Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  My brothers concurred, but how? Our departure must be a secret. Our father had become so extreme that he might imprison us if he knew our plans to escape.

  I suggested, “When our father goes away on business, we will dash to Pakistan on our horses.”

  My brothers nodded. All the sons of Osama bin Laden were excellent horsemen, and we had easy access to our father’s stallions. We had the added advantage of being intimately familiar with the mountainous terrain. All those forced hikes to Pakistan from Tora Bora might be good for something after all.

  Yes, we would ride our horses to Pakistan, sell the horses to a wealthy landowner, then use the money to fly to Sudan. After a pleasant visit in Sudan, we would take a trip around the world! We would enjoy ourselves for a change.

  We dreamed big dreams. We were so serious about escaping that we began to slaughter some of our father’s camels, drying the meat so that it would not spoil, packing a few supplies. Only Abu Haadi knew of our plans, and he approved completely.

  Of course, guilty feelings regarding our mother and younger siblings flitted into our minds. Yet we all understood that our mother would never consent to leave without her husband’s permission. And should he inquire, our mother would find it impossible to lie. Our plan would be foiled.

  None of us wanted to imagine our father’s reaction to our disloyalty. We knew he believed we should follow his Jihad with the greatest passion. We should take up arms and attack the Americans, or anyone else he deemed his enemy.

  Our worries were soothed somewhat by the knowledge that our mother and younger siblings had the advantage of sex and age. Our father would make efforts to protect them. And, even if the Americans attacked again, we remembered our father’s words that the Americans never intentionally strike women and children.

  Soon we had enough food for the journey. I was excited, for I had been thinking of leaving for several years. But the idea was new to my brothers, and one by one, they began pulling back.

  One brother said, “Our father’s long arms reach many places. He will kill us, for sure.”

  Another said, “Afghanistan is so dangerous. Behind every bush is a bandit. We will be robbed and murdered on the trail.”

  “Those are chances we must take,” I argued. “We will die if we remain with our father. Information I have received leaves no doubt that we must go!”

  They all were quiet, contemplating. Soon each of my brothers drifted away from the plan. All of them began to avoid me.

  I thought of going alone, but common sense told me that fewer than two travelers could not survive. Lookouts were essential. A single traveler alone would be attacked and, most likely, murdered. Life was so cheap in Afghanistan.

  I finally approached Abu Haadi and asked if he would be willing to go with me. Although he wanted me, a young boy, to escape, he said, “No, Omar. I cannot. My place is with your father.”

  I sat silent and sad, nibbling on that dried camel meat for weeks, dreaming of my lost opportunity to escape, yet I did not give up on the idea.

  That’s when my mother caught my full attention. Watching her one day when she was laboring in a steaming hot kitchen, cooking a simple meal of rice on a single gas burner, I was struck by the dreadful idea that perhaps my mother might not live through her upcoming delivery.

  Pregnant so many times and now enduring pregnancy later in life without medical care or proper nutrition, my long-suffering mother appeared unwell. Not that she complained—indeed, never once during all those years did I hear my mother voice displeasure about anything. She lived without air-conditioning in the hottest weather, without proper heating in the coldest weather, without modern appliances to store or cook food or wash her family’s clothes, without proper food for her children, without medical care for anyone, and without a way of communicating with her mother and siblings. She accepted all these circumstances with the sweetest composure, always voicing positive thoughts to her husband and children, yet surely she must have had many silent doubts about the path my father had chosen. She had started her marriage with great hope, traveling to a wealthy country to live out her life with the man she loved. I knew that her girlhood dreams had not come true, even if she refused to acknowledge it.

  Suddenly I was glad that I had not run away and left her. With my father so occupied with his Jihad and other business, my mother mainly depended upon me.

  That’s when I knew that someone must take my mother out of Afghanistan. She should return to her mother in Syria, where she could receive proper medical care. Her youngest children must go with her. There were three youngsters between the ages of three and nine years. Pretty Iman was nine, cute Ladin was six, and adorable Rukhaiya was three.

  Thinking that perhaps the dried camel meat would be useful after all, I began to hatch a second escape plan, focusing this time on the safety of my mother and youngest siblings.

  Little did I know that other shocking ideas were brewing in my father’s mind, plans that would push me away forever.

  Chapter 25

  Young Marriage

  NAJWA BIN LADEN

  I knew that my boys were growing up when I overheard them discussing marriage. Osman and Mohammed were both too young for marriage talk, but were influenced by the eager discussions they overheard among their older brothers.

  Abdullah and Sa’ad were the only two sons who had married. Abdullah had now been gone for five or six years. When Auntie Allia visited, she brought the welcome news that our eldest son was a father. I had not had any opportunity to meet with my first grandchildren, although those babies were in my day-dreams.

  Sa’ad and Omar had actually traveled to Sudan to find brides, but only Sa’ad was successful, bringing his wife back to live near us. Within a year Sa’ad and his wife had a son they named Osama, which greatly pleased my husband.

  I could scarcely believe that my husband and I were grandparents. Where had the years gone?

