Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  As Osama’s two wives and six lively sons boarded a commercial flight in Jeddah to fly to the Peshawar international airport, I was eager to see what my husband had been seeing for the past five years.

  Compared to the restraint of Saudi Arabia, Peshawar felt like a colorful place for a Muslim city, with people in various ethnic costumes traveling around in garishly painted buses and taxis. Being accustomed to isolation, I thought the city looked dazzling. After the Russians invaded Afghanistan in 1979, Peshawar had become a virtual refugee camp for the Pashtun of Afghanistan, so there were even burqa-clad women shopping in the sidewalk bazaars. The burqa serves the same purpose as the abaaya, which is to cloak a modest Muslim woman from head to toe, although the styles of the two costumes are different. While the Saudi abaaya is black, a burqa can be pastel blue, yellow, brown, or other colors. The design is quite showy, with a lattice screen covering a woman’s eyes, while there are embroidered designs on the front, and tiny pleats billow out from the back.

  Osama had found a beautiful villa with enough room for his growing family. Although enjoying the change of scenery, Khadijah and I continued to live in virtual isolation, with our family life carrying on as usual, while Osama continued his business outside our home, even making frequent trips into Afghanistan. I was pleased that Osama devoted more time to our sons, and on one or two occasions, he even took our eldest, Abdullah, who was eight years old, with him into Afghanistan.

  After spending three summer months in Peshawar, Osama said that he would escort us back to Jeddah, for our two eldest sons were already enrolled in school. Since the trip had gone well, from that point it was not unusual for us to spend our summers in Peshawar.

  A year after the birth of Khadijah’s first son, Ali, I found myself pregnant yet again. This time, after five sons, I was certain I would have a daughter. Although my husband was even more involved in the war in Afghanistan, he returned to me in Jeddah for the birth. When the sixth child turned out to be another boy, we gave him the most special name for a Muslim, which is Mohammed.

  My six sons, together with Ali, made the bin Laden home decidedly lively. I’m sure that many men were in awe of my husband and his house of seven sons.

  Soon after Mohammed was born, my husband approached me regarding his desire to take a third wife. According to my husband, the time was coming when Islam would need many more followers, and he wanted to have more sons and daughters to carry forth the message of God. On this occasion Osama suggested that he would be pleased if I would find him a suitable wife. After thinking about this for only a few days, I agreed. My heart told me that if I did this important thing for him and for Islam, my love for my husband would grow even greater.

  Surely God was guiding me in this important duty, for within a few weeks of our conversation, I met a lovely Saudi woman from Jeddah. Her name was Khairiah Sabar, and she was a highly specialized teacher of deaf-mute children.

  For me, it was important that the women my husband married were devout. Khairiah was very religious, but she had other qualities that drew me to her. From the first moment my eyes saw her charming face, I liked Khairiah. Every new discovery about her religious life and her fine Sabar family increased my affection. I went back and forth between Osama and Khairiah’s family, making the routine agreements on dowry and other points, so that I could arrange their engagement.

  By the time their wedding came to pass, I had grown to love Khairiah as a precious sister. My sincere affection for her has grown with each passing year.

  I helped Khairiah to settle into her separate apartment in our large home. Her fresh presence added to my pleasure, and we spent many hours reading and discussing the Koran and other aspects of our religion.

  While Osama’s third wedding had made 1985 exciting, 1986 was more settled, at least for the wives and children. For the first year in a long time, there were no new babies born during the calendar year.

  For the wives, our main concern was the care and happiness of our little children and the running of the household. We were expected to supervise the housemaids and tea girls, as well as keep our children on their schedules, as the oldest had reached school age. With three wives, seven active boys, some of whom were attending school, many housemaids, tea girls, cooks, and drivers, our home was a busy beehive. It mattered little that our home was a huge dwelling, with twelve large apartment areas, for with so many people scurrying about to complete their many duties, the human traffic created deafening noise and action, even on a day of routine pursuits.

