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

by Jean Sasson

  But during this life on earth, good news often follows bad. Within a few hours, the silence was disrupted when my father’s portable two-way radio receiver blared with an alert from our security men who were watching the mountain pass. “A vehicle has arrived carrying three men. They are wearing the costume of the Taliban. What shall we do?”

  The Taliban were distinctive in a country where it paid to know the tribe or the faction of the man facing you. While al-Qaeda are conservative Sunni Muslims, the Taliban are even more strict: They did not allow music or singing, kite flying, keeping pigeons, television, movies, or education for women. Shaving was banned, and all adult men were ordered to wear a beard that protruded further than a fist could grasp from the base of the chin.

  Their vehicles were usually black in color, with tinted windows.

  The al-Qaeda group, started by my father, followed the beliefs of the Wahhabi sect of Sunni Muslims. Although the Wahhabi are also extremely conservative, with the Islamic faith ruling every facet of their lives, they differ in various ways from the Taliban. The Wahhabi will destroy the graves of holy men, as they accept as true that believers should honor only God rather than mourn the dead, while the Taliban will not. The al-Qaeda Muslims do not believe in dreams, whereas the Taliban often base their decisions on them.

  My father did not hesitate, ordering, “Let them pass. Welcome them. Bring them to me.”

  Very soon my father’s security detail escorted the men to us. They were dressed in the distinctive Taliban way, with turbans on their heads, two twined together, with one end hanging loose over their shoulders. Their Pashtun traditional clothing consisted of long-sleeved shirts made of heavy cotton coming nearly to their knees but belted at the waist. Dark-colored waistcoats topped their shirts and loose-fitting trousers and boots popular in the area which were constructed of yak hide completed their attire.

  By the second month of our arrival in Afghanistan, my father and I had discarded our traditional Saudi thobes and adopted the Pashtun dress, because the traditional clothing was well suited for the terrain and my father said that our life would be easier if we did not stand out in a crowd. We rarely wore the Taliban turban because it took a lot of skill to learn to wind that long band of fabric, but we sometimes topped our heads with the small rounded cap common to the Pashtun.

  The head messenger approached my father, who held out his hand in welcome.

  The Taliban representative went straight to the point. “Mullah Mohammed Omar has sent us to you. He says to tell you that he has heard of the death of Mullah Nourallah. Now Mullah Mohammed Omar welcomes you and wants you to know that you and your entourage are under the protection of the Taliban. This is a special invitation for you to visit Mullah Mohammed Omar at his home in Kabul anytime.”

  My father smiled the smile of the saved. Tea was served and the men made small talk about the various hot spots in the country and what might happen in the future, for the Taliban had nearly won most of Afghanistan.

  After their brief visit, the messengers left with these words from my father: “Tell Mullah Mohammed Omar that I am very pleased and thankful for his welcome. I would like to visit soon, but first I must settle my family, who will soon be coming from Sudan.”

  When our visitors had departed the mountain, my father’s mood lifted to pure ecstasy, his expression so joyful I thought he might embrace everyone on the mountain. He did not, saying merely, “Omar, this message was sent by God. This welcome from Mullah Omar is the answer to all my problems in this time of dire circumstances.”

  My father had never met Mullah Omar, although he followed the Taliban’s progress very carefully. “Soon,” he said, “you will see, Omar. The Taliban will soon rule the entire country. It is good for us to have this invitation from their leader.”

  From that day on, my father visibly relaxed and for the first time in my memory, he rarely raised his voice to anyone, even those who accidentally displeased him. He was calm, knowing that he could bring his family to Afghanistan and would be free from assault by the Taliban. Within the hour my father had issued orders that we would leave for Jalalabad as quickly as possible. There was much to do to bring our family from Sudan.

  Despite my father’s inner relief, the return trip was hushed and gloomy, for our thoughts turned to Mullah Nourallah and the fact we would never see his merry face again. We had never been to Jalalabad without his welcome. All who knew Mullah Nourallah loved him. He was always so affable and accommodating. Although we mourned his passing, we knew that he was celebrating in paradise. Despite our happiness at that thought, it did not mean we would not miss him on earth. He had been one of the kindest men in all of Afghanistan, sensitive to those around him, even to someone as unimportant as a young boy. I would never forget that after a few visits to Tora Bora, he had arrived with a brown and white puppy under his arm, telling my father that a mountaintop was a lonely place for a young boy. He said, “Osama, this puppy is for Omar.”

  My father did not protest, although after our puppy experiences in Khartoum, I was certain that he was not overjoyed. But that puppy, whom I named Bobby in honor of my previous dog in Khartoum, was a good companion. Through many lonely hours Bobby snuggled by my side, sharing my lonely place in the world.

  I didn’t disclose my sad thoughts to my father because I feared his accusation that my sorrow meant I questioned God’s decision, but even the idea of a party in paradise failed to wipe out the horrible image of a bloodied and dying Mullah Nourallah.

  Perhaps to take my mind off Mullah Nourallah, my father began speaking about his mission in life. “Omar, I know you often wonder why I do the things I do. When you grow older, you will understand. But for now, Omar, just remember this: I was put on this earth by God for a specific reason. My only reason for living is to fight the Jihad and to make sure there is justice for Muslims.” He had a stern look when he said, “Muslims are the mistreated of the world. It is my mission to make certain that other nations take Islam seriously.”

