by Jean Sasson
He crept up to see if he needed to use his gun.
But there was Mohammed, so bold that he loudly proclaimed, “I am here to claim my bride.”
Mohammed was braver than most young teenagers, for Abu Hafs was a huge man, a fearless warrior, and a father who took the honor of his family seriously.
Mohammed was lucky not to get a caning, but instead was invited into Abu Hafs’s home, where he would not stop talking, speaking strongly to convince his future father-in-law that the wedding should be held sooner rather than later.
Abu Hafs traveled back to our compound with Mohammed to meet with Osama. The two men were concerned that Mohammed had risked his life to make that midnight ride alone.
The two fathers finally relented, convinced that a great love existed between their children.
And so it came to be that the two men who had been close friends since the days of the Russian war planned a big wedding for their son and daughter. Our children were so happy that the event spiraled into a huge occasion, taking several months to plan. Even family members from Saudi Arabia were invited. It was decided that Mohammed’s wedding would be in the month of January 2001. Osama’s mother, her husband, and one of her sons would travel to Kandahar for the event.
January came quickly. My son Mohammed’s wedding was a big event with much gaiety and laughter. Never have I seen Osama so pleased, for he loved Abu Hafs as a brother, and their two children were linking our families forever.
As always, men and women celebrated separately. After the wedding, Mohammed and his bride settled near to me, where they gave every appearance of being the happiest of couples. I loved my son’s wife as I love my own daughters.
I was so glad to be back in Afghanistan with my children that I hardly ever gave Omar’s warning of impending doom a single thought.
Chapter 28
Return to Saudi Arabia
OMAR BIN LADEN
During the four months I spent in Syria in late 1999 and early 2000, I accomplished little, other than learning the art of waiting. I was determined to reclaim my rightful heritage as a Saudi citizen. I had never accepted the sham of my Sudanese citizenship. I was a Saudi Arabian, and that was that.
My efforts to keep my mother and youngest two siblings out of Afghanistan had failed. My mother could not keep herself away from her other children, or from the only life she had known since the day she married my father, twenty-six years before.
Once she left, I fell into a listless state, anxious that each day I would hear of a terrible calamity brought about by my father. Thankfully, the early months of 2000 passed quietly, with no news of any attacks coming out of Afghanistan. I was lulled into thinking that perhaps Abu Haadi had been mistaken, or perhaps my father had become more cautious, concerned that Mullah Omar would force him to leave Afghanistan immediately if there were any more missions against the United States or Saudi Arabia.
The great day arrived when I was told that my Saudi passport application had been approved. I was happier than I had been in years to learn that I had regained my birth name and real heritage, for I had never accepted my father’s decision to change my official records prior to our leaving Sudan. In fact, I smiled so widely that all my teeth were exposed. Fortunately there was no one around who objected or who took a count.
The force of the emotion I felt at being a Saudi Arabian once again was greater than I could have imagined. I quickly made plans to return to the land of my birth, to the land I loved.
Arriving in Jeddah was the best moment. I had not seen the city of my childhood for eight long years. I relished everything, the scenery, the smells, the people. I visited my father’s family, who had been instrumental in helping to make my dreams come true. Besides, who else could I turn to, if not my family?
There was so much I wanted to do, but my first trip was to the holy mosque in Mecca. I thanked God that I had not been tempted by my father’s path, that I had been successful in resisting a life of violence, even when I was young and malleable.
After that wonderful experience, I traveled back to Jeddah, enjoying every day as a step toward building my new life. I met many of my bin Laden relatives for the first time, for our father had intentionally kept his children on the perimeter of his father’s family.
One of those relatives was Randa Mohammed bin Ladin, my father’s half-sister and my dear auntie, who was a few years younger than my mother. Not holding my association with my father against me, Auntie Randa took me under her protective wing.
This auntie was one of the smartest ladies I’ve ever known, and had accomplished so much with her life. She was not only the first woman in Saudi Arabia to obtain a license to fly an aeroplane, but had gone on to become a medical doctor, taking care of family members when they were ill.
For some reason, my auntie took a great interest in my life. Although my bin Ladin relatives had given me a menial job, she said that in order to achieve any success, I must go back to school. She was so serious about it that she telephoned the Ministry of Education and arranged for me to go in for an interview. I told her that I would, although I was not certain that I could follow it through. School days triggered such terrible memories.
For years I had carried around a seething anger at the teachers at the Obaiy bin Kahab School in Jeddah, particularly one who was so cruel that he had no business working with young children. I decided to return to that school to confront the man. He had beaten me repeatedly, and I thought perhaps I might lure him from the school and cane him, to teach him what it felt like.
The humiliations there had been so great that when I walked up to the entrance of the school, I suffered a rush of dread throughout my body. Although I was nineteen years old and had finally grown to be a big, strong man, I felt as if I were a helpless child.
