Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  My mother was much more pleased than I was about the delay. I was excited at the idea of living in a new country, and yearning to start my new life as a married woman.

  The next few months were terribly unsettled, as I tried in vain to concentrate on my studies, while eagerly waiting for letters from Osama. From the words he wrote, I believe that my young husband was as eager for me to join him as I was to be with him.

  Finally, just as I thought I could not abide the separation any longer, the day arrived when my father informed me that my Saudi Arabian residency and travel documents had been approved. Osama and his family would soon return to Syria to escort me to Jeddah, as it would not be proper for me, a Muslim woman, to travel without a guardian.

  Since I had packed long before, there was little for me to do but wait for my husband and his mother and stepfather. I was told that my father would be accompanying me as well, to stay in Jeddah with us until I was settled.

  The knock on the door could not come soon enough. Finally they arrived! Although we were still shy with each other, one of the happiest moments of my life was when I saw my husband’s face. We would be leaving for Jeddah in a day or two.

  On the morning of our departure, I was filled with energy, dashing about, rechecking my bags, and saying my goodbyes over and over. Although I knew that nothing would ever be the same, I simply could not restrain my happiness. At some point, I did notice the dejected looks on the faces of my family, and made an attempt to curb my enthusiasm at leaving. I did not want to wound my cherished family, most particularly my dear mother. Still, when the final moment came to say goodbye, I was in a bit of a rush to start our journey.

  I was about to embark on my first aeroplane journey, yet I didn’t feel a spark of fear. Ever since I was very young, I have been convinced that my life is in God’s hands. This belief keeps my nerves steady.

  Although I had no fear of death, that day was a momentous one in my life, with everything changing in the blink of an eye. From that moment, my husband would be the head of our family. For the most part, his decisions would rule my life and the lives of any children we might have. From now on, I would lead a restricted life, leaving behind the possibility of driving a car or working in a job outside the home.

  Then there was the dreaded veil. This was also the day when I first draped the black veil over my face and body. Although I was modestly covered in a simple dress with long sleeves that reached midway between my knees and ankles, this was not conservative enough for Saudi Arabia, a country where no part of a woman’s flesh or hair should be seen by a man outside her immediate family.

  I was prepared for the inevitable, for my Auntie Allia had presented me a gift of the flowing black cloak, called an abaaya, a black scarf, and a thin face veil. The abaaya is simple with full sleeves, open in the front without any buttons or clasps. Although I did not drape the costume over my clothing while we were still in Syria, I followed Auntie Allia’s lead and covered myself within a short time of boarding the plane.

  There I sat, swathed in black from head to toe. Since Saudi women who live in the cities do not expose their eyes, my entire face was covered along with everything else. Suddenly I felt myself smothering, suffering panicky thoughts about what would happen when it was time to leave my seat. Would I be able to see well enough to walk safely through a crowd? What if I stumbled and fell, crushing a small child?

  Just then, I looked over at Osama and he smiled. My husband seemed very pleased that I had taken to the veil without too much excitement, although it felt strange to carry on ordinary conversations through a face curtain. Being young, I found it difficult to swallow my giggles, but somehow I managed.

  Soon our plane landed, and I braced myself for the challenge of walking about with my eyes covered. I thank God that I have been blessed with firm footing as well as good vision and could see clearly enough through the thin fabric of the face veil. I fluttered about in the black curtain without harming myself or any innocent bystanders.

  I stood back with Auntie Allia while our husbands dealt with the formalities of entering the kingdom. Soon we were in the long black car that would take us through the city and to my husband’s home.

  Even though I could see Jeddah only through the black gauze of the veil, I was not disappointed in the city that has been called the “Bride of the Sea.” Everything about Jeddah is beautiful, from the blue sea to the wide boulevards and the distinctive homes. Besides, after growing up in the port city of Latakia, I am fond of having the sea as my neighbor.

