by Jean Sasson
I remember how proud I was when I first went to school. I wore the usual girls’ uniforms, which was a jumper and dress when I was very young, though once I began secondary school, I could no longer ignore my mother and wore a jacket over my dress for modesty.
How I loved school! School expanded my small world from family members to new friends and teachers who had so much information crammed into their heads that I didn’t know how their skulls kept from bursting. I was an inquisitive child, and read as many books as possible, mostly enjoying stories about faraway places and people. I soon came to realize how much I shared with other young girls my age, no matter where they might live.
In my culture school-age boys and girls rarely mix outside the family circle, so my school was for girls only. I came to know a number of impoverished students, and their poverty taught me one of the greatest lessons of life. I particularly remember one friend whose family was so poor that her father could not purchase school supplies or even food for the lunchtime break. Without considering how it might affect my situation, for my family was of modest means, I shared my money, my food, and my school supplies with my little friend. I felt the greatest rush of happiness at her reaction.
Since that long-ago day, I have learned that the joy of giving is more acute when sharing creates personal hardship. It is easy enough to share when a person has plenty.
I recall a second friend, who was often on the verge of tears. I soon learned that her father had recently divorced her mother. My poor friend was not even allowed to even see her mother, but was forced to live with her father and his new wife. My sensitive heart ached for her situation, for every child wants their mother near. I realized that sharing does not necessarily mean the giving of money or goods; there are times that the greatest gift is to set aside one’s own troubles and listen, to care about another’s heartache.
I happened to meet this childhood friend by chance recently. My heart sang with joy when she told me that she had found happiness in the second part of her life. She wore the veil out of choice, and she married happily. She didn’t surprise me by saying that her children bring her the greatest joy.
While school was a mind-opening pleasure for me, there were other hobbies that added spice to my life. Contrary to many people’s assumptions about the lives of conservative Muslim women, I was a skilled tennis player. Although I never owned special tennis attire, I would wear a long dress so that I did not expose too much of my legs while leaping about, slip on comfortable shoes, and practice for hours. My goals were to hit the ball just right, or return a serve with such power that my girlish opponent would be left standing with her mouth open in surprise. Yet in truth, the main thing was the sport. To this day I can still hear the laughter that would ring out when my girlfriends and I played tennis.
I also loved riding my colorful girl’s bicycle. Once again I would select a long dress so I would not expose my legs to bystanders, then run out of the house with my brothers and sister to pedal up the gentle slopes of Latakia. We would squeal with laugher as we flew past surprised neighbors on the way down. Other times I would ride my bicycle to the homes of my girlfriends or nearby relatives.
For many years I experienced great joy as a fledgling artist, painting portraits and landscapes on canvas and smooth pieces of pottery. I spent hours mixing the colors and making the pictures pleasing to my artist’s eye. My siblings were impressed enough by the quality of my paintings to predict that Najwa Ghanem would one day become a world-famous artist.
These days I am unable to enjoy such pursuits, but even now, as a mother alone with many responsibilities to my young children, I still derive some small pleasure from using my imagination. In my mind I often paint beautiful scenes or strong faces conveying great intensity, or I imagine my muscles being stretched tight from cycling up and down a steep hill, or even winning a tennis match against a faceless opponent.
I suppose one might say that Najwa Ghanem bin Laden is an artist without paints, a cyclist without a bicycle, and a tennis player without a ball, a racket, or a court.
My siblings had their own hobbies as well. We all liked musical instruments and it was not unusual for guests to hear a guitar strumming from some hidden corner of our home. My older brother even gave me a present of an accordion. I am sure I was a funny sight, for I was slim and delicate and the accordion better suited to the hands of a hefty musician.
The best time was the summer, when relatives would come to stay in our home. Most of all, I took pleasure in visits from my father’s sister, Allia, who lived in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. My Auntie Allia was lovely in every way, inspiring awe in everyone who met her. Since she dressed so fashionably when visiting us, I was surprised to learn that back home in Saudi Arabia she wore the hijab, which means full cover for a woman, including her body, face, and hair. In Syria, however, she wore modest but elegant dresses that covered her arms and legs. She also wore a flimsy scarf over her hair but did not cover her face.
Auntie Allia was known for her kindness even more than she was for her style and charm. Whenever she heard of a struggling family, she would secretly provide for their upkeep.
I overheard my parents speak quietly of her first marriage to the very affluent Mohammed bin Laden, a wealthy contractor in Saudi Arabia. Because of his special friendship with King Abdul Aziz al-Saud of Saudi Arabia, Auntie Allia’s first husband had become one of the wealthiest men in a country brimming with wealthy men.
The marriage was brief and my auntie had only one child from Mohammed bin Laden, a son named Osama. After her divorce, my auntie married Muhammad al-Attas, a Saudi man who worked for Auntie Allia’s first husband. Attas was known to be a caring husband to my auntie and kindly stepfather to my cousin. Never have I heard a hard word spoken against my auntie’s husband. Together the couple had four children, three sons and one daughter.
