my father had changed his opinion and decreed that his family should live a simple life. He said that he would not allow her to spend his money on elaborate furnishings.
Remembering the stark furnishings of that Medina home, I would classify my mother’s living quarters as penthouse living without the luxury.
Although we were together as a family, most members of the family missed Jeddah. Only Siham, our father’s fourth wife, who came from Medina, seemed happier there, because she could see her family more often. The rest of us had left our hearts in Jeddah, the only city we had known, within a short driving distance of our beloved family farm. We could not imagine how forlorn our life would become without the freedom of those weekend breaks on the farm.
Still, there were a few good moments in Medina. I recall an amusing incident that occurred shortly after we moved to the city.
My wittiest brother, Sa’ad, and I were bored, pacing through our empty home in search of something entertaining to occupy our time. At the welcome sound of a knock on the villa door, we hastened to see who was visiting. We found three veiled women, hands extended, begging for money.
Saudis by their nature tend to be generous, but are more so during religious holidays. Therefore, underprivileged Saudi women stroll through wealthy neighborhoods, knocking on doors, making their case for charity during such times.
Sa’ad and I were both young, and neither of us understood exactly what we should do, especially since we had no coins to give them. At first we indicated that they should leave, and then Sa’ad suddenly changed his mind and declared, “Wait! You can’t leave!”
I gazed curiously at Sa’ad, as did our veiled visitors. They looked at us through their black coverings for a few minutes, but then all turned to go at the same time.
Sa’ad’s voice became urgent. “No! You can’t leave!” he cried again. He paused, then shouted, “Our father wants to marry you!”
Calling to mind that my father did seem to enjoy having many women around, I thought Sa’ad’s idea was sound. “Yes!” I chimed in. “Our father would like to marry you!”
Sa’ad and I opened the door as wide as possible, indicating with our hands that the women should come inside and make themselves comfortable for a wedding.
Seeing that we were serious, the veiled women turned and fled, moving as fast as their black veils and long abaayas would allow.
Panicked that potential brides for our father were escaping, Sa’ad and I ran after them. Sa’ad launched his nimble body in front of the bewildered women, his voice pleading, “Come back! You must come in! It’s true! Our father wants to marry you!”
Thinking how excited our father would be to gain three wives in one go, I was determined not to let them escape a second time.
Becoming agitated by this bizarre episode, those poor women pushed us aside and ran faster than before. The last we saw of them, their black abaayas were flapping.
There was another incident that seemed humorous at the time, but that was because we were ignorant of the actual danger. One of my brothers spied a pigeons’ nest in one of the round planters built on the outside of a fourth-storey window. Always looking for a new pastime, we made it our business to keep watch. Soon enough, there were two eggs that hatched into two baby pigeons. Each day we would observe the chicks.
One morning the mother pigeon did not return on schedule, and we decided that we must save those baby chicks. To reach the chicks in the planters, we ran up the stairs and onto the roof, where Abdul Rahman volunteered to swing from the roof to the fourth-floor planters. Once in place, he reached into the nest to pluck out the baby pigeons. My brothers and I
watched Abdul Rahman tottering about while clutching the baby birds and trying to climb back to the roof. But we were so hyper that we quickly lost interest and found another pursuit. We rushed off without considering our brother, locking the door from the roof to the staircase.
Like many Saudi homes there was a round shaft in the center of our home, reaching from the bottom floor to the roof. Soon Abdul Rahman was shouting at us from the top of that shaft. Rather than climbing back up four flights of stairs to unlock the door, we yelled for him to jump.
Abdul Rahman hesitated. My brothers and I set up a chorus, “Jump! Jump! We will catch you! Jump! Jump! Jump! We will catch you!”
We didn’t realize that if Abdul Rahman listened to us and jumped, he would suffer serious injuries or possibly even death. Pain and death simply had not crossed our minds that morning, although we knew about pain from our father’s beatings and had heard about how many humans went from life to death in just a moment. After death, some people even went to a frighteningly hot place called hell. Our religious instructors often concentrated on the terrors of hell, so we had no desire to make a trip there.
We truly believed that Abdul Rahman could make the leap from the roof down to the ground floor without pain or death. We would reach out and catch him.
Becoming convinced by our chants, Abdul Rahman put down the chicks and took the plunge. At the last moment, he thought better of the plan, instinctively grasping the edge of the high floor while his fast-moving feet found a tiny ledge on the inside wall.
We were laughing and screaming all at once, “Let go, Abdul Rahman! We will catch you!”
I have no idea why our mother, or one of our three aunties, did not respond to the uproar. Looking back, I suppose that my father had trained them so well to remain behind locked doors that they ignored all that went on beyond them. Thankfully, our cries alerted one of our family’s drivers, who dashed in the front door to check on the commotion. Our driver looked where we were gazing and saw Abdul Rahman hanging. The driver, his head in his hands, gasped loudly before letting out a few screams and then ran as fast as he could, taking three steps at a time to reach the top where he grabbed Abdul Rahman’s hands, struggling to heave him back to safety.
Excited by the hullabaloo we had created, we followed our driver up the stairs, where we found the poor man visibly shaken. He gave us a rare scolding, saying that he had nearly toppled over with Abdul Rahman, and had that happened, both would have died when they hit the hard marble floor four flights down. Luckily our driver had saved the day.
Another personal milestone occurred for me in Medina. I turned seven and was enrolled in the Obaiy bin Kahab School, beginning the daily school trek with my older brothers. I had longed to go to school with my brothers for years, and despite their warnings that I was the lucky one to remain at home, I never believed them. I thought perhaps they were having so much fun that they wanted to cut me out.
Too late I discovered that my brothers had not misled me. School was an instant torture, because our family name generated vicious animosity from our teachers. I was shocked to learn that I was hated for being a bin Laden.