  For centuries Jeddah was nothing more than a small settlement serving as a pilgrim port, a gateway to our most holy city of Mecca, which is located forty-seven miles inland. But when Europeans discovered their desire for Arabia’s frankincense and myrrh, Arabian traders rose to the occasion, building ships and seaports for the incense trade.

  In 1945, thirteen years before I was born, Jeddah’s population was said to be 25,000 people. By the time I made Saudi Arabia my home in 1974, Jeddah was a cosmopolitan city of one million citizens.

  Osama told me that Jeddah was growing too fast, that the city had begun to feel overcrowded, especially during certain Muslim holidays, when at least a million pilgrims descended, doubling the population. But even though it was not the time for pilgrimage when I arrived, I could instantly see that Jeddah throbbed with excitement. I would later learn that the oil boom had brought a burst of energy to the port city, which grew to two million souls only six years after I landed there.

  I was most looking forward to seeing the home where my husband had grown up, and was not disappointed. Auntie Allia’s home was located in the Mushraf area of Jeddah, a comfortable neighborhood with a number of shops and mosques nearby. My new home was a lovely two-story house that, although not elaborate, was a perfect place for us to begin married life. I was pleased to learn that Auntie Allia and her husband had made arrangements for Osama and me to have an entire floor to ourselves, which gave us our privacy.

  I remember feeling as much at ease in my new home as if I had lived there for many years. Although I was so busy settling in that many of the details of those early weeks are now a blur in my mind, I do remember that it was a lovely time for me.

  My daily life was so radically different from my childhood in Syria that my husband allotted much of his time to explaining patiently how important it was for me to live as an obedient Muslim woman. “Najwa,” Osama said, “for me, you are a prized pearl who must be protected.” Smiling reassuringly, he promised, “Just as the hard shell of the sea protects the exquisite pearl, I will be the hard shell protecting you.”

  I felt proud that Osama wanted to protect me, as he slowly brought me to an understanding of the reasons behind the need for a female’s isolated life. I never objected because I understood that my husband was an expert regarding our faith.

  My husband and I decided that I would not continue with my formal schooling, although I privately educated myself on religious matters with my husband’s assistance. Osama was so well versed that he made a good teacher. Osama’s own father had been a devout Muslim who demanded that his sons honor the faith. None had heeded their father’s counsel more than Osama.

  For this worthy purpose I spent many hours sitting in our pleasant garden, eagerly reading the Koran, Islam’s most sacred text, which contains the revelations that were given by God to the Prophet Mohammed (May peace be upon him). The Hadith is also very important, and is called “The Traditions,” or written reports of Prophet Mohammed’s words and deeds. Although many scholars and clerics can recite the teachings by heart, I was surprised that my young husband could recite both sacred texts without referencing a single page.

  I wanted to be able to do the same.

  Jeddah, an alluring city of contrasts, continued to be a great pleasure for me. The heartbeat of old Jeddah was still alive. There were many traditional homes with charming small balconies bolstered with lattice screens to shield the women of the household, who could entertain th
emselves by sitting quietly and looking out upon the busy streets, being observers of life rather than participants. Some people said that in the old days the enclosed balconies were welcome sanctuaries, protecting occupants from insults and robberies.

  Those old homes contrasted with the new world that was racing to embrace Saudi Arabia. Modern mirrored buildings sparkled in the Jeddah sun. Behind all that costly glass, bustling newcomers lived near proper ladies closeted behind their latticed windows, ladies who must have wondered what their safe and comfortable world was coming to.

  My husband made the decision to employ domestic help to assist me with general housework and kitchen duties. The woman he hired was a pleasant Ethiopian maid named Zamzam, whom I believe was delighted to acquire a position in a home where she was respected.

  Early each morning my husband would awaken without any help from a clock, rising before the sun as effortlessly as if it were noontime. He would leave our home quickly to walk to the neighborhood mosque, as the muezzin, or the cleric, called out from loudspeakers that believers must come to prayer. Unless one has heard the haunting call to prayer, it is difficult to imagine, but it sounded like music to my ears.