I knew them all very well, for the entire family accompanied my auntie when she visited relatives in Latakia. We had many meals together in our home, occasions I remember as being particularly festive, with lighthearted talk and laughter. Osama, of course, was part of the group. My cousin, already a year old at the time of my birth, was always in my life.
Once I became seven or eight years old, memories began to stick. Osama seemed much more than a year older than I, perhaps because he was such a serious, conscientious boy. He was a mystery to his cousins, yet we all liked him because he was very quiet and gentle in his manners.
In describing the young boy Osama that we all knew, I would say that he was proud, but not arrogant. He was delicate, but not weak. He was grave, but not severe. Certainly he was vastly different from my very boisterous brothers, who were always teasing me about one thing or another. I had never been around such a soft-spoken, serious boy. Despite his serene demeanor, no one ever thought of Osama as being weak-willed, for his character was strong and firm.
When Auntie Allia and her family visited, the entire family would sometimes take day trips to the mountains or the seashore. During such family jaunts, we kids would run about with excitement, racing each other on the beaches, playing hide and seek, or tying a rope to a tree and then making a swing or jumping the rope. I remember how thoughtfully Osama would select juicy grapes, handing them to me to eat off the vine. My brothers meanwhile might be shouting gleefully that they had found some crunchy pecans lying under the branches of the tree. Other times we all might climb small trees to pluck sweet apples or thrust our hands through bushes laden with tart berries. Although Mother warned us about snakes, I was so happy to be playing with my cousins that even my fears didn’t hinder my activities.
There were sad moments, however. On September 3, 1967, my cousin Osama’s father, Mohammed, was a passenger in a small aeroplane that stalled and crashed. At the age of sixty-one, Osama’s father was killed, along with several other people.
My cousin was only ten years old, but he had greatly loved and respected his father. Osama had always been unusually restrained in his manner and in hi
s speech, but he was so stricken by the death of his father that he became even more subdued. Through the years he spoke little of the tragic incident.
My mother’s voice was hushed when she told me about Osama’s loss. I was so shocked I couldn’t react, but I did retire to the balcony to reflect on my love for my own father, and the emptiness I would feel without him.
When they were young, my brother Naji and Osama sometimes got themselves into trouble. Once they were camping and on a whim decided to go for a long walk, hiking to Kasab, a town in our Latakia Province, close to the Turkish border—and managed to walk right across the border into Turkey. In our part of the world, straying into another country can result in serious consequences, with careless travelers disappearing forever.
A Turkish army officer spotted the strangers on his territory. As he yelled threats and pointed his weapon, Naji and Osama exchanged a single glance, then turned and ran faster than horses until they reached a garden. Thankfully the Turkish guard did not follow them clear into another country.
On another occasion, Naji and Osama went to Damascus, the ancient city that is the capital of Syria. Osama always enjoyed long walks more than most, and after a brisk hike, the two boys and their friends found shade under a tree. They were tired and a bit hungry. As luck would have it, the tree just happened to have branches heavy with succulent apples. Tempted by the sight of the fruit, Naji and his friends climbed the tree, telling Osama to stay behind as a lookout. Naji said later that he knew that his pious cousin would probably balk at plucking apples from a tree that was not his, so he didn’t want Osama participating in the actual pilfering.
The boys scrambled up the tree, but before they had time to pick a single apple, a mob of men started running in their direction, shouting angrily while whipping leather belts in the air.
“Apple thieves!” the men yelled. “Come out of the tree!”
There was no way to escape, so my brother and his friends slowly climbed down from the safety of the leafy branches to face their challengers. As their feet touched the ground, the men began to beat them with those strong leather belts. In between gasps, Naji yelled at Osama to “Run away! Run away as fast as you can!”
Osama was their guest, and it was important that a guest not be harmed. Also, Naji knew how dearly Auntie Allia loved her firstborn son. My brother did not want to return home with bad news about Osama.
At Naji’s urging, Osama dashed away from the confrontation. For some reason the owners decided it was of the utmost importance to capture the fleeing boy, so they kept chasing Osama until they caught him, threatening him with their belts. Alone, without the protection of his relatives or friends, Osama was set upon by one of the largest men, who leaned forward and bit Osama’s arm, a bite so strong that Osama carries a slight scar to this day.
Osama pulled the man’s teeth from his flesh and pushed him away, then faced those angry men: “You had better leave me alone! I am a visitor to your country. I will not allow you to beat me!”
For some reason Osama’s intense expression made those men turn away. They lowered their belts, staring at him for a few minutes before saying, “You are being released only because you are a guest in our land.” By this time, my brother and his friends had made their escape. With Osama in the clear, the apple thieves were allowed to reunite and return to a place of safety. Osama’s wound was cleaned and bound and thankfully he did not suffer from an infection.
Those happy days of childhood years passed too rapidly, and as I entered my teenage years, unanticipated emotions began to swirl between my cousin and me. I was not sure what was happening, but knew that Osama and I had a special relationship. Although Osama never said anything, his brown eyes lit with pleasure anytime I walked into a room. I trembled with excitement when I felt my cousin’s intense attention. Soon our hidden emotions would rise to the surface and change our lives forever.