  During that time Osama called the older boys together and presented them with some land, telling them that they should till the earth and produce food as he had taught them to do in Sudan. My husband believed that our boys could become financially self-sufficient by harvesting the land. Such a business enterprise would put fresh vegetables on the table as well as providing extra cash from any sales.

  None of my sons was enthusiastic about farming, although they were respectful as always, each one replying, “Thank you, my Father. We will tend to this matter.” His sons did not inherit Osama’s great love of agriculture.

  Omar was still unmarried, although he keenly wanted a wife, frequently inquiring if any fighters knew of a marriageable girl from a suitable family. Becoming discouraged by his failure to find a bride, Omar became even more subdued than usual. There were nights that Omar disappeared for many hours, horseback riding in the desert. I waited patiently for our son, until the dawn if necessary, for as his mother I worried about his safety. Perhaps one of those poisonous snakes might bite him, or his horse might fall into a hole.

  With seven sons, accidents were not uncommon. I remembered the time when little Mohammed was running and playing in the desert, and dropped from sight. He had fallen into a deep hollow carved in the earth, and was unconscious for a full day. Thanks be to God, Mohammed’s brothers were in the area and after a day began a big search, finally finding him in that burrow. Had his general location not been known, no one could have guessed where to look and perhaps wolves would have found him first. Another time Sa’ad was driving recklessly and flipped his car over. Ladin was sitting in the back seat and crawled out with a broken hand.

  I realized that if Omar were to meet with disaster, no one would know where to begin a search. My husband did not object to Omar’s solitary rides in the desert, reminding me that he done the same when he was a young man in Saudi Arabia. My husband seemed to love Omar more for his solitary spirit, giving his son the nickname of Omar “Alfarook,” which is an Arab name that means “sword.”

  Many people were recog
nizing Omar’s special traits. One of my sister-wives thought so highly of Omar that when she saw him walking towards us she would say, “Here is the father of wisdom.” Another named him “Omar the generous,” because he was known to be the most charitable of all my sons, saving what little money he could get to help others who were worse off.

  Although I was pregnant again, I had many more things on my mind than myself.

  In fact, it was in early 1999 that Osama decided the time had come for our daughter Fatima, who was born in 1987, and his daughter Kadhija with Siham, who was a year younger than Fatima, to be married. It is not unusual for girls of such a young age to wed in our culture. Besides, such decisions were Osama’s alone. I was glad to hear that he conferred with Omar, asking my wise son for his advice regarding the fighting men Omar knew best. My husband instructed Omar to find good husbands for both his daughters.

  Omar took the search seriously, carefully observing the men who were attached to my husband’s work. Finally Omar recommended two Saudi soldiers, Mohammed and Abdullah, whom he believed to be intelligent and kindly men. Both potential grooms were from Saudi Arabia, which seemed to please Osama, and were nearing the age of thirty. One was a bodyguard for my husband, so Osama knew him better than most.

  Omar recommended that Fatima be married to Mohammed and that Kadhija be married to Abdullah. Once the choice was made, everything was handled in the traditional Islamic way. Osama discussed the matter with me, and with Siham. We both accepted our husband’s decision.

  As is proper, Osama then called in each daughter separately, telling her about the husband he had selected. Osama was careful to adhere to our religion and to advise each daughter that if she was not in favor of this husband, that the marriage would not take place. If that was the case, there would be a search for another groom.

  Both daughters very shyly said yes, they would be pleased to marry the men selected for them by their father. At that time Osama arranged for the grooms to have a chaperoned meeting with his daughters. Once our daughters and the potential grooms said that they agreed to marry each other, their engagements were announced.

  My daughter’s wedding would be first. And so it came to be that my darling Fatima was married to a Saudi man named Mohammed. Fatima’s wedding was very simple, held in our home at Kandahar. Of course, the men and the women did not mingle. Food was scarce during that time, so we had nothing special to serve guests, only rice and vegetables, the same as we ate every day of the week.

  After the wedding, my daughter and her husband moved into a compound house close to me, which brought me joy. I remembered years before when I had married Osama, and my mother had balked at her daughter moving so far away. For the first time I understood my mother completely.

  Omar appeared strangely subdued. Although glad to have the chance to recommend the best grooms, Omar confessed that during the weddings he had been struck by apprehension at seeing his baby sister Fatima become a wife at such a young age.

  After Omar said those words, I confessed that worry ate away at my heart as well. Fatima was so young and innocent, completely protected by her mother. She had never known anyone outside her family. On the other hand, in our culture, a woman needs a good husband to protect her. I could only pray that her husband, Mohammed, would be the best husband for my young daughter.

  A few weeks after Fatima’s wedding, Omar came to me in a very serious state of mind. My son said, “My Mother, I would like you to travel to Syria to have this child. I will take you.” He paused. “We will take the youngest children with us.”

  I was so surprised that I did not know what to say. None of Osama’s wives was in the habit of leaving Afghanistan, for any reason. In fact, I had already given birth to one child in the country, my youngest daughter, Rukhaiya.

  Truthfully, I had not once considered leaving.

