Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  I heard a soft voice complain about the night chill.

  Osama advised the complainer to “cover yourself with dirt or grass.” He paused, then called out from his hole, “You will become warm under what nature provides.”

  Although uncomfortable with the idea, for who knew what insects were using that sand as their homes, I finally grew so chilled that I did cover my body up to my waist with dirt and grass. It’s true that nature will provide warmth, just as Osama said, although I preferred my bed and blanket back in my apartment in Khartoum.

  As I lay in that hole covered with dirt, staring at the starlit sky above, I reminded myself that my husband knew much more about the wide world than any of us. We were all pearls to my husband, and he wanted to protect us.

  And who knew? Perhaps the scary time would come when my children and I would find ourselves running from aggressive warriors, thankful for the lessons we had learned from Osama. Wouldn’t everyone be surprised when my children and I popped up alive because we knew how to endure the harsh desert climate without water supplies or without the benefit of modern conveniences?

  Of course, I did not want my little children to suffer thus, so I said many prayers to God, asking that such a thing should never come to pass.

  Chapter 11

  Family Affairs

  NAJWA BIN LADEN

  Our oldest sons became young men during the Khartoum years. They excelled in sports that young men enjoy, soccer and martial arts, and other similar hobbies. All our sons were good swimmers; in fact, the boys used to swim across the Nile River for fun. This is no small feat, for the Nile may be narrow but its waters are tricky with unexpected currents. The Nile was near al-Riyadh Village, so it was not uncommon for them to go there with their father for a swim. Other times they would ride out into the desert to race some of their father’s cars. All our sons were taught to drive by the age of eight, which is expected in Saudi Arabia. They became skilled hunters, easily capturing animals in traps or killing them with one shot.

  I remember once when they built a trap to try to capture a bird known as the Shaheen hawk. I knew about the Shaheen hawks from the time I was a small girl because Arabs favor that predatory bird above all others. Shaheens are trapped alive in the open desert to be trained to swoop to earth to catch rabbits, quails, and other small creatures. I’ve been told that they are very particular how they pick up their prey and actually present their owners with the creatures without taking a bite, or even making a scratch. I know little else because I am not a hunter.

  Much of what we had been accustomed to changed during those Sudan years, but mainly for the boys. The women of the family remained inside our homes and focused on our female activities, as we had always done, and always would. My daughters, Fatima and Iman, were still very young, so they were content to scamper around in our large home, mimicking their mother in her daily routine. Both girls provided a lot of amusement to our household as they were of the age to perform a lot of cute baby tricks. Osama took a lot of joy from those baby girls and let them crawl the length of his long body and even tweak his beard. Those were very happy times, rare moments I had not witnessed for many years. Watching my husband and our daughters, I thought perhaps all might work out well for the bin Laden family in Africa.

  There were scary times as well. For the first time in our married life, Osama became so ill that I feared for his life. Mysteriously, he contracted malaria. From where we could not guess, as anytime he was in an area that mosquitoes were known to inhabit, he always used a mosquito net.

  His sudden illness was frightening for me because my husband was famous for being the most healthy man in the world. In fact, up until that time, I cannot recall his ever making a single complaint of pain, not even of a minor headache or toothache.

  He had been traveling for business and soon after returning complained of a fever and nausea and pains in his joints. For the first day or two, we believed that he had contracted a strain of flu. But he became too sick, shivering with chills one moment and sweating with fever the next. Soon Osama had difficulty standing. He even turned a peculiar shade of yellow. But even after turning yellow, he refused to visit a doctor of medicine. Soon, though, Osama concluded that there was no other explanation than he had been bitten by a female mosquito carrying malaria.

  My own heart thumped loudly at his diagnosis, for I knew the outcome for many malaria victims. After he returned home, he was so feverish and ill that he had no thoughts of further protecting himself. I suppose he was bitten again. Those new infected mosquitoes spread the disease to other family members. My four oldest sons, Abdullah, Abdul Rahman, Sa’ad, and Omar, followed their father, coming down with the same scary symptoms.