  Allah Akbar! (God is most great!) Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!

  I bear witness that there is no God but Allah.

  I bear witness that there is no God but Allah.

  I bear witness that there is no God but Allah.

  I bear witness that Mohammed is the Apostle of Allah!

  I bear witness that Mohammed is the Apostle of Allah!

  I bear witness that Mohammed is the Apostle of Allah!

  Come to prayer! Come to prayer! Come to prayer!

  Come to success! Come to success! Come to success!

  Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!

  There is no God but Allah!

  Luckily for the Saudis, the government had decreed that a mosque would be constructed in every neighborhood, so no one had to walk a long distance to fulfill his Muslim duty of praying five times a day. Prayer time is very specific and greatly cherished as a time set aside for all Muslims to pray to their God. Every shop and every business in the kingdom closes during these times.

  The Fajr, or dawn prayer, is called between the first light on the horizon and sunrise. Religious men keep watch so that the exact moment is not missed. Zohr, or the midday prayer, is called at noon. This prayer cannot end until the sun has traveled five-ninths of its journey toward sunset. Asr is the afternoon prayer, followed by Maghrigb, which must be said between sunset and the time the light on the horizon completely disappears. Isha is the final prayer of the day, to be said from the time the light of the sky turns yellow until it becomes completely dark. This is our longest prayer.

  While Osama was at the mosque I would say my prayers at home, sometimes praying in our bedroom, or our sitting room, or on our balcony. Women do not pray in neighborhood mosques in Saudi Arabia, but every Muslim knows that there is no need for a special place to pray. A Muslim can bow down on the pavement and pray to God.

  Our religion has many requirements, but my husband and I met our obligations gladly. It is gratifying to the heart when one pleases God with the proper devotion.

  Osama would not be long at morning prayers. When he came home, we would eat breakfast. His tastes were simple; he was as contented with a piece of bread with oil or thyme as he was with the finest cuts of meat. “Najwa, do not worry,” he told me. “Whatever is available and what God gives me, I thank Him for whatever He provides.” Of course, I made certain that he had a good breakfast of cheese and bread and eggs and yogurt. And I knew from childhood that Osama did have a preferred food, which was courgettes stuffed with succulent bone marrow. That dish soon became my own favorite.

  I was determined to give my husband healthy foods because his days were long and strenuous. Not only did he attend school, where it was important for him to concentrate on his lessons, but he also worked for his family’s business, the huge Saudi bin Laden Group. My husband was very serious about doing a fine job, so he often stayed late at work.

  After breakfast, we would talk for a while before Osama changed from his white thobe, the Saudi costume that resembles an ankle-length shirt and is appropriate for prayer or other daily activities, into a western-style school uniform of a freshly ironed white shirt and gray trousers. I was proud that my husband was quite tall, but his height made it necessary to have all his clothes, including his school uniform, made by a special tailor. He was very particular about his appearance, and when he left our home my eyes told me that he was a picture of perfection.

  I would watch him leave our living area, feeling empty inside because he would be gone for the entire day. Osama was a student at the Al-Thager Model School, a secondary, or high school, for boys only. Although I never went inside, my husband drove me past on several occasions, when I saw that it was a modern building with two storeys near the central area of Jeddah. Osama was proud that the school was a special project of Saudi Arabia’s third king, King Faisal, who had overseen the school’s progress until his tragic assassination in 1975. Osama had first enrolled when he was eleven years old, and he would be graduating in 1976, two years after our marriage.

  Osama said that he was attending one of the best schools in Saudi Arabia, and that courses were of a high standard so that the graduates could advance from there into any good university. Many of the instructors were from England, so Osama was fluent in that language. At the time we married, he was taking the usual courses of mathematics, biology, history, and of course, religion.