  Omar appeared obsessed, pushing me to agree. He said, “My Mother, if you will not ask your husband for permission to leave, I will do it for you.”

  I stared at my handsome son, his brown eyes flashing with determination. Who could have guessed that of all my sons the most sensitive Omar would be the one whose courage would soar with each passing year? It was not easy for anyone to stand up to Osama’s tremendous force. My son was a brave man, and I loved him all the more for his concern for me and his younger siblings.

  Chapter 26

  The Beginning of the End

  OMAR BIN LADEN

  During those tense days, it was impossible to find an opportunity to have an easy exchange with my father. By his very nature, he was an obstinate man, always quick to say no when one of his sons had an idea. So I knew that I needed time alone with him to state my case, to choose my words carefully. I could not mention Abu Haadi’s warning, or my friend would be severely punished. I must speak only of my mother’s health, and the need for her to have special attention for the upcoming birth. However, having a private conversation with my father was difficult, for he was always surrounded by his loyal men, men who seemed determined to hover closely.

  Then one day my father called a meeting with all the fighters. My brothers and I tagged along, wondering what was so urgent.

  My father’s talked about the joys of martyrdom, how it was the greatest honor for a Muslim to give his life to the cause of Islam. I looked around the room as my father spoke, studying the faces of the fighters. I noticed that the older fighters looked a bit bored, while the young men newest to al-Qaeda had a kind of glow on their faces.

  When the meeting ended, my father called for all his sons to gather, even the youngest. He dismissed the men who generally hung by his side, so I was thinking that I might have the perfect opportunity to discuss my mother’s health, and her need to have a good doctor to deliver her eleventh child.

  My father was in a rare good mood, having just finished a successful talk with the fighters. Certainly, he had the power to inspire young men to give up their lives, for as we filed out of the meeting room, I saw several of the younger fighters scrambling to put their names on the list of potential martyrs.

  In an excited voice, my father told us, “My Sons, sit, sit, gather in a circle. I have something to tell you.”

  Once we were at his feet, my father said, “Listen, my Sons, there is a paper on the wall of the mosque. This paper is for men who are good Muslims, men who volunteer to be suicide bombers.”

  He looked at us with anticipation shining in his eyes.

  For once we did not keep our eyes on the ground, but stared at our father, although no one spoke. As for me, I was too shocked to cry out the words that were on the tip of my tongue.

  Although our father did not tell us that we must add our names to the martyr’s list, he implied by his words and his expectant face that this would make him very happy.

  No one moved a muscle.

  My father repeated what he had said. “My Sons, there is a paper on the wall of the mosque. This paper is for men who volunteer to be suicide bombers. Those who want to give their lives for Islam must add their names to the list.”

  That’s when one of my youngest brothers, one too young to comprehend the concept of life and death, got to his feet, nodded reverently in my father’s direction, and ran off into the mosque. That small boy was going to volunteer to be a suicide bomber.

  I was furious, finally finding my voice. “My Father, how can you ask this of your sons?”

  Over the past few months, my father had become increasingly unhappy with me. I was turning out to be a disappointment, a son who did not want the mantle of power, who wanted peace, not war. He stared at me with evident hostility, gesturing with his hands. “Omar, this is what you need to know, my son. You hold no more of a place in my heart than any other man or boy in the entire country.” He glanced at my brothers. “This is true for all of my sons.”

  My father’s proclamation had been given: His love for his sons did not sink further than the outer layer of his flesh. His heart remained untouched by a father’s love. />
  Such a truth caused no small pain to me. I finally knew exactly where I stood. My father hated his enemies more than he loved his sons. That’s the moment that I felt I would be a fool to waste another moment of my life.

  I knew then that I was leaving, and leaving soon. When I did, I would not give my father any more thought than he gave me. My only challenge was how to get my mother and her children out with me.

  My brothers and I slowly walked away, with only the smallest boy having given my father’s Jihadi pride a boost.

  I waited a few more days until my father was walking from one building to another. I had been lurking in the background, trying to find a time that I could at least be near to his side without five or six men between us.

  Although he refused to acknowledge me, I spoke. “My Father, I am worried about my mother’s health. She has come to a dangerous age for having children. Will you allow me to take her to her mother? Perhaps she will be safe there.”

  My father did not answer, although he took a quick look at my face. I knew from that look that his father’s love for me had weakened to a dangerous point.

  Nevertheless nothing would stop me. I was becoming obsessed, the same as a few years back when I had harassed my father about the unwanted violence surrounding my life.

  And so the following day, I made the same appeal.

  My pleas were always the same, asking to take my mother to a better place for her delivery. I made sure I spoke to him at least once a day, sometimes twice, always in the presence of his men, for I could never find an opportunity for a private session.

  After ten days of stalking my father, he sent one of his men to get me. I followed the man warily, wondering if my father was so fed up with me that he might have me locked up.

  When I entered his office, I was met without affection, yet my argument had touched a nerve. “Yes, Omar,” he finally said, “your mother can travel to Syria for the birth of this child.” He gave me an unpleasant look, a final chance for me to change my mind.