by Jean Sasson
It just so happened that our father had claimed the right to captain the boat. We stood in amazement as the boat moved so rapidly that our father was quickly swept down the Nile. Alarmed men loyal to my father began slapping the water with their palms, loudly yelling, “The prince is in trouble! The prince is in trouble!”
Father’s men ran to a neighbor by the name of Osama Dawoud who owned a very fast boat. Luckily, the man was home and quickly gave chase, catching up with father’s boat to tie it to his motorboat so he could tow it back. I remember standing on the banks of the Nile while watching the return, and was astounded to see that our father was so ashamed at losing control that he actually slipped out of the boat and into the water to hide. He hung to the back of his boat, concealing his face, not wanting anyone to witness his humiliation. For someone so powerful, our father could be extremely sensitive.
But he was accustomed to being number one in everything he did. He was the most skilled horseman, the best driver, the greatest boatman, the fastest runner, and the top marksman. He simply couldn’t bear the thought of looking foolish. From that day, his sons and employees were forbidden to mention that speedboat. I was told that he gave it to a surprised Sudanese who just happened to be standing nearby. I fear it gave the poor man many wild rides.
Sometimes we might return to the Nile after dark, finding swimming in the river under a starry sky a magical experience. After exhausting ourselves we would fall down on our backs on the bank and stare in wonder as the radiant moon snaked its way across the big sky. The moon’s reflection in the ancient Nile was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.
Abdullah seemed to enjoy the Nile more than most, and many times I witnessed my brother sitting on the banks of the Nile, looking dreamlike into the distance.
Abdullah is five years older than me but looks little like me. He is around six feet one, slim, with dark frizzy hair and a dark complexion. Like his brothers, he was always serious. Given any chance to work, no one could match him for endurance. At the beginning of our time in Khartoum, Abdullah, the firstborn son of my parents, was responsible for the behavior and safety of his younger siblings, both male and female. This is routine in the Islamic world, where the eldest son is respected by all, as he is considered the head of the household when the father is absent. Of course, when Abdullah was young during our years in Saudi Arabia, this was not an issue as our father’s drivers and employees were in charge when our father was away fighting in Afghanistan. But by the time we arrived in Sudan, Abdullah was fifteen years old, soon to be a man, and although our father had security guards watching our home as well as the al-Riyadh Village compound, our father and mother looked to Abdullah to supervise us. If our father expected Abdullah to imitate his actions, I’m sure he was disappointed. Abdullah ruled lightly, as he was the opposite of our difficult father. Although our father was a quiet figure, and generally spoke softly, his patience hung on a short thread. He was easily angered and could reach a point of violence in an instant.
But Abdullah was patient and kind and quietly encouraged all the siblings to get along. I’m sure that we often caused Abdullah exasperation, but no matter what silly things we might do, I can’t recall Abdullah ever expressing displeasure with his younger charges.
I’ve often thought how different our lives could have been had our father taken parenting lessons from Abdullah, for I was certain that my brother had the character and personality to be a kind and understanding father.
Chapter 13
The Scent of Death
OMAR BIN LADEN
A day of terror started out like any other. We said our morning prayers, changed into our uniforms, attended school, returned home to eat, then played around until the Asr prayer. After prayers, we trooped to the guest house for our religious lessons. Our three instructors were waiting for us, with our Moroccan teacher taking the lead on that day.
After a brief lecture on Koranic texts, we were gathered in a circle, quietly studying, when a bullet whistled through the open window and fell at Sa’ad’s feet. Sa’ad was quick to tell the teacher, “Sir, someone is attacking us.”
The teacher knew the happy-go-lucky Sa’ad very well and had reason to believe that Sa’ad might be playing a little joke. He kindly told Sa’ad not to worry, that he believed the sound had originated from an electrical spark. “Continue your studies, Sa’ad. I will investigate the matter.”
My ears had perked up because I had been hunting for years and my familiarity with guns left no doubt that Sa’ad was right. Someone was firing a weapon and indeed a bullet had whizzed through the window and into the room.
By that time Sa’ad had lifted a cartridge from the floor and held it aloft between two fingers. “Teacher, it was a bullet. See, I have it here,” he stated proudly, for once being taken seriously.
Our teacher’s eyes popped as he exchanged looks with the other two instructors, who by that time had jumped to their feet. I’m sure they all realized simultaneously that we were under attack and that three scholars without weapons were in charge of the safety of Osama bin Laden’s sons. Before they could say anything, a barrage of gunshots reverberated around the guest house, with bullets zipping through the window. The younger boys began to cringe and cry.
I knew that we must move away from that open window, and so did our Moroccan teacher, who shouted, “Come, boys! Come!”
Our instructors hurried us out of the teaching room and into the hallway. Just at that moment, our Moroccan teacher let out a gasp. He had been shot! He stumbled at the powerful force that hit his shoulder, but kept upright, rushing us out of the back of the villa to a small building so close it could have been connected to the main structure. He yanked the door open, and all three teachers began pushing boy after boy to the center. The building itself was tiny, with room for only four or five people, but somehow our teachers crammed ten human beings inside. The teachers followed, pushing their bodies up against an unsecured door without a lock. Our instructors motioned for us to keep quiet, and the older boys began an effort to comfort the little ones so that their cries would not give away our hiding place.