  My poor sons reported being dizzy and short of breath, with painful joints and pounding heads. Although I served food and water, nothing I could do would ease their discomfort. Poor Abdul Rahman became dangerously ill. The wretched look on Abdul Rahman’s face finally brought Osama to the conclusion that he must seek medical treatment for himself and for our boys. Weak though he was, he roused everyone who was sick and had them transported to a local clinic.

  I was saying many prayers as I watched them disappear from our home, and many more prayers during the brief time they were away. Thanks be to God, after receiving special medical treatment, including fluids that were pumped directly into their veins, all of them returned, weak but alive. That’s when Osama told me that he had been informed by the doctor that there was no guarantee of evading malaria, despite using a nightly mosquito net. On occasion, mosquitoes would bite victims even before dusk. There was really no way to be completely safe unless one wore a mosquito net over one’s body throughout the entire day.

  Perhaps that is why we females were less likely to be bitten, for we never left our home without being covered from head to toe in our customary abaayas.

  A good day came at the end of our first year in Khartoum when my father traveled to Sudan for a holiday. His jolly face was the best sight I had enjoyed in many months. Although I remained at home with my daughters, Osama escorted my father to the most interesting sights in Khartoum, which I was told had a modern central city, although the outskirts were very simple. Most pleasant of all were the relaxing hours when my father sat with me and shared news of my mother, siblings, and other relatives living in Syria.

  I hoped that my dear father could return at least once a year for similar holidays. Yet within a short time of my father’s visit to Khartoum, I received the most alarming telephone call from a family member in Syria whispering that my father was bedridden with a lung infection. We Arabs break bad news very slowly so as not to shock loved ones; therefore it took some time for my relative to confess that the lung infection was quite serious, and in fact, was lung cancer.

  My father had loved the smoking evil since the time he was a young adult. Those cigarettes had finally turned on him. My father was unable to fight the spiteful disease and quickly lost the ability to live a normal life. He was suffering with pain that forced him into bed.

  To my dismay I learned that even after being diagnosed with lung cancer, he could not overcome the desire to smoke. I was told that he had lost so much of his body weight that he was all bones with a little skin, and that he was in so much pain that he had to fight not to cry out. Yet, there he was, a gravely ill patient reclining in bed with a cigarette hanging from his lips. That habit carried on until the moment of death; he stubbornly clenched a cigarette between his teeth until God called him away.

  Since I was unable to travel from Sudan to Syria, it came to pass that my beloved father died without his daughter Najwa by his side. This was a big hurt in my heart because any daughter feels close to a father who is so caring. I was helpless, so far away in Africa. I could only pray to God for Him to bless my father’s soul and to put him in white paradise.

  Despite my knowledge that God knows best for all of us, I have never erased the sadness from my heart, even though my husband, Osama, reminded me
that God decides all things and that whatever God decrees should be celebrated.

  I was also reminded of the premonition I had suffered when last visiting Syria, during the time our family had not yet left Saudi Arabia. I remembered the dark foreboding surrounding me, strong feelings that something terrible was going to happen to someone. Now I wondered if perhaps God Himself had forewarned me of my father’s death.

  We had other visitors from the family. Some of Osama’s siblings and their spouses came to visit, which was a happy occasion for us all. Even Auntie Allia and her husband, Muhammad al-Attas, traveled to Khartoum for two lovely visits. Osama was in a particularly good mood when his mother was with us. He adored showing her the city that was now our home, as well as his farms so that she would know what her son was producing for Sudan and for the world. Although Allia, like me, wanted all the troubles to go away so that her son and his wives and children could return to Saudi Arabia, she did not protest to me or to Osama because she knew she had no way of changing the situation.