  He took my silence as indicating interest and agreement, I suppose, for he launched into one of his speeches about the evil policies of America. “The American president sees himself as the king of the world, my son. The American government and people follow their king to invade Muslim countries even when the rest of the world says no. Kuwait was none of their business. The Iraqi invasion of Kuwait was a Middle Eastern problem, ours to solve. The Americans want the oil, of course, but another goal is to enslave Muslims. Americans hate Muslims because they love the Jews. In reality, America and Israel are one country, not two.”

  That’s when I remembered that my father’s men sometimes lightly grumbled behind his back that he ignored the dangers of Israel. The fighters hated Israel more than they hated America. They longed to attack Israel and speculated as to why such an order was never given. Yet none was brave enough to pose the question to my father’s face.

  My tongue moved before my mind could stop it. “My father, why don’t you attack Israel rather than America?”

  My father looked at me without responding.

  I then repeated what I had heard the men say, “Israel is a small country near to us. America is a huge country far away from our shores.”

  My father paused before explaining it this way. “Omar, try to imagine a two-wheeled bicycle. One wheel is made of steel. The other wheel is made of wood. Now, my son, if you wanted to destroy the bicycle, would you destroy the wooden wheel or the steel wheel?”

  “The wooden wheel, of course,” I replied.

  “You are correct, my son. Remember this: America and Israel are one bicycle with two wheels. The wooden wheel represents the United States. The steel wheel represents Israel. Omar, Israel is the stronger power of the two. Does a general attack the strongest line when in battle? No, he concentrates on the weakest part of the line. The Americans are weak. It is best to attack the weakest point first. Once we take out the weak wooden wheel, the steel wheel will automatically fail. Who can ride a bicycle with
only one wheel?”

  He patted my knee with his hand. “First we obliterate America. By that I don’t mean militarily. We can destroy America from within by making it economically weak, until its markets collapse. When that happens, they will have no interest in supplying Israel with arms, for they will not have extra funds to do so. At that time, the steel wheel will corrode and be destroyed by lack of attention.

  “That’s what we did with Russia. We bled the blood from their body in Afghanistan. Those Russians spent all of their wealth on the war in Afghanistan. When they could no longer finance the war, they fled. After fleeing, their whole system collapsed. Holy warriors defending Afghanistan are the ones responsible for bringing a huge nation to its knees. We can do the same thing with America and Israel. We only have to be patient. Their defeat and collapse may not come in my lifetime. It may not come in your lifetime, but it will come. One day Muslims will rule the world.” He paused. “That is God’s plan, Omar, for Muslims to rule.”

  I sat mute, feeling not one jolt of passion for my father’s life. I only wanted him to be like other fathers, concerned with his work and his family. I didn’t dare tell him my view, that I would never understand why his mission to change the world was more vital than his duty as a husband and father.

  When I sat staring without expressing excitement for his ideas, my father glanced at me in disappointment. He was accustomed to the passion of his warriors, men who hung on his every word, men who slept, ate, and drank only for the destruction of others.

  That same passion did not exist in my heart.

  My father and I rode the rest of the stony highway in cold silence.

  My father returned to Jalalabad with big plans. Now that he had the blessing of Mullah Omar, he would send for all of his former soldiers. Some of the men had been with him in Sudan and their return would be easy. In fact, they would arrive on the same plane with my mother and siblings.

  Although governments in the area did not welcome my father living in their lands, because his passion to fight the non-Islamic world brought unwelcome attention from the strong western leaders, ordinary people all over the Muslim world continued to celebrate my father as a great war hero. While Muslim governments distrusted, even hated him, their citizens loved him. In fact, as soon as the news spread that Osama bin Laden was setting up new training camps for Muslim warriors, there were many eager recruits, all rushing to join the Jihad. With new recruits following the old, I was a witness to the making of a new army of eager Mujahideen.

  Before long, my father would have more men than ever bowing to his ideas, willing to die for his cause. As they arrived in Afghanistan, I met many of those soldiers, because I was ordered to be at my father’s side. I discovered that the mature soldiers who had fought with my father against the Russians were for the most part very good men. They had given up their personal dreams in order to free a Muslim country from the grip of a world power. Their purpose had never been to kill innocent civilians. But I noticed that while they seemed to enjoy the camaraderie of former soldier friends, they no longer seemed to have a fire in their belly for fighting.

  The younger soldiers were distinctly different, their eagerness to kill and be killed so acute they swaggered with determination through the camps, warriors in the making. But when one looked closer, the quality of their characters appeared questionable. Many seemed to be running away from problems in their home countries. Some had fled to avoid being punished for violent crimes; for example, one of the younger soldiers bragged about slitting his own brother’s throat when he discovered that brother having premarital sex. Others had lived in such severe poverty that they had only eaten meat a few times in their lives. Most could not afford to marry. Since Middle Eastern society promotes young marriage and many children, these men felt themselves failures at the achievements their culture held dear. Many were so miserable they felt they were living in hell on earth, and were easily swayed by the Jihadi message to seek death so that they might soon be transported into paradise.

