Growing Up Bin Laden: Osama's Wife and Son Take Us Inside Their Secret World

by Jean Sasson

  Two of the six assassins were killed in the gun battle. The subsequent investigation took some time, but eventually the investigators traced the assassins directly to the door of Omar Abdel Rahman’s al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya group, the same men who were now living in Sudan and closely associated with my father’s al-Qaeda group. This group had been working to overthrow the Egyptian government for years. They were even responsible for the assassination of Egyptian President Sadat in 1981. In fact, Showqi Islambouli, who was one of the assassins in the Mubarak hit team, was also the brother of Khalid Islambouli, the man who murdered Sadat. Khalid was later tried and executed by firing squad. Showqi, on the other hand, was not captured.

  After this assassination attempt, nearly every government in the area joined in the chorus to “do something about Osama bin Laden.” Although it took a year, the pressure mounted until the Sudanese government was standing alone against all its neighbors.

  We felt the pressure ourselves, although we were not privy to every detail. For some months before the end of our time in Sudan, our father was noticeably subdued. While he didn’t speak to his sons about his troubles, we witnessed grim-faced Sudanese government officials coming and going. It didn’t take a genius to realize that something big was afoot.

  My brothers and I concluded that we would probably be leaving Sudan. A few months previously, our father had startled his older sons by presenting legal documents stating that Abdullah, Abdul Rahman, and Sa’ad would be his signatories, or the sons given the authority to act on his behalf should he be incapacitated.

  I was furious not to be included, asking my father, “Why am I not a signatory?” He gave me a hard look but didn’t answer. So there was something else to stew about.

  The end came on a miserable late spring day in 1996 when we were all sitting dejectedly in our mother’s apartment. I remember that day as being particularly boring. I felt the prison chains wrapped so tightly that taking an easy breath was difficult. I was becoming increasingly angry about every facet of my life. Our security guards had turned into hawks, their big eyes following our every move as though we were small birds to be devoured. During such times I felt our lives would have been less miserable had we never tasted liberty. I can vouch for the fact that freedom lost is acutely missed.

  We were sitting there simmering with despair when our father came in. His face was so glum that for the first time in my life I felt sorry for him. He motioned for us to make a space for him to sit between us. There we sat with our eyes on the floor, for it is a sign of respect in my culture not to stare directly into an elder’s eyes.

  He hesitated, then said in his soft voice, “I have something to tell you. I am going away tomorrow.” I glanced up temporarily, to see him looking in my direction. I quickly averted my eyes. He announced, “I am taking my son Omar with me.”

  All of us looked at him in bewildered shock, the same questions racing through our minds: Going away? Where? Why? Taking Omar?

  My brothers protested, “But why is Omar going? Why can’t we go?”

  Unaccustomed to his decisions being questioned, I braced myself for parental violence, but he did not raise his cane for once. Stern and unapproachable, he curtly replied, “You know not to question me.”

  Truly I did not know what to think, although the restrictions had raised my boredom to such a level that I had little concern about my father was taking me. The trip was the thing, not the destination.

  My brothers remained silent as he issued instructions. “Omar, do not pack. Do not take a toothbrush. Do not pack a comb. Only you are going.” He stood and turned away, motioning for our mother to follow him into her bedroom.

  Mouth dry and head spinning, I sat like one paralyzed. I had been chosen! I was going away with my father!

  My brothers glared at me without speaking, but I ignored their surly expressions.

  I prepared my bedding and tried to rest. Who knew how we might travel? Knowing my father, we might leave Khartoum on horseback! Sleep eluded me as I speculated as to what the morning would bring. Where was I going? Would we return to Khartoum? If I could not remain in Khartoum, I wished to return to Jeddah, to a time when my father was a hero in the eyes of the world. Perhaps my father and the royal family had put their disagreements aside. Yes. Jeddah would be nice. Besides, our extended families were there, and despite my unhappiness as a schoolboy, there was a unbreakable link between our family and Saudi Arabia.

  I quickly put that thought behind me, for I was not stupid and I had not missed the increased tension between my father and the Saudi royal family. Revisiting our past would not be possible as my father was convinced that he would be imprisoned in the land of our birth.

  I considered other places my father might select as our new home. Were we going to move to Yemen? I knew that my father had many contacts there and it was the ancestral home of both my maternal and paternal families. I had never been to Yemen so I wouldn’t mind seeing it. Or perhaps we were returning to Pakistan? My father had built up a huge network of associates in that country, and knew that Peshawar had become an exotic refuge for many disgruntled Muslim fighters. I was not keen to live in Pakistan, as I remembered too well the poverty and the isolation I had experienced there. Other than Pakistan and Yemen, I could not imagine where we might settle.

  After sunrise prayers, I was mentally ready to leave Sudan, although I suffered intermittent twinges of regret about what I was leaving. What would happen to our horses? Would they be abandoned, like so many of our horses in Saudi Arabia? How long would it be before I could see my mother? We had never been apart for any length of time. I loved my mother more than anyone in my life. My stomach churned at the thought of missing her daily presence, her calm demeanor, which brought peace to our entire family. When I said goodbye, I lifted her small hand into mine and affectionately brushed it with a kiss.

