Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  Soon the desert came alive with a welcome clatter. Our worried driver had circled back to check on me. I jumped to my feet. Over the din of the vehicle I could hear the sounds of my brothers’ laughter. The car pulled along beside me. I was so ashamed that I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to pretend I didn’t have a care in the world.

  My father soon came galloping back, surprising me with his visible concern for my well-being. When I haltingly revealed what had occurred, my father let out a rare laugh, giving my brothers the courage to laugh so hard that they exposed their teeth, which was not allowed in our family.

  The noise of the car engine failed to muffle my brother’s guffaws. Everyone was laughing at me, other than our Yemeni driver. How I loved that kindly man. He had been our driver since I was a child, and although he had children of his own, he took a special interest in us. I shot him a look of appreciation.

  As my brothers continued laughing, my humiliation grew. Not wanting my father or brothers to know that I was ashamed, I began laughing with them. Soon I found myself unable to stop laughing, my merriment at such an excessive pitch that tears rolled down my face.

  There was only one bit of good news on that most unpleasant day. After abandoning me to my fate, Father’s stallion had raced back to the farm, where we later found him impatiently waiting for us at the stable gate.

  The older I became, the more I learned regarding how the sons of Osama bin Laden were expected to live. As we all discovered, my father had a lot of unusual ideas about what he called the “evils of modern life.”

  For example, my brothers and I all suffered from asthma and had endured many serious bouts during our youth, particularly while playing sports in the hot desert climate. On a number of occasions, I had been rushed to the hospital and connected to oxygen. Concerned that my brothers and I would suffer recurring asthma attacks, the doctors advised our father to keep a supply of Ventolin on hand and to have his children use an inhaler, but my father was adamant that we should not take modern prescription drugs, no matter how serious our affliction.

  With the exception of modern transportation, our father decreed that we must live just as the Prophet had lived whenever possible. Since modern medicines were unknown in those days, we were not to take them. In fact, unless one of us was near death, my father refused all modern medical treatment.

  His recommended treatment for asthma was for us to break off a piece of honeycomb and breathe through the comb. This did little good, but still our father would not relent, first making his claim about the life of the Prophet, then warning us that Ventolin would destroy our lungs.

  Often I felt as though I was struggling to breathe through a straw, but unless death came knocking, my suffering was ignored. When Abdullah grew older, he heard about Ventolin and sneaked out and purchased a supply, and he gave me permission to use his inhaler.

  I did so at the onset of the next attack. After two puffs, my life was transformed. Mother eventually discovered that we were disobeying our father’s orders by using inhalers, but thankfully she never reported our defiance to our father. Mother only cared that we were no longer suffering.

  Until we were teenagers living in Afghanistan, none of us had ever met anyone who shared our father’s severe views. From the time we were old enough to talk, my father made it clear that we were expected to adhere to specific rules as to how a Muslim boy should live.

  Like children everywhere, we tried to circumvent those rules at every opportunity. For example, Father forbade us to drink fizzy drinks that came from America. How we loved the forbidden! We obeyed his decree regarding American products so long as he was in sight, but heartily consumed Pepsi-Cola and other soft drinks whenever we got the chance.

  There were other unexpected rules that had nothing to do with his aversion to western products. From the time we were toddlers, he demanded that we be given very little water. As we grew older, he reinforced the importance of drinking water only when absolutely necessary. He explained that his children should be “tough” and “patient,” so we must set our minds to resist nourishment of any kind for as long as possible.

  Identical rules were set in place for his daughters, but he left our mother in charge of instilling discipline in them. My sisters were more fortunate because our mother found it impossible to resist the cries and pleas of her little girls for water or food.

  Even when we were very young, our father would transport his sons into the dry desert outside the Jeddah farm, adamant that we accompany him on long walks, even though we were all prone to asthma attacks. His harshest ruling was that we could not drink any water until we returned from our hike. We were told that we should not even “think” about water. Of course, anyone knows that walking in the desert dangerously depletes the body of liquids. In fact, the government tells visitors to the deserts in Saudi Arabia to consume as much water as they can.

  The sons of Osama bin Laden were taught the contrary, that we must train ourselves to remain for long hours in the desert without any liquids. Bin Laden sons must learn to be physically immune to inhospitable desert heat, to make our bodies and minds strong and sturdy. We were repeatedly warned that we must be prepared to face desert warfare when the infidel West attacked the Muslim world, a belief that first developed in his mind when I was a baby and grew with every passing year.

  There were so many of these sessions that most of them have merged in my memory, although I do recall one specific trip when my father announced, “Today we are going to add rigorous training to our program. We will include mountain climbing. I have selected an area where there are many steep hills.” His soft voice dropped. “There will be no water until we descend the hills.” Despite this, we knew that he often carried a small container of water in case anyone collapsed from the heat.

  My brothers and I were downcast at the prospect, but did not protest. We had tried reasoning with our father before. Instead of a useless argument, I decided to prepare myself mentally.