  There were not so many pregnancies among my husband’s four wives during the four years that we lived in Khartoum, only three in fact. Siham, Osama’s fourth wife, was first, giving birth to her fourth child, and third daughter, Sumaiya. Then Osama’s second wife, Khadijah, became pregnant soon after our arrival in Sudan. Khadijah had her first daughter, and last child with my husband, a little girl named Aisha.

  The family was in for a shock. Shortly after little Aisha joined our growing family, Khadijah chose to return to Saudi Arabia. My husband agreed with her plan. Many people have speculated about their divorce, but there are special secrets in every family, secrets that I would never dishonor myself and my family by unveiling. All I will say is what is already known, that Khadijah returned with her three children to Saudi Arabia, where she lives to this day. Khadijah was sorely missed by her sister wives, and I am certain that my sons pined for Ali and Amer, for the boys had been playmates from the time they were toddlers. Other than Ali, who came back to Khartoum for a visit to Sudan when he was eleven years old, Khadijah’s children were gone from our lives forever.

  With Khadijah’s departure, we were suddenly only three wives and thirteen children.

  Happily, I became pregnant with my ninth child in early 1993. Osama said that I should travel back to Jeddah to be with his mother, Allia, and to give birth in the fine hospital where they have excellent female doctors. When given the opportunity, I always chose to be attended by a female physician because of my womanly modesty.

  A short time before the estimated due date for the birth, I learned that Osama would be unable to travel back with me to Saudi Arabia. Although disappointed, I was not surprised, for I was aware that past problems kept my husband out of the kingdom. So it was necessary for Osama to select our eldest son, Abdullah, who would turn seventeen during the year and was of a responsible mind-set, to be my guardian.

  You may or may not know that Muslim women in Saudi Arabia are forbidden to travel alone. Our traveling companions cannot be just anyone, but must be a suitable guardian, called a mahram, who can only be a male family member whom the woman is forbidden by religious law to marry. Blood mahrams include a woman’s grandfather, father, brother, husband, son, grandson, or nephew; and there are in-law mahrams, such as a father-in-law, son-in-law, stepfather, or stepson. There is one last group of men who can be a woman’s mahram. If any woman acts as a wet nurse, she becomes the child’s milk mother, or rada. Blood mahrams apply to this group of people associated with the milk nurse, including milk mother husband, father, brothers, sons, uncles, and so on.

  While I was pleased to return to Jeddah, I was despondent at the idea of leaving my family in Khartoum. Despite that hint of sadness, there were many joyful moments in Jeddah. I was delighted to see that beautiful city once again. I had visits from girlfriends I had not seen in a long time. Allia and her children, as always, were the kindest hearts, taking care of my every need. My friends and family would even take an afternoon walk in the family garden with me, something many Saudis avoid due to the tremendous heat generated by the desert sun.

  Before I left Khartoum to travel to Jeddah, Osama had decided that if our child was a son, he should be named Ladin. As soon as I was well enough to travel, my eldest son, Abdullah, ushered his mother and baby brother, Ladin, safely back to Khartoum.

  Everyone loved Ladin because he was such a pretty baby and had special cute ways. After our return to Khartoum, for some reason my husband changed his mind and decided that Ladin should be renamed Bakr. Although Bakr is his proper official name that appears on all his documents, the name Ladin stuck with the children and with me. Of course, such a situation created confusion for our little boy, but I told him that he was so special that he must have two names, and that seemed to satisfy him.

  I soon discovered that an additional woman would be joining our family as the wife of my husband, Osama. A year or so after Khadijah and Osama divorced, my husband married another wife. But this new marriage ended quickly because of a secret. Being on paper only (meaning not consummated), she did not become part of our close family group. Therefore, our family unit remained for a time as it was, with three wives and their fourteen children.

  Life changes. Things alter. Such matters were out of my hands. But I was at peace, for as a believer, I leave all things to God.