  Her pretty face broke into a slow, sweet smile. “Take care, Omar. Go with God.” I took one last long look at my mother before turning to my siblings, who were standing nearby. In a rush to leave, I muttered a hasty farewell to each.

  Chapter 14

  Journey into the Unknown

  OMAR BIN LADEN

  Not knowing where I was going or how long I would be away, I followed my father’s every move. We were both carrying the customary Kalashnikov weapons across our shoulders, even though we were encircled by heavy security, with guards standing shoulder-to-shoulder until we were safely inside an SUV with blackened windows. When everyone was seated in their assigned vehicle, all the vehicles in the motorcade advanced at the same time. Picking up speed, the motorized procession sped from al-Riyadh Village with such haste that it was a miracle the lead vehicles didn’t strike down Sudanese workers unwittingly crossing the narrow roads.

  My father was deep in thought, and exchanged no words with me on the short drive to the airport. Once there, we were whisked to a chartered Learjet. My father and his party were treated as dignitaries, with no need for the formalities of passports and customs. Besides my father and me, there were only eight other male passengers making the trip, seven of whom worked for my father, staunch comrades during my father’s hour of need. Some of the men I saw often around my father’s guest house. Brother Sayf Adel, my father’s security chief, and Mohammed Atef, my father’s best friend and top commander, were traveling with us. An unexpected passenger was a Sudanese dignitary, a man my father called Mohammed Ibrahim.

  I regarded myself as my father’s guard, although in reality I was only a boy of fifteen, still small and so physically underdeveloped that a single whisker had not yet emerged on my smooth face. Yet despite my youth, I would have died to protect the man whose love I had sought since I was a toddler. I felt my position of favored son keenly as I stood aside in respect, inspecting our immediate area while my father climbed the five steps before entering what I hoped was safety inside the aeroplane interior.

  I followed, pausing for a moment at the door to take in my surroundings. Everythin
g in the aeroplane smelled like new leather. By chartering such an expensive plane, someone in the Sudanese government had made a great effort to demonstrate respect for my father. My father chose a seat on the first aisle at the front of the plane, keeping his weapon on his lap. Brother Sayf Adel sat nearest to my father, while I settled in the window seat behind him. Mohammed Atef and another of my father’s trusted friends slumped in nearby seats. A third man I knew as Hatim sat nearby, his hands clutching a map and a compass. The other four men chosen to accompany us sauntered to the back of the plane.

  My mind was racing, speculating as to where we might be going. Not wanting for those aboard to know that I was not privy to any information, I kept silent. My face was impassive, even as my excitement was building. We were definitely beginning an adventure.

  Remembering the brothers I had left behind, I suddenly understood why my father had not named me a legal signatory. My father was not certain that either of us would survive the day’s travel! If a tragedy occurred, my brothers would assume responsibility for his vast network of businesses.

  Were we headed for trouble, even death? Death at the age of fifteen was a disturbing thought, despite the fact we Muslims are taught from our youth that to leave earthly life is only the first step to paradise if one is a true believer.

  But I was not keen to go to paradise just yet. Remembering the armed men who had tried to assassinate my father, I wondered if another hit team might be surrounding the plane even as we sat on the tarmac. I could not breathe easily until the pilot pulled the plane off the runway and into the sky. I raised my head and peered at what I was leaving. A temporary sadness settled as I silently muttered to myself, “Farewell Khartoum . . . Farewell.”

  The hectic African city soon disappeared from the porthole view and I saw nothing more of a city I had grown to love. One bitter thought swirled in my head: The life I had known for the past five years was swept away as suddenly as in the tide that rushes over the beach, washing away those unique years of my youth. For the first time I had tasted something akin to true happiness. But something told me that Omar bin Laden would never again know such carefree joy.

  I sighed deeply, rubbing my chin with my hand, wishing I could instantly sprout a full-grown beard. If that were the case, I would be considered a grown man able to make my own choices, as had my older brother Abdullah. I knew that given the option, I would run away from the madness of bin Laden family life. But along with my mother and younger siblings, I had no choice but to follow my father, wherever his actions might lead.

  The tension on the plane heightened with every minute. Being young, I yearned to ask what was going to happen, but my father’s contagious silence spread to everyone on board. I did not dare to speak.

  My father had never been open about his inner thoughts, even with members of his own family, yet I knew that his mood was unusually solemn, perhaps even angry. He had never believed he would be kicked out of Sudan, but it had happened.

  There was a slight rustle of papers as Hatim folded and unfolded his regional map. In a flurry of hand and eye motions, he would look intently at the compass, then back at the map, and hastily make notes in the margins. Hatim was grimly meticulous in letting us know that he did not trust the loyalty of the two pilots—which must mean that my father suspected some sort of trickery from the Sudanese government.

  My father was stunned when his formerly welcoming hosts had capitulated to the demands of the Saudis, the Egyptians, and the Americans. Once he realized that he had no choice, his focus quickly altered to where he might move his operations and what funds and goods he would be allowed to take with him.