However, I would not let it stop me from telling that cruel teacher what I thought of him. To my disappointment, I soon learned that he had retired years before. No one would tell me where he lived; in fact, I could not locate any of the teachers who had mistreated my brothers and me. Realizing that revenge was going to be impossible, I stormed away.
That school made me think more seriously about the appointment my Auntie Randa had made. I had to admit that I was uneducated. My father had interrupted our formal schooling, except for religious instruction, when I was only twelve years old. While religious schooling was important, I knew that formal education would be a requirement for a good career in business. I had noticed that my bin Laden cousins were highly educated and knowledgeable of so many things of which I was unaware. It bothered me that I felt less prepared for life than my cousins.
I decided to follow my Auntie Randa’s recommendation.
On my way to the appointment at the Education Ministry, I became confused, because there were so many big buildings in the area, and I ended up in a building that housed several television companies. Unaware that I was in the wrong place, I walked around, checking the doors for the name of the education department.
A security officer became suspicious and asked to see my identification. Thinking nothing of it, I presented my ID. Well, the sight of my name caused the man to go into a frenzy. When I admitted that I was the son of Osama bin Laden, he arrested me!
I was taken to the Haras al-Watani, which is an office of the Saudi army, and put into a small room to be interrogated.
Two men arrived, with one talking over the other, asking why I was in the television offices, where I was going, and why I was going there. The security officer who had arrested me began lying, telling the army officer that he had realized I was up to no good when he saw me surveying the building in a very suspicious manner. I could see he was already imagining himself receiving an award for stopping a terrorist act!
That’s when everyone panicked. I was moved to a more secure place and locked in a cell. I waited there for six hours, not knowing what to do, while people kept wandering past to stare at me. Not wanting them to think of me as a troublemaker, I was too embarra
ssed to ask to call my family.
Finally a general arrived, and I was lucky that he was intelligent. He calmly asked me questions, and I told him the truth, which was simple. I had an appointment at the Education Ministry and had gotten lost. I had no idea I was in the wrong building, and was simply going from office to office, hoping to find the right department.
That kindly general smiled and said, “You don’t look like a terrorist to me. I believe you.” He stood up and shook my hand, and left to order my release.
The following day I returned to the area to find the correct building. The minister of education was agreeable, and registered me in a school where the students were aged seven to twelve, although there was a separate department for older students like me who had never had the opportunity to finish school.
The day came for my first classes. I have never been so ashamed. There I was, a man over six feet tall, entering a school where all the other students were children. The headmaster made it clear that he didn’t like me, asking, “What are you doing here? You are too old for this school, even the special class. Stand aside.” And so he made me stand outside until every child was directed to the proper classroom and seated. Only then was I allowed to enter the school building.
Later that day, when the headmaster discovered that I was the son of Osama bin Laden, his displeasure multiplied.
With every passing day, the headmaster made it more difficult for me to attend school. He made a rule that if I was not seated in my classroom by the starting bell, then I must go home. However, he ordered me to wait outside until all the other students had entered, often making it impossible for me to get to class on time.
I will say that I was not the only student mistreated. Any student older than twelve years old was clearly unwelcome, despite the fact his was the school with a special classroom for older students!
I told myself, “This is what my father brought me.”
I refused to allow that teacher to discourage me. I accepted his humiliations with an impassive face, finishing that difficult year, taking the exams for grade six, passing and receiving my diploma.
After that, I left school for good, realizing that the teachers in Saudi Arabia would never allow me to graduate. I was too old, too big, and I was the son of Osama bin Laden.
I would have to work my way up in business without a formal education.
Then came October 12, 2000, and the attack on the U.S. ship USS Cole at the Aden harbor in Yemen. While the Cole was waiting to be refueled, a small boat approached, with the men on board pretending to be friendly fishermen, waving at the American sailors on the boat, who started waving back. When the boat reached the port side, a huge explosion occurred, killing seventeen sailors and wounding thirty-nine others.
I felt a wave of nausea. Was my father celebrating, as he had after the bombings in Africa? Of course, I had no way of knowing the full truth, no more than any other ordinary Saudi citizen. I was no longer on the inside looking out, but was on the outside looking in. In truth, I preferred my new viewpoint, although I never stopped worrying about my mother and siblings.
Before too many days had passed, international news reports were saying that my father’s al-Qaeda organization was behind the Cole bombing. Was this the big attack Abu Haadi had warned me about? Instinct told me it was not, for despite the damage done and the lives lost, the Cole attack was much less destructive than the American embassy bombings. Abu Haadi’s words had implied that the coming attack would be so gigantic that few could imagine it.
My nerves were shattered, and there was no one with whom to share my worries. My father’s family in Saudi Arabia had an unspoken agreement not to speak about such awkward matters as my father and his activities. Even my full brother Abdullah rarely said our father’s name. My half-brother Ali was living in Mecca with his mother, but Ali and I had little to say to each other. Our childhood memories were so painful that we had no desire to revisit those days.
So I agonized in private, with Abu Haadi’s words ringing in my ears, still hoping that the big event my friend had warned me of would never occur.