  When school was over, he would take up his duties at the family construction company. Despite his position as a bin Laden son, Osama would do the most difficult and dangerous work alongside his men. He knew how to operate the biggest equipment, including huge machinery with giant shovels that scraped out mountain roads. He actually worked on paving roads, although he said that he most enjoyed digging safe tunnels through the hard rock of the mountains in the Saudi desert.

  Despite his youth, his older brothers felt so confident in his abilities that they made him a supervisor at a special construction project at Abha, a Saudi town a few hours’ drive south of Jeddah. To save travel time, most people would fly from Jeddah to Abha, but I never brought it up because Osama had lost his father in a plane crash. Besides, my husband had enough money from his inheritance to buy the latest model of car and loved seeing how fast it could go. “Do not worry,” he would tell me. “The trip is safe and easy. My father personally supervised the road construction from Jeddah to Abha, so the road is the best.” I knew Osama was telling me the truth, for I had heard others in the family discussing that fine road; but I also knew the trip took him less time than most because he drove too fast. But I quieted my tongue about such matters, for my husband was not one to welcome a female with opposing opinions.

  Once Osama had departed for school, I followed a specific routine. After getting dressed for the day, I would enjoy a cup of tea with my Auntie Allia while we discussed everything from the latest news about the royal family to the details of redecorating her home. I listened with special interest whenever she told me little secrets about the huge bin Laden clan, and I repeated to her the things I had heard from Osama. Although she had not been a member of the family for nearly fifteen years, she still knew much of their personal stories.

  I was slowly learning about the bin Ladens, although I was shy when attending family events, for I was one of the newest and youngest brides. I sat quietly and listened while the older wives talked. Looking back, I imagine the more experienced wives must have worried that I didn’t have a thought in my head, but that was not the case.

  I remember a time at one of the women’s gatherings when one of Osama’s older sisters related a family joke that three of the bin Laden sons were “crazy and sick people.” The sister laughed as she said, “Crazy number one is the sky, and he is Salem the pilot, who is so reckless piloting his plane that everyone worries that each fligh
t will be his last. Crazy number two is the sea, and he is Laden who sails heedlessly in his boat, causing the family to fear that he will one day disappear in the folds of the sea, or be lost in a boating accident. Crazy number three is the land, and he is Osama who drives his cars too fast in the desert and then leaps out of his car to climb mountains that are too rugged for any human being. We fear Osama will kill himself by his rash driving.”

  I knew that the women were joking and that my husband and his brothers were not crazy, although sadly enough the fears of the bin Laden women came true when Osama’s older brother, Salem, died a few years later in a plane crash.

  In addition to new cars with big engines, my husband treasured nature more than anyone I have ever known. Nothing brought him more satisfaction than having a full day to take a quick drive into the desert, where he would leave his car while he took long walks. He was highly interested in everything made by God, down to the smallest plant and the smallest animal put on our earth.

  After visiting my Auntie Allia, I would take my Koran and devote a few quiet hours in our family garden to further study of our religion.

  Sometimes I would telephone my mother to catch up on family events in Syria. Although I experienced moments of melancholy at being so far away from my parents and siblings, the sadness did not linger because I knew I was exactly where I belonged, at my husband’s side.

  Later in the day I would spend time on my various hobbies. I was particularly interested in planning the home that Osama and I would have after we started our family. Looking at pictures of elegantly decorated homes, I dreamed of the day when I would have the opportunity to furnish and beautify my own home. Osama had smilingly assured me that I would be in complete charge of the decoration.

  Soon after arriving in Jeddah, I had also become interested in sewing my own clothes. Although my dresses were simple, I enjoyed studying fashion magazines and selecting the designs I liked, then carefully drawing a pattern on thin paper. If I had suitable material, I would very cautiously cut the fabric and sew the pieces together. Otherwise, I would send our driver to purchase materials and supplies. Making our confused driver, who had lived most of his life in a small village in Yemen, understand the importance of the specific weight and color of ladies’ dress fabric was never easy. I smile today when I think of those tortuous conversations, although it was not funny at the time.