  Now those questions plagued me, too. Where would we go? Would we lose all our possessions? Remembering that I had been ordered to leave Khartoum without a toothbrush in my hand, I began to suspect that all was lost. I had not even been able to slip my bulky inhaler and asthma medications onto the plane. I hoped I could find an inhaler and some Ventolin when we arrived at our destination.

  But first we faced far more urgent questions than the fate of our possessions: Had the Sudanese officials sold my father out? Had the pilots been ordered to transport us to Riyadh, or even to America, to face arrest and imprisonment? Or was someone planning to shoot our plane out of the sky?

  Seeking reassurance, I shifted my position to look around the plane. My father revealed little, but the Sudanese diplomat, Ibrahim, was a soothing presence. His behavior was solicitous, even subservient, with no hint of concern that plans were in the works to shoot us down. Surely he would have refused to accompany us if he suspected treachery. His attendance on the flight was a good sign, I decided.

  Hatim muttered quietly to my father that we had passed over the Red Sea, that watery connection between Africans and Arabs. Safe, thus far! While the good news was that no fighter planes had intercepted our journey, the bad news was that we had entered Saudi airspace. At that point my father spoke loudly enough for everyone on the plane to hear: “Let there be no more talk! Pray to God in silence until we leave Saudi airspace.”

  Apprehension mounted, with every man becoming stiff in his seat. Some prayed silently, while others stared fixedly out the porthole windows. I glanced once more at my father, and saw that he was quietly praying, putting everything in God’s hands.

  I prayed, too, although my thoughts continued to race. Being told that we were in Saudi airspace settled one question. We were not going to Yemen, which was south of Saudi Arabia. If that were our objective, we would have no cause to enter Saudi airspace, but would make the flight entirely over the Red Sea.

  My next thought was of Pakistan, which would require us to cross the entire width of Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Afghanistan. Since Saudi Arabia is a huge country of empty sands, one-third of the size of the United States, all the passengers remained in a state of high anxiety for a very long time.

  After praying for a long time, my father finally asked Hatim, “Do you know where we are going?”

  Hatim shook his head. “No.”

  My heart skipped several beats. Did Hatim really not know our destination? Or was my father asking because he did not know? This was not good. I wanted to blurt out my questions, but forced myself to remain silent.

  I glanced at Mohammed Atef (called Abu Hafs by those who knew him best), finding his face free of worry. My father confided completely in Abu Hafs, who must surely be privy to our destination.

  My father’s security chief, Sayf Adel, seemed tense, occasionally slipping from his seat to step into the cabin to confer with the pilots. I attempted to see the pilots, but caught only a glimpse. One of the two was an olive-skinned man with dark hair. His coloring made me assume that he was an Arab, but I was not certain.

  Hatim continued studying his map and compass. The minutes seemed like hours until he finally announced, “We are out of Saudi Arabia.”

  My father took one long breath before turning around to address me directly. “My son, I was praying that the Saudis did not know I was on this plane. Had they known I was crossing their territory, they would have ordered their jets to shoot us down. They probably thought a Sudanese diplomat was on board.”

  Happy shocks went through my body. Perhaps the most dangerous moments had passed and this day would end safely after all.

  The moment we left Saudi Arabia, we passed another body of water, the Arabian Gulf, or the Persian Gulf, named according to whether you are from Saudi Arabia or Iran. I was surprised that our plane began a descent into Shiraz, Iran, for I had never considered Iran as a possible new home. But I soon learned that we were only refueling and our stopover would be brief. As our wheels touched the tarmac, my father instructed, “Omar, the Iranians do not know there are bin Ladens on this plane. Do not speak a word.”

  Sure enough, Iranian officials came dashing towards the plane, demanding to climb on board. Our escort, Ibrahim, jumped to his feet and rushed down the steps, meeting the men, blocking their way inside. I could see one of the officials stretching
his neck, peering around Ibrahim, who was talking in his silky manner. The pilots never stepped out of their compartment.

  My father’s shoulders stiffened. I peered over the seat to see that he had his weapon ready to fire. Sayf Adel and Abu Hafs were both similarly prepared. I looked toward the back of the plane, seeing that all my father’s men were tensed for battle. If those officials came on board, none would hesitate to kill anyone they felt a threat to our journey. I even eased my own weapon in a better position, telling myself there was a possibility of a shootout.

  Thankfully there was no need for gunfire, for Ibrahim convinced the Iranian officials that we were merely important businessmen passing through their country. Since we were not going to place our feet on Iranian soil, he told them, a formal inspection was unnecessary. I’m sure Ibrahim pressed a large sum of money into the hands of those men, for soon I heard them chattering and laughing as though they had been friends since childhood.

  After there fueling, I was uneasy to learn that Ibrahim would not be continuing on our journey. Although he exchanged no words with me, he and my father said a long farewell and off he went, just as our pilots revved the engines. My father told me that Ibrahim would board a commercial flight back to Khartoum.

  I kept my silence, as always.

  We were back in the air so soon that not a single member of our travel party had a chance even to stand and stretch our legs. From Iran our plane continued on its mystery course.

  A range of mountains soon appeared through my porthole. My father addressed Hatim, a final time, “Do you know our destination now?”