  Off we went with our driver, who was always ordered to accompany us on such jaunts, obediently trailing in our father’s footsteps. Up we walked, the searing Saudi sun beaming down on our heads, our legs soon becoming tight with the steep incline. No one could keep pace with my father. He had physically trained himself since youth. Although he was not a man of muscle, no one could hike with the relentless persistence of Osama bin Laden. After observing him on many desert excursions, I had the childish thought that my father could circle the globe without a moment’s respite or a drop of water.

  By the time we were halfway up the high hill, our poor Yemeni driver’s eyelids were mere slits. I watched as his face paled, his steps slowed, and his breath became labored. His voice was pitiful when he croaked out, “Water . . . I must have water . . .”

  At first my father ignored him. He relented only when the poor man, who was of an age that white hairs were sprouting in his beard, slumped to the ground and commenced begging. “I will die without water, Sheik Osama. I will die. Just a drop, please, one drop . . .”

  I was so glad when his thirst was quenched that I let out a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, our driver’s water hysteria grew contagious. Soon one of my older brothers began to weep, believing that he, too, would perish without a drink of water. I walked steadily, staring at my feet, yet listening as one by one my brothers gave in, beseeching my father for a small sip of water.

  My father clicked his lips in disappointment as he rationed the water, giving each of my brothers a few sips. I studied his expression, so bland with insensitivity. Boiling anger heated my heart and mind even more than the desert sun! I decided I would rather die than beg. It would serve him right if he had to tell my mother that he had killed one of her sons.

  With my pounding head keeping time with my loud heartbeat, and my throat so parched that my tongue began to swell, I refused to allow the words I longed to shout escape from my lips. Never have I wanted water with such intensity. But I never faltered. I walked steadily until I took that
final step at the base of the hill.

  I looked at my father in triumph. I had passed his inhuman test. I had not pleaded for water. The two of us were the only ones who succeeded in making it to the base of hill without taking a drink of water.

  Looking back, I know now that my father was surprised that one of his youngest sons on the trail was the last male standing.

  There were other absurd rules regarding our conduct. We were allowed to speak in his presence, but our voices must be kept low and our words carefully measured. In other words, we should not “over-talk.” We were told that we must not become excited at any situation. We should be serious about everything. We were not allowed to tell jokes. We were ordered not to express joy over anything. He did say that he would allow us to smile so long as we did not laugh. If were to lose control of our emotions and bark a laugh, we must be careful not to expose our eyeteeth. I have been in situations where my father actually counted the exposed teeth, reprimanding his sons on the number their merriment had revealed.

  The older sons of Osama bin Laden were all adversely affected by our father’s fanaticism. As a child, Abdullah, the firstborn son, never sought friendships with other boys, preferring a solitary life. His greatest joy was riding a motorbike. When we were at the farm, Abdullah would leap on his motorbike and disappear for hours, his hair blowing in the breeze as he vanished into the desert.

  My next brother, Abdul Rahman, born in 1978, was a solitary personality, often sitting on his own and staring without purpose. I remember when he was a young boy, he would go on a wild frenzy of activity, destroying household items or perhaps seeking tamer pursuits, such as playing with pieces of paper for hours on end.

  Whatever was the problem, I believe that Abdul Rahman was unable to draw the usual boundaries between himself and others. For example, even though he was enthralled with animals, particularly horses, there were times in his childhood when his personality would alter and he would become cruel to the very animals he professed to love. This trait first manifested itself when Abdul Rahman was very young.

  My father had also noticed trouble during Abdul Rahman’s younger years and once shared a disturbing incident with me: “Omar, I remember visiting my mother when your brother was a toddler. Mother’s pet cat walked into the room. Abdul Rahman rushed to grab the cat. He held her hard between his hands. I did not know what he was thinking to do, and then to our surprise, Abdul Rahman bit the cat. Before we could pull the cat from Abdul Rahman, the poor cat clawed your brother and scampered away. We believed it to be a passing incident, but later in the evening I caught Abdul Rahman stalking the cat. Moving quickly, he got her in his grip once again, biting the cat yet again until it shrieked in pain.”

  My father shook his head in sorrow, saying nothing more.

  Sa’ad, the third son, was Abdul Rahman’s opposite. Sa’ad was a natural comedian and enjoyed talking more than any human being I have ever known. He chatted expansively about the most inane topics, anything that popped into his head, whether it was about the newest baby goat, or the latest trick performed by one of his younger siblings, or perhaps it might be the consistency of the yogurt he had eaten at breakfast. Sa’ad frequently appeared out of control with his endless chatter, sometimes confiding intimate personal information that no one wanted to hear.

  Such boundless liveliness brought Sa’ad constant trouble, for of all the children, he was the one who continually failed to abide by our father’s strict rules of conduct. Sa’ad’s limbs moved as fast as his tongue. My brother never walked anywhere. He ran endlessly—until one day he ran straight into the path of a car.

  This happened when our father was in Afghanistan and we were in Jeddah. Our Yemeni driver, who had been left in charge, had walked with us to the neighborhood mosque. As always, Sa’ad was running far ahead of everyone. He was in such a rush that he foolishly failed to look before he crossed the road. There was a sickening thump as Sa’ad collided with a moving car.