During December 2000, my Grandmother Allia and her family received an invitation to travel to Afghanistan for my brother Mohammed’s wedding. She was excited about seeing her eldest son.
Not surprisingly, I did not receive an invitation. I was amazed, however, to hear that my young brother Mohammed was going to marry the daughter of Abu Hafs; to me, both the bride and the groom were still children.
My younger brother’s wedding also brought my own unmarried status to mind.
When my grandmother returned from the wedding, she summoned me to her home. I was eager to hear the details of family life in Afghanistan, and although she told me little, she did reveal that the wedding was one of the grandest, and that Mohammed was the happiest groom. She reported that all members of my family were doing well, which brought me a nice feeling of relief.
Then my grandmother surprised me by saying, “Omar, your father is very angry with you for leaving Afghanistan. He commands you to return.”
Dazed and startled, I asked for further details. “Why is he angry? He was not angry with Abdullah for returning to Saudi Arabia. Why is he angry at me?”
She would only say, “I do not know the reason for my son’s anger. He is your father. Go back, Omar, go back and find out. Your father commands it.”
The unexpected message plunged me into turmoil. No son could ignore such a direct command from his father, but what had happened to cause him to issue the order?
I thought about many possibilities. Perhaps the command had something to do with my friend Abu Haadi. Had my father called a special investigation as to why I failed to return from Syria? Had someone discovered that Abu Haadi had warned me of a secret mission? Although Abu Haadi had refused to say more than that I should run away, even that information could get him into such serious trouble that he might be executed for treason.
Had my father asked my mother to reveal our conversations? While my mother would never volunteer information about me, should my father ask a direct question, my mother would never lie to him.
After a week of vacillating, I decided to do something I said I would never do: return to Afghanistan.
But the trip would be brief. Quickly in, and quickly out.
The journey was so fraught with difficulties that I nearly turned around at the Afghan border. As I waited three weeks to make travel arrangements, I almost convinced myself to forgo the journey. Why should my father have any influence over me? Our emotional ties had been cut long before. Nevertheless, I felt myself pulled against my will.
Perhaps our final goodbye was not final enough.
After the most grueling trip, my eyes once more saw our Kandahar compound.
My mother and siblings leapt with pure joy at my return, wrongly believing that I was back for good. I pulled my mother aside and told her, “My Mother, Grandmother told me that my father had ordered me to return. Do you know anything of this?”
She shook her head. “I have not heard of this command.”
After a pleasant visit, I went to look for my father. Because of my grandmother’s words, I dreaded a dramatic scene.
I searched for a day or two and could not locate him.
Finally, I spotted him going in to wash for prayer. I walked rapidly, not wanting to miss him. “Father,” I said, “I have returned. Grandmother told me that you must see me.”
“My Son,” he replied with an unexpected smile, “there was no need for you to return. You took a dangerous risk for nothing.”
My father turned away and washed his face, hands, and feet, before entering the mosque to say his prayers.
I stood in shock. What had just happened? I had traveled a long distance, over the most dangerous roads, for nothing? Surely my grandmother would not have relayed such a message unless my father had given it to her.
I shook my head, puzzled. I walked away, looking for my friend Abu Haadi.
/> He was not overjoyed to see me. “Omar! What are you doing in Kandahar?”
I told my friend about my grandmother’s message and my father’s reaction.
Abu Haadi thought for a few minutes, looked around to make certain we were alone, then whispered, “You know your father, Omar. When your grandmother was here for the wedding, your father probably missed you, thinking that he was losing too many of his sons. He most likely had a moment of anger, and expressed his annoyance. By the time you got the message and returned, many other things had come to his mind and his anger was long forgotten.”
Abu Haadi’s explanation was as good as any other, I supposed.
That’s when Abu Haadi reiterated his original warning. “Omar, don’t think of staying here. Go back to your new life. The big plan is still ongoing. It will happen. You need to be far, far away. It is my belief that many of us will die.”
Once again my friend used gestures to explain. “Remember, Omar, past missions were this size,” and he held his hand low to the ground. “The new mission is this size,” and he held his hand as high as he could, over his head.
I was convinced. “But my mother?” I reminded him.
“Try again to convince her to leave. I do not know when the big event will occur, but I believe the time is drawing near.”
I believed Abu Haadi: I must leave, and this time for good.
I did remain for a few weeks, speaking seriously to my mother. This time we did not have a pregnancy on which to hang our appeal. Yet I told her, “My Mother, if you cannot leave with me, you must leave soon. Please ask my father for permission. Perhaps he will give it to you.”
For the first time my mother’s eyes reflected concern. I hoped my warning had penetrated her naive perspective that everything in life would turn out well.
I wanted to see my father one last time, to have a final word with him, to plead with him to send my mother and her children away, but my father was always on the move. There was no opportunity to get close, to have a private conversation. I had never seen my father so occupied, both with visitors and with his own men, even during that very busy summer in 1998 leading up to the bombings in Africa.