  Chapter 12

  Golden Times in Khartoum

  OMAR BIN LADEN

  Who could have known that the happiness I was seeking was waiting for me in African Sudan? When my feet touched the dusty soil of Khartoum, I was only a child of ten, soon to turn eleven. My father met us at the airport with a huge entourage, which was not unusual. I noticed that many of the men accompanying my father were Mujahideen soldiers from his days in Afghanistan, while others were impassioned followers of my father’s beliefs, so all carried a reverence for him.

  Happily for his sons, their deference trickled down to us. He was the prince, or so they said. In fact, few people outside our world understand the high degree of love the Arab masses expressed for my father. Although he had to leave Saudi Arabia, his exile came about due to his disagreements with the Saudi royal family, not with ordinary Saudi citizens.

  We were to live in a neighborhood called al-Riyadh. Our personal home was a beige-colored house behind walls of the same color, the same kind of concrete block enclosures we had left behind in Saudi Arabia. There was a large beige metal gate. Several of my father’s men rushed to open it so that our large family might enter the grounds.

  I exchanged a few glances with my brothers and I knew that we were of the same mind. We were looking at my mother’s new prison, for she basically lived in purdah, a state of almost total isolation where females socialize only with family members, and rarely if ever leave private dwellings. For her entire married life my mother was allowed to leave her home only when we were traveling to visit relatives, or transferring to another family home, such as our farm on the outskirts of Jeddah. I believed that the large house would be my prison as well. The children of Osama bin Laden enjoyed very few ordinary freedoms, although in comparison to the women of the house, we were as free as birds.

  As I studied the exterior of the dwelling, I realized the Osama bin Laden family was coming down in the world. Our new home was decidedly smaller and more modest than the spacious mansions we left behind in Saudi Arabia, yet it was larger than any home I had viewed on the trip from the airport. The house appeared to have three separate floors so I hoped it was large enough for four wives and many children.

  My father led the way.

  My older brothers and I quietly followed in our father’s footsteps, for we knew that he had no patience with children who failed to behave maturely. Even the smallest siblings walked in silence. Our veiled mother and aunties followed behind us because it is our custom for women to follow men.

  After entering the yard, Father walked through the double wooden door, painted a dull brown color. Of course he had already
made every decision about who would reside where. We were told that the room on the right was the family’s guest room for any relatives who might come to visit and on the left was the apartment for Auntie Khairiah, mother of the toddler Hamza. She had the smallest apartment because she had only one child, but it was still ample with a living room, bathroom, and kitchen along with two bedrooms. The remaining space on that floor was our father’s study and private office.

  Marble stairs took us to the second floor. Both Auntie Khadijah and Auntie Siham had generous-sized apartments on the second, or middle, floor.

  Climbing to yet another level, the third and top floor, always my mother’s favorite position in any home, we came to our family’s living quarters. There we found four bedrooms, a living room, bathrooms, a third kitchen, and a stairway leading to the rooftop. As in Saudi Arabia, Sudanese homes were built with flat roofs, an area serving as an open living space.

  The house was rather disappointing for our tastes, but there was nothing to do but settle in and hope for the best. Undoubtedly, we were mischievous boys and the moment our parents locked the door leading to their private area, we burst into action, eagerly exploring the various rooms and good-naturedly quarreling over sleeping arrangements, although we were cautious to keep our voices low to avoid provoking our father’s legendary temper.

  The house was plainly furnished, which wasn’t a surprise. Our father always scorned anything elaborate when it came to his family, often stating that we should not be pampered, and we were not. There were cheap Persian carpets on the floor and beige curtains on the windows. There were blue cushions placed seatlike along the walls, in the manner common in many Arab homes. There were no decorations, not even one picture hanging on the walls, although we did notice evidence of our father’s work tacked up on the walls of his study on the lower level. We tried to make sense of some maps and plans for the roads and factories he was currently building, but could not. As usual, his study was crammed with hundreds of books, both in English and Arabic, mainly to do with religion and military matters. Our father spoke and wrote fluent English because his own father had decreed that his children should be highly educated.