by Jean Sasson
My mother was not pleased when my brothers and I slipped the gazelle through an open window and into our farm house. The coat of the gazelle was shedding, and when my mother found gazelle fur on the furniture, she raised her voice, which was unusual for her. Later we realized that she was pretending to be angry because we caught her secretly smiling at our antics.
I remember once when Father was given a baby camel as a gift. We were enthusiastic to have it on the farm, but soon realized that it was too young to be taken from its mother. The poor baby was so lonely and cried so pitifully that my father decided to take it to one of the farms belonging to his brother. But the baby camel was attacked by the other camels there, so he couldn’t share their home. We never knew the outcome of this sad story, but I was haunted by that baby’s misery for many days, as I have always loved animals and become terribly sad if one suffers.
Then one day one of my father’s half-brothers arrived unexpectedly at our farm, his vehicle stuffed with toys! We had never been so excited. For us, it was Eid (a Muslim holiday similar to Christian Christmas celebrations) a hundred times over! My father hid his anger from his brother, but not from us, remaining annoyed until all those toys were destroyed. But our uncle’s kindness had made for one of the happiest days of our lives. Looking back, I suppose that our uncle felt sorry for us.
My father relented when it came to football—or soccer as Americans call it. When he brought a ball home, I remember the shock of seeing him smile sweetly when he saw how excited his sons became at the sight of it. He confessed that he had a fondness for playing soccer and would participate in the sport when he had time.
There was a second game, called the “hat game,” that we sometimes enjoyed with my father. I’d bounce with glee when my father would instruct my oldest brother to go outside and mark the ground for the hat game. My brother would mark a line in an area of the yard where the sand was intentionally compacted to be nearly as hard as concrete.
My father would follow and place a man’s hat on the line. Then he would go to the opposite side of the line and stand there, looking serious as he sized up his competition, his young sons.
My brothers and I would gather and stand in a row on the opposite side of the line, equally serious. The point of the game was to defeat your opponent in retrieving the hat, then run safely back to the starting line. Each person competed separately. At the countdown, the first boy in line would dash to grab the hat.
My father, watching from the other side, would wait until his opponent moved to race to the hat, pick it up, and return to the finish line. My father’s goal was to catch the boy before he touched the finish line. My father had impossibly long legs, and was trim and fit, but his young sons could run as fast as the wind. Despite our ability to move quickly, my father was always the winner, because my brothers and I made it sure of it.
In my culture, we take care never to defeat someone who is older, and certainly never enjoy a victory against our fathers. Therefore, out of respect, my brothers and I always slowed our pace to make certain our father could catch us before we returned safely to the line.
For me, there was a sting attached to the game; I didn’t think it was fair to pretend, to let someone win. Without confiding in my brothers, one day I decided that I was going to defeat my father by grabbing that hat and making undue haste back to the base. I would not let him catch me.
The next time we played the game, I knew that I would win. Until my turn came, the races went as usual, with my brothers allowing our father to catch them. But I roared off, fast and nippy, making it quickly to the hat, turning to race back to the base line. My father was shocked when he realized I was running too fast for him to catch me. He sailed through the air and I felt his hands as they made contact with my feet. But I slipped away with a few clever twists. I heard my brothers cry out when our father landed on the compacted dirt on his elbows.
Taking the full impact of his dive, he damaged his elbows and dislocated his right shoulder. The expression on my father’s face told me that he was in genuine pain. I hung back, shocked and dazed that I had caused the disaster. I was frightened to watch as my father was loaded into a car to be taken to the hospital in Jeddah.
Even after the initial medical treatment, we were told that my father would have to endure cortisone injections and physiotherapy for the next six months. The painful injury was serious and meant that he could not even travel to Pakistan, to return to his important work for Islam.
My brothers were annoyed with me, for they had grown to dislike my father’s presence in Jeddah. They wanted him to return to Pakistan, for they said he was too strict when he was around us.
You might have guessed by now that my father was not an affectionate man. He never cuddled me or my brothers. I tried to force him to show affection, and was told that I made a pest of myself. When he was home, I remained near, pulling attention-gaining pranks as frequently as I dared.
Nothing sparked his fatherly warmth. In fact, my annoying behavior encouraged him to start carrying his signature cane. As time passed, he began caning me and my brothers for the slightest infraction.
Thankfully, my father had a different attitude when it came to the females in our family. I never heard him shout at his mother, his sisters, my mother, or my sisters. I never saw him strike a woman.
He reserved all the harsh treatment for his sons.
Despite his cruelty, I loved my father so much that I could not restrain my joy each time he returned from a long trip. As a child, I had little understanding of the situation in Afghanistan, although I overheard men speak of their dislike for the Russians. Yet I didn’t hate the Russians because they occupied Afghanistan. I hated the Russians because they took my father away from me.
I remember one particular time when he had been away for longer than usual. I was desperate for his attention. He was sitting on the floor quietly studying intricate military maps. Hoping that he would not order me from the room, I watched him as he carefully laid his map flat on the floor, his earnest face puckered in thought, meticulously studying every hill and valley, mentally preparing for the next military campaign.