  Osama’s wives used to joke that our Jeddah home was a virtual mini-U.N. with people employed from the Philippines, Sri Lanka, Africa, Egypt, Yemen, and many other countries. Even though Osama had arranged for several drivers to transport our sons to school and to shop for our groceries and necessary items, all three wives were busy keeping everything organized.

  As Osama’s first wife, considered to be the most important wife in our culture, I was accorded great respect by everyone around me, including his two new wives, yet I never felt myself above Khadijah or Khairiah. Osama’s wives had become my friends. Conflict was unknown among the wives of Osama bin Laden.

  Once again I became pregnant in 1986. I was earnestly hoping that Khairiah would announce a pregnancy, but that happy day had not yet come.

  Around that time my husband came to me and announced that he would soon be taking a fourth wife. He did discuss his thoughts, although he did not ask for my express approval or participation. Besides, I felt that to find Osama one wife was quite enough.

  Osama’s new wife was the sister of one of his Saudi fighters in Afghanistan. The family was from Medina, and her name was Siham. I did not attend the ceremony, although I helped Osama’s wife to settle into our home.

  Shortly after his fourth wedding, Osama told us news that I would never have expected. Our family would be moving to Medina, two hundred miles northeast of Jeddah, because Osama would be supervising a bin Laden construction project in that city.

  While I liked living in Jeddah best, Medina is a significant city in Islam because Prophet Mohammed fled there when he was initially driven out of Mecca by unbelievers; it is the site of the Prophet’s home and of his tomb. Medina is known to Muslims as “The Radiant City” or “The City of the Prophet,” and is so holy that it is second only to Mecca in the hearts of all Muslims.

  Our routine days ended with Osama’s announcement. Chaos ruled as we organized our personal items for Osama’s packers.

  At the beginning of our married life Osama was quite generous, but as time went on, he grew austere, believing that to be a good Muslim one must embrace simplicity. With this new way of thinking firmly in place, Osama decreed that our home furnishings should be plain, our clothing modest in number, and our food simple. The only area where Osama splurged was on his cars, which were always the latest models. Therefore, Osama’s wives and children never acquired the masses of household goods or personal items loved by many people in the modern world. Despite this, the family was so large that even the bare necessities of life filled many packing boxes.

  Although I loved Medina (for who could not love a city special to our Prophet Mohammed?) I was not excited about leaving Jeddah. That was where I felt most comfortable, with my Auntie Allia and her family nearby, as well as a few girlfriends. The family farm used for weekend jaunts was only a short distance away. The four-hour drive to Medina was enough to discourage casual visits to Osama’s family or spontaneous trips to the farm. Since I was pregnant, I was not happy about being away from familiar territory when my child arrived.

  But there was nothing I could do to alter the situation.

  In Medina we moved into a spacious villa owned by my husband. It was huge, at least four times the size of a normal home, with four large storeys. But with four wives, soon to be eight children, and many servants, our family easily filled most of the space.

  As Osama’s first wife and the mother of his firstborn son, I lived on the top level, but each wife had
her own separate floor, including bedrooms, bathrooms, sitting areas, and kitchens. While the excitement of living in the City of the Prophet never ceased, it soon became clear that most members of the family missed Jeddah.

  My seventh child soon livened up our lives, however.

  Despite the move, my pregnancy had been calm. After giving birth to six sons, pregnancy had become routine in my life. I had finally accepted that I would be the contented mother of many sons. I had even trained my thoughts not to drift to the pastel tints of the girl’s clothes locked away in a storage box.

  Osama made certain he was home at the time I gave birth and once again we made a predictable dash to a hospital in Medina. Thankfully, my labors were becoming easier and the baby came quickly. Through a fog I heard my doctor speak, bringing me news that brought forth a gasp. After thirteen years of marriage and six sons, Najwa Ghanem was the mother of a baby girl! A thrill of anticipation swept throughout my body. The feeling in my heart was like no other when I looked upon a face so sweet I felt I was gazing at pure sugar.