The bin Ladens were known to be among the most prosperous and influential families in the kingdom. Rarely did the middle- or lower-class Saudi have an opportunity to be around a member of my grandfather’s fabulously wealthy family. Perhaps the teachers were privately seething at the bin Ladens’ riches and influence. Whatever the reason, when they had a chance to take out their jealousy on us, they did. Despite our desperate attempts to please those teachers, nothing helped to deflect their anger. I remember one teacher who announced in class that my family’s wealth and influence would not affect his conduct. That man was the worst, and taunted me more than the others.
It was particularly painful because some students mimicked his actions. One gang of boys even threatened my brothers and me with rape! There were times we had to fight to protect ourselves or, if caught alone, run like the wind.
Teachers in Saudi Arabia have the legal right to cane any student, and some of them exercised that right. Our grades were often lowered, sometimes marked as failing, even when our work was of high quality. There were times when the beatings and bullying became so unbearable that we pleaded with our father to enroll us in schools where our name would not attract such hostility.
My brothers and I questioned why the sons of Osama bin Laden were sent to public school when our father, uncles, and sons of our uncles attended only the best private schools. While our cousins were being prepared for a life of privilege, we were being sent to substandard schools that would hamper our future. Indeed, our futures were fixed by those inferior schools. Not only were the teachers cruel, but we were receiving an inadequate education.
Had our father made a strong complaint to the school, the teachers would have changed their behavior. But he was strangely unmoved by our dilemma, lecturing us on his stern beliefs: “Life has to be a burden. Life has to be hard. You will be made stronger if you are treated toughly. You will become capable adults, able to endure many hardships.” When no one stood up for us, the teachers grew even bolder.
Because of my early school experiences, it was one of the happiest days of my life when I learned we were returning to Jeddah in 1988, a year after moving to Medina. All I could think was: I will escape the Obaiy bin Kahab School! My brothers tried to warn me that the school in Jeddah would be more of the same, but I brushed their warnings aside, believing that nothing could be as bad as the school in Medina.
Every day was a torture until our belongings were packed and we were all loaded into large vehicles for the return move. I was smiling so widely when I saw Jeddah that one of my younger brothers warned me that he could see too many of my teeth. When he began to count them, I stopped smiling. Nevertheless, I remained happy, for those cool Jeddah sea breezes felt like a healing balm.
I soon discovered that my brothers had not lied about the school in Jeddah. I became so desperate that I spoke to my mother of the abuse. She was horrified, but, I believe, afraid to speak to our father, who was adamant that he would make every decision about his sons.
It’s a miracle that none of us was beaten to death. I don’t know about my brothers, for it is a subject so painful that we do not mention it, but the extreme cruelty those teachers meted out upon my body and my mind scarred me for life.
The only happy moment I recall was the time that I submitted a painting that was chosen to hang on the school wall. I had never received any positive recognition in school before. My mother was pleased as well, thinking that I had inherited my artistic streak from her, and I believe that to be the case.
While school remained a source of constant misery, there were other changes in our life. For as long as I could remember, my father had been flying back and forth to Pakistan and Afghanistan for the cause of Jihad.
Jihad is a religious duty of Muslims, meaning struggle in the way of God. Jihad can be violent or nonviolent. Nonviolent Jihad means a struggle within, such as those who fight their baser impulses to live a righteous life. In my father’s case, the concept of Jihad included violent, armed struggle against the Soviet army that was oppressing a Muslim land.
When a Muslim believer is called to engage in armed struggle, that believer becomes known as a Mujahid. A group fighting together against oppression is called Mujahideen. The best-known Mujahideen were the soldiers who fought in Afghanistan, including my father and his band of Arab fighters. In fact, the movement to fight the Russian invaders in Afghanistan became so popular that the United States under Presidents Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan helped to finance the Mujahideen, with President Reagan publicly praising the Mujahideen as freedom fighters.
In those days, my father was a great hero to the West, too.
Suddenly there was excited talk that the impossible had happened: The Soviet army was pulling out of Afghanistan—defeated by a ragtag group of Mujahideen, some of whom were led by my own father!
I remember s
peculating on what my father might do with his spare time, since his life had been totally focused on that faraway war for so many years. To my surprise, my father became busier than ever, for he was in great demand as Saudi Arabia’s war hero. The Saudi government as well as private Saudi citizens had donated enormous sums of money to the Afghan cause. Additionally, many Saudi men had volunteered to fight on the battlefields in Afghanistan, with many Saudi fathers and sons grievously injured, or even dying. After such sacrifices, Saudis felt they had a huge stake in the war.
Everyone in the country celebrated the Islamic victory. As the face of those heroes, my father was greatly revered by many Saudis and by Muslims in other lands. Many men wanted to meet him, to hear about his personal experiences on the battlefields. Although my father did not seek special attention, he did agree to give talks at the mosque and at private events.
Our lives began to settle into a routine, something none of us had ever known. Our father was like other fathers, going to work each day at the family business, although he was still intensely occupied with our Islamic faith, and spent much time meeting with others about his obligations as a believer.
Happily for us, for a year or so he became less ill-tempered, though his sons were still expected to conduct themselves in an excessively solemn manner. Despite our father’s uncompromising rules, I was disturbed to hear my older brothers complaining that the only times they had tasted freedom were when our father was away, fighting the Russians. They were sorry that the war was over!
When I was a child, I wanted nothing more than my father’s companionship and approval, but those years had long passed. Although I still revered my father and desired his approval, I was no longer in need of his companionship. After giving the matter much thought, a sad reality struck me. My older brothers had spoken a truth I could not deny: Life was more agreeable when my father was far, far away.