Unable to restrain myself a moment longer, I suddenly ran past him, laughing loudly, skipping, shifting my feet in various clever positions, striving to capture his attention. He waved me away, saying in a stern voice, “Omar, go out of the room.” I darted out the door and stared at him for a few moments; then, unable to hold back my childlike excitement, I burst back into the room, laughing and skipping, performing a few more tricks. After the fourth or fifth repetition of my bouncing appearance, my exasperated father looked at me. He studied my dancing figure for a minute, then ordered me in his quiet voice, “Omar, go and gather all your brothers. Bring them to me.”
I leapt with glee, believing that I had tempted my father away from his military work. Now I was certain that he would leave behind his worries to join his young sons in a game of ball. I smiled happily, running as fast as my short legs would take me. I was proud of myself, thinking that I was the only one with enough spark to remind him that he had young sons.
I gathered up each of my brothers, speaking rapidly in an excited voice, “Come! Father wants to see us all! Come!”
I failed to notice that my older brothers were not so eager to gain our father’s attention.
I was still anticipating something good even as my father ordered us to stand in a straight line. He stood calmly, watching as we obediently lined up, one hand clutching his wooden cane. I was grinning happily, certain that something very special was about to happen. I stood in restless anticipation, wondering what sort of new game he was about to teach us. Perhaps it was something he played with his soldiers, some of whom I had heard were very young men.
Shame, anguish, and terror surged throughout my body as he raised his cane and began to walk the human line, beating each of his sons in turn. A small lump ballooned in my throat.
My father never raised his soft voice as he repriman
ded my brothers, striking them with the cane as his words kept cadence, “You are older than your brother Omar. You are responsible for his bad behavior. I am unable to complete my work because of his badness.”
I was in excruciating anguish when he paused in front of me. I was very small at the time and to my childish eyes, he appeared taller than the trees. Despite the fact I had witnessed him beating my brothers, I could not believe that my father was going to strike me with that heavy cane.
But he did.
The indignity was unbearable, yet none of us cried out, knowing that such an emotional display would not have been manly. I waited until he turned his back to walk away before running in the opposite direction. I could not face my brothers, knowing that they were sure to blame me for bringing our father’s cane down on their backs and legs.
I sought solace in the stables, seeking out my favorite horse, a beautiful white Arabian mare called Baydah. She was about fourteen hands high, with a coal black tail and mane. I thought she was a queen, with her strong, proud stance. Baydah loved me, too, and could pick me out from a large crowd, galloping to me to pluck a juicy apple from my fingertips. I remained with Baydah for hours, so stricken that I could not think coherently. As the sun began to leave the sky, I forced myself to return home, for I was too frightened to cause a further ruckus. I slipped in without notice, wanting to avoid my brothers, who would surely blame me for their beatings. Once in bed the dam of sorrow burst with sudden and unexpected loud wails coming from deep within.
My cries were so loud that my worried mother came into the room and asked, “Who is that crying?”
Mortified, I buried my head in my pillow so that the sounds of my misery might be muffled.
Now that I am an adult, I believe that perhaps my father had too many children at too young an age. Or perhaps he was so immersed in his war work that our importance failed to register against such a massive cause as fighting the Russians.
During my childhood, I can recall one magical moment when my father held me in his arms. The charmed incident was connected to prayer time.
When Father was home, he commanded his sons to accompany him to the mosque. One day when we were at the farm, the sound of the muezzin’s call to the midday prayer rang out. My father in turn called out for us to join him. I was excited, looking upon prayer time as a wonderful excuse to be near my father. On that day I failed to slip on my sandals, which we always kept by the front door, a custom in our country.
At midday, the sands are blistering hot. Running about without sandals, the bare soles of my feet were soon burning. I began jumping about, crying out from the pain. My father stunned me when he leaned his tall figure low, and scooped me up in his arms.
My mouth went dry from disbelief. I couldn’t recall ever being held in my father’s arms. I was instantly happy, leaning in close. My father always used the marvelous incense called Aoud, which has a pleasing musklike scent.
I looked down at my brothers from my favored high perch and grinned, feeling jubilant, like the privileged dwarf atop the giant’s shoulders, seeing beyond what the giant could see.
I was only four or five years old at the time, but I was stocky. My father was tall and thin and, although fit, was not very muscular. Even before we reached the mosque door, I could sense that I had become a heavy burden. He began breathing heavily, and for that I was sorry. Yet I was so proud to be nestled in his capable arms that I clung tightly, wanting to remain in that secure spot forever. Too soon he deposited me on the ground and walked away, leaving me to scramble behind him. My short legs failed to match his impossibly long strides.
Soon my father appeared as elusive as a distant mirage.
Chapter 5
Marriage Surprises
NAJWA BIN LADEN
Around the time I became pregnant with my fifth child, Osama chose to raise an unexpected topic; he said he was thinking of taking a second wife. Although polygamy is a recognized practice in my culture, few women dance with joy when they contemplate sharing their husband with another woman.