  Osama seemed pleased as well, but said that his happiness came from witnessing my elation. We named our darling girl Fatima, a favored Muslim name for girls because the Prophet had named his daughter Fatima.

  I was in a rush to return home with my precious daughter so that I could dig into those boxes of girly clothes. What joy! That first year with my little daughter was one of the happiest of my life.

  Chapter 6

  Growing Up bin Laden

  OMAR BIN LADEN

  The children of Osama bin Laden regarded as normal our father marrying women other than our mother and bringing those women to live in our home. I was two years old when my father married his second wife; four when he married his third wife; and six when he married his fourth wife.

  I thought little of the fact there were four women living under one roof, and that all four women were married to the same man, my father. My mother’s demeanor appeared positive so there was no reason for her children to respond in any other way. In fact, my mother sweetly taught us to respect the women my father married.

  There are many reasons that multiple wives are viewed so favorably in Saudi Arabia. Saudi culture is dominated by men. Although there are a few token women in organizations that deal exclusively with women’s issues, it is men who make all the important decisions. When it comes to private life, it is true that some women take personal charge of the organization of their households, but their actions are based on the hope of pleasing their husbands.

  In our home, the wives of my father were instructed in the behavior that was expected of them and their children, although my mother has said that her husband often discussed personal matters with her before making a final decision.

  This patriarchal system has been in place in the Arabian Peninsula since the beginning of time. In ancient days, men married as many women as they pleased, with some men marrying hundreds of women. When a man wearied of a woman, he could desert her without any legal obligations. The same was true regarding female babies. It was not unusual for unwanted female offspring to be buried alive. Quite simply, females were the property of males and could be discarded at the will of the man who was in charge of their destiny, whether that man was her father, husband, uncle, or son.

  After Prophet Mohammed laid the foundation of the Islamic faith, women’s lives vastly improved. Islam forbade the killing of baby girls. Females were provided with specific financial rights, including the right to own property. Islam limited a man to no more than four wives, with the important stipulation that he must care for each wife in exactly the same manner.

  Some Islamic scholars believe such a relationship with four wives is essentially unachievable, and that was the rationale behind Prophet Mohammed’s limiting provision. Other scholars have varying opinions, with a large number saying that it is entirely possible for a fair-minded man to treat four wives identically. For this reason, Saudi men remain free to marry up to four wives.

  I have always liked the opposite sex. I was not yet in school when I first realized that love between a man and woman was a very powerful emotion. Women were on my mind, for my father had recently taken another wife.

  I first fell in love when I was very young. Despite my immaturity, I was struck so strongly that I felt as though a bolt of lightning had pierced my heart. My love was an “older woman,” a beautiful eight-year-old girl who was the daughter of my mother’s friend. She was tall, with chestnut-colored hair that reached to her waist, lush olive skin, and exotic doe-shaped black eyes. Her physical magnetism was so potent that I just stared at her. Nothing came of it, of course, due to my youth.

  Meanwhile, I found great joy in horses and riding. My father, a natural horseman who had ridden since childhood, introduced his sons to his love of horses at an early age.

  The first time I rode a horse was when I was four or five. I was with Abdullah, my oldest brother, who was nine or ten at the time. My father had trusted his firstborn son with the honor of easing his youngest into the world of horses. Abdullah felt the responsibility keenly.

  I remember little of that day, other than the basics. I do recall being carefully positioned on a saddle with Abdullah behind me. Being on a horse for the first time, I became excited and quickly lost my balance. I was a strapping child, and grasped my brother’s arms and neck with such force that I took him with me as I fell to the hard dirt under the horse’s hooves. Thankfully the mare was accustomed to children, and managed at the last minute to dance around our small bodies.

  My brother was shaken by the fall and more than a little worried that he would be blamed if his baby brother was injured, so he announced that we had “learned enough about horses for one day.”