There we were, squashed like sardines in a can, when we heard the gunfire coming closer. A thought flashed through my mind: If we were discovered, we would be the easiest target for an assassin. Stacked against each other like logs, one bullet could easily smash through several bodies. Any gunman could kill two or three of us at the same time.
Obviously those gunmen wanted to kill someone, and perhaps they had been told to assassinate the entire Osama bin Laden family. My dread increased when someone from the outside began to push his body against the unlocked doors. But we were so crammed we were like a big, immovable block.
Without uttering even a sigh, the teachers held their positions, knowing that they would die first if the gunman shot through the door. But after a few heart-stopping moments, we heard the assassin no more, perhaps because one of our father’s guards had rounded the corner giving chase. The gunfight continued for another thirty minutes or so, with the sounds of shooting slowly diminishing until all was quiet.
We wanted to rush outside, to dash home, to check on our parents and younger siblings, but our teachers refused to move from the door. Our legs and arms were numb because we could not move an inch in any direction. Thankfully, we soon heard a call from a member of our father’s security patrol who was hunting for the sheik’s sons, shouting that it was safe for us to come out.
Recognizing the man’s voice, we started to file out, then thought to check on the teacher who had been shot as we were scurrying away from the teaching room. To our relief, we found that the bullet that had struck him had been halted by the thick shoulder pads in his jacket. We had our first laugh, happy that our teacher was a smart dresser and the bullet had done nothing more than bruise his shoulder.
My brothers and I ran like rabbits to find our father, who we learned had escaped death only because he had stopped to talk to Abdullah on the way to our
school.
My father had felt so secure in Khartoum that he had discontinued his usual precautions of alternating his schedule, becoming a man of habit. Obviously his enemies had discovered that fact. Each afternoon our father walked to the guest house to satisfy himself that his sons were busy with their religious training. But on that one day our eldest brother, Abdullah, had some business he wanted to discuss with our father.
As my brother grew older, his discontent at our situation increased. He was particularly disturbed that our family could not make use of the refrigerator in our villa, for maintaining a supply of fresh foods was extremely difficult.
Although Abdullah had been on a campaign for some time, my father refused to relent when it came to using modern appliances. That just happened to be the day Abdullah decided to push the issue. Their heated discussion delayed my father.
While Abdullah was unable to convince our father of our need for refrigerators and other appliances, he did save our father’s life.
Over the next few weeks we discovered how the assassination attempt had unfolded. Four gunmen had gained access to our area earlier in the day and were poised in a pickup truck beneath a large tree opposite the guest house. Why they went undetected, I was never sure, but many residents in the neighborhood were diplomats and government officials who retained security guards of their own. Basically, the al-Riyadh Village was an armed camp with men from various countries watching over their charges. I suppose it was an easy matter for four new faces to go unnoticed.
Those men had been told that while Osama bin Laden might be early, he would never be late. After waiting impatiently for more than an hour after their set time to attack, they grew increasingly uneasy that their target must have arrived at the guest house much earlier than usual. Without a real plan, they began to fire wildly at the villa where we were studying, concentrating on open windows in the hope they would hit Osama bin Laden by pure chance.
Our father heard the commotion and instantly grabbed his Kalashnikov, the Russian AK-47, one of the first assault rifles. My father had decreed that none of his fighters should ever be without his AK-47. At the sound of the shots, he ran up to the roof of our family villa, where he fired upon the assassins.
Once the gunfight started, all the security forces in the area responded with a fierce barrage of gunfire heating the air. The assassins were heavily outnumbered, and their carefully laid plan to pump Osama bin Laden full of bullets and make a quick getaway turned to dust.
One of the men fled the neighborhood. A second man hid in the mosque. The third jumped behind the wheel of the pickup and started the engine. The fourth dove into the back of that same pickup. The driver careened through the streets, desperate to make his escape through the diplomatic area.
Surrounded by a small army of men, they didn’t have a chance.
During the attempted getaway, the driver was shot and killed.
The hired assassin in the back of the truck was shot and wounded.
The one hiding in the mosque was shot and killed.
The one who fled the neighborhood was caught and killed.
The wounded would-be-assassin was taken to the hospital where he made a full recovery. After he recuperated, the government hanged him by the neck until dead.
I never saw any of the wounded or dead men, although I would have liked to do so. Our father would not allow my curiosity to be satisfied. I did hear many tales of that day because some of our father’s guards were wounded.
One man’s story I remember particularly well, as he repeated it to anyone who would listen, even though his own words branded him a coward. When the shooting first started, he locked himself into a room in the guest house. But, as he proudly told us, his only thought was of our father and so he loudly prayed, repeatedly pleading with God Himself, “God save the sheik! God save the sheik!” None of us was rude enough to bring up the obvious, but I often wondered if he was so worried about my father why did he hide? He should have rushed out to shoot the assassins who were there to murder my father.