Despite my unease at his suggestion, I understood that I was more fortunate than many. I had heard of Saudi husbands who marry other women without even discussing their plans with their current wife. So I felt relieved when Osama promised not to bring another woman into our lives unless I agreed with his decision.
I believed that Osama wanted to take a second wife in order to follow the actions of our Prophet. Our Prophet Mohammed was twenty-five years old when he married his first wife, Khadijah bint Khuwaylid. Khadijah was fifteen years older than her husband, yet the marriage lasted for twenty-five years, during which time the Prophet did not take another wife. Upon Khadijah’s death, Prophet Mohammed did marry other women, although a number of his wives were older women whose husbands had died on the battlefield and needed the protection gained through marriage. Scholars believe that Prophet Mohammed married between twelve and thirteen women over the course of his lifetime.
The reference for the number of legitimate wives is clear in our holy book, the Koran, in Sura 4:3:
If ye fear that ye cannot act with equity towards orphans, take in marriage of such women as please you two or three or four. But if ye fear that ye cannot act equitably (towards so many), marry one only, or the slaves which ye shall have acquired.
Based on this verse, it is the opinion of Islamic scholars that a believer may marry four wives, but no more. However, a man may not marry more than one wife if he cannot treat all equally, which is the tricky part.
Despite my strong religious beliefs, and my complete faith in God, I am still a woman, and I was wavering over Osama’s plan to bring another female into our lives. In my culture, wives of the same man are expected to become friends, and their children are expected to play with one another.
My husband calmed me by telling me again and again that if I did not approve, he would not take other wives. His heart could not bear to hurt my heart about such a matter. My husband said that he would leave one of the most important personal decisions of his life entirely up to me.
I knew that few wives in Saudi Arabia would receive such respect and consideration. So I allowed the idea to burrow in my mind.
For some months the subject of Osama marrying another woman remained a big topic of discussion between us. One evening, my husband revealed his deepest thoughts, confessing that his aim was purely to have many children for Islam. Hearing his words, I suddenly found myself becoming more relaxed about the idea. My husband was not seeking a second wife out of unhappiness with me, but for the greater good of Islam.
At the end of that exchange, Osama realized that I was seeing the wisdom of his taking other wives. He gently reminded me of a very significant truth. “Najwa, if you are contented in your heart for me to take a second wife, you will gain in heaven. It is certain that your life will end in paradise.”
My heart finally became tranquil, feeling for certain that my understanding attitude would intensify righteousness in my own life. That is when Osama felt comfortable enough to set about taking a second wife. I did not ask, nor receive, permission to have a voice in the actual selection of Osama’s second wife.
And so it came to pass that Osama married again. I did not attend the wedding, but the ceremony was conducted as our faith demands. His second wife was a Saudi woman with the first name of Khadijah, the same name as the first wife of our Prophet. I was told that Khadijah was of the highly respected Sharif family, descendants of Prophet Mohammed. She was a few years older than Osama, well educated, and a teacher of girls at a school in Jeddah.
Anytime a Muslim follows Prophet Mohammed’s actions, it is a good thing. Therefore, I was gracious as I welcomed Khadijah into our large home where she was assigned her own roomy apartment, although to be honest I will say that it took some time before I easily accepted that now I would share my husband equally with another woman.
From that day forward, Osama said that he must obey the teachings of Islam regarding multiple w
ives. Khadijah and I would be treated the same. This meant that everything of my husband would be shared equally—his thoughts, his time, and even gift giving.
As exacting as he was about every Islamic requirement, I knew that Osama would alternate evenings between our home and the home of his new wife. And as a good Muslim wife, I knew I must accept the situation with a clean feeling and a good heart. Otherwise, I would not be rewarded in heaven.
Yet I was not prepared for the quiet atmosphere in our home on the nights Osama did not make an appearance. As a woman who rarely stepped outside the walls of my home, I missed my husband and the excitement his arrival brought. Striving to be a good Muslim, I fought my feelings of emptiness, for I knew that what my husband was doing was sanctioned by Islam.
My children were instructed to honor and respect my husband’s second wife, and I taught them to call her “Khalti” or “auntie mother’s side.”
Everything came together in a smooth manner, and soon Osama’s second wife and I were enjoying routine visits where we would share books, or read together, or even take some of our meals together. I benefited from Khadijah’s company and looked forward to our hours together. Over time we became friends.
Not long afterwards, I gave birth to my fifth son, Osman. I was so contented to look upon his sweet face that for the first time I did not mourn my failure to have a daughter.
One year after their marriage, Khadijah bore her first child, a little boy named Ali. Therefore, from the day of Ali’s birth Khadijah was called by the honorable title Um Ali, which means mother of Ali. Likewise, I had been called Um Abdullah from the first moment my son was born. Those familiar with my husband called him Abu Abdullah, for a man is also titled by his first son’s name.
From that time, Khadijah and I had our children in common. My youngest sons became Ali’s playmates.
Not so long after Ali’s birth, Osama arranged to take his family to Pakistan for the first time. Several years had passed since Osama had first promised to arrange a home for us in Peshawar, but pregnancies and his second marriage had delayed our journey.