  Although I had taken an early spill, I was eager to try again. Within a year or two, I was riding bareback with my brothers.

  Occasionally I also rode with my mother. My mother liked riding, although she faced two obstacles. First, she was pregnant during most of my youth, and knew that horse riding would be dangerous for her and the child she was carrying. Second, she could not be seen riding horses by any men outside our immediate family, so her outings had to be carefully planned.

  Horses became the center of my life. I hated the fact that my father had given permission for me to ride only the gentlest horses in his stable, and was eager to ride the most powerful stallions, like my older brothers.

  I can’t recall my age when I first rode a stallion, but I know I had been riding for only a few years when my three older brothers and I accompanied our father and a group of seven friends into the desert. The adults were riding horses. For some reason I can’t remember, my father’s sons were following along in a four-wheel drive.

  Suddenly, our driver came to a skidding stop; one of my father’s friends had been thrown from a rambunctious horse. Thankfully, the man was not badly injured and was able to limp away from the incident, but he decided to continue the day’s journey in the car. That’s when our father galloped up with the reins of the rider-less horse dangling from his fingers. He bent down, glanced into the car, and asked, “Who wants to ride?”

  My three older brothers avoided our father’s eyes. I was surprised, thinking that it was a great opportunity. Already bold for my years, I leapt out of the car, declaring, “I will! I will ride!”

  I had never been allowed to ride such a big, powerful horse, and was afraid my father would say no, but he shrugged his agreement. I was so small he had to dismount to lift me into the saddle. Despite my size, I was feeling quite the big man, excited that the time had come when I could prove my excellent horsemanship.

  The shock came quickly. Before I was even settled in the saddle, my father and his friends abruptly galloped away. Without prompting, my big stallion shivered in excitement and leapt forward after the other horses. Had my horse wings? I wondered, because I was flying through the desert so rapidly that I couldn’t tell which way I was going, positioned so high above the ground that I felt l
ike I was on top of a mountain. Clinging on for dear life, I tried every trick I knew to stop the horse, but the stallion ignored every command of his tiny passenger. In fact, rather than slowing his pace, my horse gained momentum. Too late I learned that although I was a proficient horseman for my age, that didn’t mean I could handle any situation. I screamed for my father, “Father! Stop the horse! Stop the horse!”

  Thanks to Allah, my father finally heard my cries for help. He turned around and came to me, skillfully plucking the reins out of my hand, slowing the stallion to a full stop.

  I tried not to show my immense relief, although I silently admitted that my riding skills were not yet perfect. I jumped down from that frisky stallion, determined to walk the remainder of the journey. Thinking I was safe, my father and his friends left me in the dust. Soon the car transporting my brothers passed me. Sensing that they were enjoying my plight, I took care not to make eye contact with any of my brothers. The vehicle slowly cruised past.

  Too soon, riders, horses, and the car disappeared into the haze of the desert. I was completely alone, my small hands grasping the reins of a horse that I knew I could not control. I felt a nervous lump thumping in my throat.

  Suddenly something spooked the stallion. He reared to his full height, front legs pawing the air, back legs dancing. I tugged on the reins in a vain attempt to keep him in check, and although strong for my age, I didn’t have the strength to restrain him, or even to hold on to the reins. The horse gave one final buck before zipping away. Terrified of the consequences if I lost one of my father’s prized stallions, I dove for a stirrup, miraculously seizing it with my hand. I held on tight, feeling my knees and feet sting as I was roughly dipped back and forth to the ground, yanked through sagebrush, dirt, and small stones.

  My wild ride ended when the stirrup broke loose. The world around me stilled. I was crumpled in the dirt, sputtering sand and coughing dust, but still clutching the broken stirrup. When I looked at my escaped charge, I got a final view of the stallion’s haunches and tail as he moved like the wind. The unbearable had happened. Not only had I been unable to control one of my father’s prized stallions, I had lost the horse. I sat quietly, looking around, wondering what to do next.