  We ran to the accident. Everyone at the scene was agitated, but no one more than the driver of the car, who was employed as an engineer for the family firm and had been driving a company car. When that poor man understood that he had struck a son of Osama bin Laden, he became overwrought, as did our driver, who was responsible to our father for the safety of his sons. I’m sure that both men were already envisioning the loss of good jobs, or perhaps long jail sentences, for drivers involved in car accidents with injured parties can be held in prison while waiting for a ruling.

  My brothers and I circled Sa’ad’s prostrate body. Not even the accident had silenced Sa’ad’s tongue; my brother was muttering and wailing. It was soon concluded that his injuries were probably not severe. We watched as an ambulance rushed Sa’ad off to the hospital while our driver ran home to tell our mother of the accident.

  We kids hung around to learn what might happen next.

  Much to the driver’s good fortune, the police captain left the incident to the bin Laden family. The driver was plainly relieved, until he realized that our father was yet to be told, and his worry resurfaced yet again. I can’t remember who made the decision, but someone in authority for our family resolved that since Sa’ad had survived without serious injury, our father could live without knowledge of the incident, at least so long as he was in Afghanistan.

  Happily for all, by the time Father returned to Saudi Arabia, Sa’ad had fully recovered from his injuries. Although Father was shocked to learn that his son had been struck by a car, he held no earthly being accountable. “The accident was not the driver’s fault,” our father said. “It was God’s will that Sa’ad be hit. It was God’s will that Sa’ad survived. We can thank God.”

  While it is difficult for any human being to describe their own personality accurately, I know enough of myself to be convinced that the life my father decreed for his sons also shaped me negatively.

  The years before I started primary school were the best of my life. I greedily enjoyed my mother’s full attention before my younger brother Osman was born, at least when my father was away in Pakistan and Afghanistan. After Osman was born, my brother consumed much of my mother’s attention. That is when I began to spend more time with our Yemeni driver, the kindly man I have spoken about earlier.

  When our father was away, our mornings would start with the first prayer of the day. Afterwards, our mother would be waiting with a simple breakfast of bread, cheese, and eggs. At the end of breakfast, my brothers would be taken to school by our driver. After Osman was born, I began going along for the ride.

  At the time I felt sad that I could not attend school with my brothers, for I was lonely when they were gone. After returning home, I would sometimes play with the driver’s children, who lived with their parents in my father’s home. If I grew bored, I would go to my mother and follow her around for a while before she put me to bed for a nap. After my nap I would have lunch with my mother. Generally we ate salads and chicken and rice.

  After lunch our driver might take me with him on his errands to purchase food and personal items for our family. Later in the afternoon we would return to the school to collect my brothers.

  As the years passed, I became even more solitary. I read books alone. I played with the animals alone. A born lover of all animals, I got a thrill from studying any birds that might alight in our garden. When we traveled to the farm, there were many animals to observe or to play with. I became so accustomed to being alone that I began to relish solitude. When our family traveled, I enjoyed finding an isolated corner for my bed, but too often my father noticed and he would order me to put my bed next to my brothers’.

  With my willful personality, I tried my parents’ patience many times.

  On one of those occasions, I wanted to go to the shops to buy myself something special. I knew from my experience observing our driver that a person needed coins to exchange for goods. I didn’t know how I might find myself some coins. Suddenly I had a flash of recollection: My mother kept a few gold coins in a
bedside cabinet in her bedroom. Those coins were gifts from family members presented each time she gave birth to a son.

  I was deceitful, watching to see when mother busied herself. At my first opportunity, I dashed into her bedroom, opened the drawer to the cabinet, and spotted two large gold coins. Now I know that each coin was worth about 1,000 Saudi riyals, or around $300 each.

  I ran out of the house, slipping through the front door, and made my way to a shop I routinely visited with our driver. The owner of the shop was from Egypt, a very nice man who hid his surprise when I came trotting through the door. I felt quite the big boy when he politely asked me what I needed. I pointed to some candies and a soft drink and some colored pencils, all items specifically forbidden by my father. I paid the shop owner with the two stolen coins. Successful with my mission, I crept back into our home, hiding my goodies so that my brothers would not demand a share.

  I was unlucky that a few days later my father had business in that shop. When he walked in, the Egyptian pulled out the coins and gave them to my father, along with the news that his young son Omar had come on an unsupervised visit to make some unusual purchases.

  My father was so pleased by the man’s honesty that he presented him with one of the coins as a reward. Of course, my father was not pleased with me. I was punished severely for my deceit and theft. Yet his harsh punishment failed to put a stop to my naughty behavior. Before long I suffered from the shopping bug again. As before, I tiptoed into my mother’s room to look for money. This time I found paper money, and took about 500 Saudi riyals.

  Knowing that my father had alerted his employees to keep a special watch on me, I realized the difficulty of slipping out unseen. I went into one of our bathrooms and scrambled out the window, sliding down a drainpipe before crossing the garden. I was relieved to see that the large metal gate was unlocked, saving me from a dangerous climb over the tall wall that enclosed our home. I ran to the shops, but was disheartened to discover them closed. The hour was later than I realized.