There were many wild speculations as to who was behind the assassination attempt. Some thought it was a revenge attack from the Russians for my father’s actions in Afghanistan. Others believed that one of the Afghan fighting factions had sent the men to kill our father.
After an investigation, the Sudanese government declared that the assassins had been hired by the Saudi government. My father was convinced, although I did not know what to believe. Certainly my father had deeply angered our Saudi rulers. Later I came to the conclusion that it was not the Saudi government, for they continued to make attempts to convince him to return to the kingdom. Why would they try to kill him when they were more interested in bringing him back into the fold?
My father even confided that the royal family had offered him several high government positions. The only requirements were for him to cease his criticisms of the royal family, give up his militant activities, and return to live peacefully in the country of his birth.
My father was an uncommonly stubborn man, scorning the generous offer.
Later, various high-ranking princes visited, urging him to return to the peace he could find in Saudi Arabia. Even bin Laden family members were sent to persuade my father that he was on a dangerous path. My father loved his family and did not become angry with them, saying that they had no choice but to go along with the royal family, but his answer was a disappointing and unfailing no.
As a last resort, King Fahd sent word for my father to expect a personal telephone call from the king himself. My father refused to take his call, which is a great insult in our part of the world. No one refuses an order from the king!
After that, the formerly friendly relationship between my father and the Saudi royal family was completely destroyed. After hearing these stories, I thought to myself that my father was busily covering himself in thorns so thick that no one would be able to cut through to help him, or to help his innocent family, who had no voice in any of his decisions.
Up until that day in Khartoum, my brothers and I had not fully grasped that there were people in the world who wanted our father dead. To our young minds, our father was a highly celebrated hero. Suddenly I saw a bit more of the full picture, beginning to realize that not everyone agreed with my father’s violent message that the Islamic world was in extreme danger and that all Muslims should attack before they were attacked. For the first time I sensed that our father was addicted to an aggressive pattern of thought that might endanger us all.
Our lives changed immediately after the attack. From that day forward, al-Riyadh Village was surrounded by a wall of security men and Sudanese police. Because of the increased danger, we were banned from leaving the village. There would be no more bicycle rides to neighboring villages. Never again would we roam the nearby shops and neighborhoods. Most tragic of all, we would never again be enrolled in school. And so it came to be that I finished my public schooling at the age of twelve, which proved to be a disaster for my future. The sons of Osama bin Laden would receive religious instruction and home tutoring only.
Once again we became prisoners, confined to a very small and boring corner of Khartoum.
Abdullah was our leader, so long as he remained with us. But we had always known that Abdullah would be the first to marry, and potential brides were readily discussed throughout the years of our youth. So it was no surprise that when Abdullah turned seventeen arrangements were made for him to marry the daughter of Tiayba Mohammed bin Laden, who was our father’s half-sister through his father, Mohammed.
Once the date was set, Abdullah left without any fanfare. There was no send-off party, no pre-wedding celebration. My brother bade our parents a brief and calm farewell, with our father saying little and our mother telling him, “Take care, Abdullah. Go with God.” He packed a few things in one bag, said a casual goodbye to his siblings, and then was taken to the airport by one of my father’s drivers.
I noticed little at the time, because I
believed that Abdullah was coming back to us. Before long, however, we were informed that Abdullah would remain with his wife in Saudi Arabia. Although my father was disappointed, because he had a vision of his sons taking over his empire, he said little about the matter. As usual, my father hid his hurts and disappointments from us.
Even then, I knew that my brother was lucky to have escaped the complicated existence of the Osama bin Laden family. Had I known it would be years before I would see Abdullah, I hope I would have told my brother how much he meant to me.
After Abdullah left, Abdul Rahman rose to the eminent position of the oldest son, as our father said that was the way it should be. Yet my older brother did not have the traits necessary to manage so many lively siblings; and besides, from his youth, Abdul Rahman had little awareness of anything but his horses. Sa’ad, the third-born son, remained such a lighthearted joker that no one could take him seriously, not even the youngest kids in the family. Soon the mantle of the most responsible son quietly fell upon the fourth-born: me. My shoulders were not yet broad enough for such a duty, as I was only twelve years old when Abdullah left. Yet I endeavored to muster up the good judgment to assume the role.
First we had lost Auntie Khadijah, Ali, Amer, and little Aisha. Now Abdullah was far away. Who would be next?
Realizing that only adults ask such questions, I suddenly knew that my childhood was over.
The hard times were upon us, and from that moment on, any chance of happiness evaporated. We soon learned that the Saudi government had revoked our Saudi citizenship and frozen my father’s assets. Although he had some money in Sudan and a few other places, he lost access to his huge bank accounts in the kingdom. With limited funds, many things would change. Our homes in Jeddah and Medina and the Jeddah farm were all confiscated, including our personal belongings and even our horses and livestock.
We no longer had official connections to Saudi Arabia.