  I felt sorry for those young men. I knew they believed death to be a great reward, yet I never felt the urge to die; in fact, I did everything I could to stay alive. Though my own life was unhappy, I wanted to live and to pursue God’s blessing of life on earth.

  One day, while sitting on the edge of the ledge of Tora Bora Mountain and feeling particularly dismayed by my situation, my spirits were instantly lifted when my father announced that my mother and siblings were leaving Khartoum the following morning.

  I jumped to my feet, knowing that soon I would see my mother’s sweet face.

  He said, “I will stay here in Tora Bora. They will be taken to the palace in Jalalabad. The following morning after their safe arrival, you will go there and stay for a few days before arranging transportation with my men to bring them all here.”

  So, he was set on his plan of making the women and children live the mountain life. Although concerned about what my mother’s daily existence was about to become, I was still excited because I had not seen my dear mother in nearly four months. I wanted to shout with glee across the mountain range, but I muffled my excitement because my father did not approve of emotional displays.

  Two days later when Shear drove me away from our bin Laden Mountain, I turned back to see my father staring at my departure. Set against the backdrop of those bleak stone mountains, he appeared an aging, lonely figure. For the first time in my life I realized that he was of the past, and I was of the future. I felt myself a man.

  Chapter 17

  A Far, Far Country

  NAJWA BIN LADEN

  In Khartoum we waited in uneasy suspense for four long months, left on our own to wonder what was going to happen to us. Perhaps I was melancholy because soon after Osama had left me I had discovered that I was pregnant for the tenth time. My husband did not even know. We had not spoken since he left. And, without Osama around, I was unable to leave the interior of my home even once during those four months. Our family driver organized provisions for the women and children.

  My husband had taken long absences all through our married life, yet this time was different. I felt a slight shift, as though as I was being forewarned, something comparable to the alarm raised by frantic animals as a speeding tsunami moves quietly under the tranquil sea. My instinct warned me that our lives were changing, and not for the good. Even my smallest children, Iman and Ladin, became sad and listless.

  Omar had never been away before, and over the years he had become the son I most depended upon. Although younger than three of his brothers, Omar was my most sensitive and mature boy. My two oldest sons still with me in Khartoum, Abdul Rahman and Sa’ad, seemed to miss him more than the other children, perhaps because they spent the most time with their brother. Abdul Rahman was generally a quiet boy, rarely creating a disturbance, while Sa’ad couldn’t stop chattering. Since Omar had been away, I realized for the first time that Omar was a calming influence on his siblings.

  I thought of my husband and Omar every day they were away. I tried to be patient, but after they had been out of my sight for nearly 120 days, I began to despair of ever seeing them again. Then one happy day my husband’s faithful employees suddenly informed us that on the following morning we would all be leaving Khartoum to join Osama and Omar. I was not told where we were going and I did not ask. I was most surprised when I learned that my husband had ordered that we were to leave all personal items behind. We were instructed that we could only bring two changes of clothing for each person. We were not to take any household items. I was not even to take a sewing needle! I could only assume that our belongings would follow us later. My husband always organized everything just so.

  There were other considerations more worthy of my worry: How would the move affect my children? My thoughts also drifted to Omar and his love for the horses. Once again his father’s beloved horses were to be abandoned to an unknown fate. Since Osama’s departure, some of my husband’s men had taken Abdul Rahman, Sa’ad, Osman,
and Mohammed to the stables, so the horses were still fit. But what would happen to those beautiful horses once my sons were unable to supervise their care? I did not know. Realizing how such news would afflict Omar, I felt sad for his sadness. I had many other questions but they remained private to me, tucked away in my heart.

  The departure on the following morning was not as complicated as the time we moved out of Saudi Arabia because we had no personal items to pack. We walked away as if we were a family going on holiday, soon to return.

  My husband’s workers arrived at al-Riyadh Village in a convoy of minibuses and automobiles. We were led to our assigned vehicles to be driven to the airport. I looked back only once as al-Riyadh Village disappeared from view. Another chapter of our lives was closed.

  A large plane had been chartered for our private use. Osama’s family was not traveling alone, for his men and their families were going, too.

  My husband’s wives and children had been assigned seats at the front of the plane. Every other seat was filled with Osama’s men and their families. Without speaking to anyone, I settled in with my children. My sister wives and their children sat nearby, close enough to converse, although none felt stirred to idle chatter.

  With Abdullah in Saudi Arabia, and Omar with his father, I left Khartoum with only seven children. Khairiah and eight-year-old Hamza were on the plane with us, as were Siham and her four children. In total, there were fourteen members of Osama’s family on the flight, four fewer than had first flown into the country from Saudi Arabia. My mind was calmer than you might think, for when one has no control, it does no good to fret, although I did pray for peace to envelop the entire world and for my little family to be settled nicely. I held that thought close to my heart.

  Ours was a mystery flight, as no one on board had been given any indication of where the journey would conclude. From what we women were told, not even the men knew if we were returning to Saudi Arabia, or perhaps moving to Yemen or Pakistan.