Chapter 2
Married Life
NAJWA BIN LADEN
Most girls marry young in my culture. Around the time I became a teenager, my stirring heart drew me to think of marriage to Osama. While I knew little of adult lives, I liked everything about him, from his looks to his gentle manner and his strong character.
It is common for Muslim women to marry their first cousins; such unions are widely favored because they keep families intact without a threat to inherited wealth, if that is an issue.
From the way he looked at me, I believed that Osama liked me, too, yet nothing specific about affection or marriage was ever openly discussed. Serious talk about love and marriage between the two of us would have been improper until our parents had given their approval, but with Osama, everything moved slowly.
Osama’s silence soon grew annoying. I wanted him to say something, to confide that he was going to approach our parents about an engagement. But Osama remained stubbornly proper! In fact, when he engaged me in small talk, he seemed to have difficulty expressing himself. I remember staring up into his kindly eyes, tartly thinking to myself that my cousin was shyer than a “virgin under the veil.”
Finally, when I was around fourteen years old, Osama found his courage. It was after a long summer visit to my family’s home in Syria, when we had been around each other every day. Once they returned to Saudi Arabia, he discussed with his mother the idea of an engagement. Auntie Allia was pleased at the prospect of a marriage between her son and her brother’s daughter, which would draw our two families even closer.
In my Muslim world, women generally are the ones to begin the often tedious process of arranging marriages. From the time a son is born, his mother will attend female social functions with the idea of finding a suitable bride. A careful mother will consider only a girl from a good family, who is healthy and physically attractive. Once an appropriate prospect is found, the two mothers will initiate marriage discussions. If the mothers are satisfied, the fathers are brought in to settle the dowry, which can involve jewelry or even cash. At some point the potential bride and groom are told about each other. Since males and females usually trust their parents’ decision about a marriage partner, it is rare for a child to say no; but if it happens, the parents should not force the issue.
Fortunately, such detailed planning was not necessary in our case. Not only had Osama and I had been around each other since we were children, but Auntie Allia was also inclined to allow her strong-willed son to make his own decision about marriage. She discussed the idea with my parents, who leaked the information to me.
I have never been told the particulars of that conversation, and it would be considered disrespectful to ask. To my surprise, while my heart was leaping with joy that Osama wanted to marry me, my mother argued against the match. Her lack of enthusiasm was not due to any dislike of Osama but to something more basic: She did not want me to move so far away.
Mother pleaded, “Najwa, please do not agree to this marriage. I want you close, daughter. If you go to Saudi Arabia, our visits will be as rare as expensive jewels.”
For a moment I stared at my mother without responding. She was right; once I was settled in Saudi Arabia, my visits home would be rare, for in those days people did not travel as frequently as they do now. I could understand my mother’s sadness, as it is one of the great joys of an Arab mother to see her children and grandchildren on a regular basis.
Marrying Osama also meant that my life would change in other, more dramatic ways. After moving to Saudi Arabia, I would be wearing the face veil. And Osama was so conservative that I would also live in purdah, or isolation, rarely leaving the confines of my new home.
Although I knew that my response would not please my mother, I replied firmly, “It is my life, Mother. I will decide. I love him. I will marry him.”
I have always been strong when I decide on an action. No one would keep me from marrying Osama.
And so it came to be that I was married in 1974, when I was fifteen, but soon to turn sixteen. My husband was seventeen.
On my wedding da
y, I was young in years but mature and certain in my thoughts. I was not apprehensive. All was perfect. My wedding dress was elegant and white. My hair was chic and perfectly styled. I knew that I looked as beautiful as I could look. My desperate wish was that my groom would be pleased with my appearance.
Although most weddings in Syria were flamboyant events, my wedding was purposely small and subdued, held in our family home and entirely appropriate for the conservative beliefs of the man I was marrying. We took special care to seat female guests on one side of the room, and male guests on the other side. After the brief ceremony, the segregated wedding party sat down to an abundant dinner of the usual Syrian dishes, barbecued meat, crushed wheat with pigeons, grape leaves, and kibbe. There were many desserts, but I felt no hunger, eating little. The entire evening felt dreamlike: I was a woman married to the man I loved.
Everything lively was banned. There were no musicians present to strum their instruments or to sing their songs. Those with dancing feet were instructed to remain motionless. Laughter and jokes were discouraged. The evening never progressed beyond small talk. Yet I was happy, for I could tell from the sweet expression on Osama’s face that he was pleased with me and satisfied with my choices. And so it was that my life progressed from childhood into adulthood by the end of that evening. I was a married woman in every way.
There were disappointments. Even though Osama and his family remained in Syria for a short time so that we could become accustomed to the change in our relationship, I was distressed to learn that my husband had to return to Saudi Arabia without me. My official travel documents were not yet ready. Such documents took time, even though I had married into one of the most influential and wealthy families in the kingdom. Instead, I would remain in my parents’ home, still a schoolgirl, waiting for approval of my new status as a Saudi citizen, the wife of Osama bin Laden.
