Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  I said a final goodbye to Abu Haadi. That hardened warrior had wet eyes as he told me, “Omar, we will not meet on this earth again, but I will see you in paradise.”

  The most difficult leave-taking came when I bade farewell to my mother and siblings, struggling with a sinking feeling in my heart that I might never see any of them ever again.

  When I left my mother, I told her for a final time, “Please leave this place, my Mother. Come back to real life.”

  Chapter 29

  Leaving Afghanistan Forever

  NAJWA BIN LADEN

  My son’s visit had renewed my worries. All I could think about were his words of warning. For the first time, I felt that Omar had been speaking the truth, that it was best for me to leave Afghanistan. In fact, for the first time during my marriage to Osama, I wanted to take my children and return to my family home in Syria. However, I was not brave enough to approach my husband.

  I found myself thinking about leaving all the time, becoming obsessed with the idea that I must get out of Afghanistan. However, I did not want to leave without my children, at least my children who were unwed. That would be Abdul Rahman, and my four youngest, Iman, Ladin, Rukhaiya, and Nour.

  Osman had recently married a daughter of the one of the fighters, so I had four children, Sa’ad, Osman, Mohammed, and Fatima, who were bound with their spouses to Afghanistan. I knew that they would not go with me.

  I fretted until I was exhausted. Omar’s worries became my worries. With this worry ballooning into a huge fear, I finally realized that I would be happier if I at least made an effort. If Osama said no, then there was nothing to do, and I would accept whatever God sent my way. If Osama said yes, then I would take it as a sign that I should go.

  The hot summer came to an end in August, and that is when an opportunity arose for me to approach my husband. Not wanting to lose my nerve, I asked without hesitation, “Osama, can I go to Syria?”

  Osama did not move. He stared at me, thinking. During all the years of our marriage, Osama had always said that any of his wives were free to leave any time they felt the desire to do so. He said, “You want to go, Najwa?”

  “Yes, my husband. I want to go to Syria, to my mother’s house.”

  My husband and I did not speak of divorce, because that was not what I was asking. I only wanted to go to Syria, with my youngest children.

  Osama said, “Are you sure you want to go, Najwa?”

  “I want to go to Syria.”

  He nodded, his expression a bit sad. He said, “Yes, Najwa. Yes, you can leave.”

  “Can our children leave with me?”

  “You can take Abdul Rahman, Rukhaiya, and Nour.”

  “And Iman? And Ladin?”

  “No. Iman and Ladin cannot go. They belong with their father.”

  I nodded, knowing that I would be unable to change Osama’s mind about those two, but why, I will never know, for both were very young.

  “All right. I will take Abdul Rahman, Rukhaiya, and Nour.”

  Osama said, “I will arrange it. You will leave in a few weeks.” Then my husband turned and walked from the door, as though we were discussing the most mundane matters.

  Doubts stirred. Perhaps Omar was wrong. Perhaps there was no reason for me to go away.

  Osama saw me several times before I left. He made a particular point of telling me, as he had when I had gone to Syria to give birth to Nour, “I will never divorce you, Najwa. Even if you hear I have divorced you, it is not true.”

  I nodded, believing my husband. I knew that our family ties would ensure Osama’s loyalty. Besides, I was not seeking a divorce.

  In fact, on the morning I was leaving, I presented my husband with a round ring, a token of our years together. Osama had always been in my life, as my cousin before he was my groom, my groom before he was the father of my children.

  Early in September 2001, my son Osman drove me out of Afghanistan and far, far away from my sons Sa’ad, Mohammed, and Ladin and my daughters Fatima and Iman. My mother’s heart broke into little pieces watching the figures of my little children fade into the distance.

  But I did save Abdul Rahman, four-year-old Rukhaiya, and two-year-old Nour.

  For that entire journey across the rough terrain of Afghanistan, I never stopped praying that everything of the world could be peaceful, that all lives might return to normal. I believe that wish is universal for every woman who is a mother.

  For all the horrible events that have occurred since I left Afghanistan, I can only think and feel with my mother’s heart. For every child lost, a mother’s heart harbors the deepest pain. None can see our sons grow to men. None can see our daughters become mothers. No longer can we see the smiles on their faces, or wipe away their tears. A mother’s heart like mine feels the pain of every loss, weeping not only for my children, but for the lost children of every mother.

  Chapter 30

  September 11, 2001

  OMAR BIN LADEN

  A weird wail, followed by an excited voice, woke me from a deep sleep. I was at my grandmother’s home in Jeddah when my uncle came crashing into my room, his voice high-pitched and loud, his words confusing. “Look what my brother has done! Look what my brother has done! He has ruined all our lives! He has destroyed us!”

  He continued to shout, “Come quickly! Come and see what my brother has done! See what your father has done!”

  I dressed hurriedly and followed him into a room with a television screen. I saw flames belching from tall buildings. I had no idea what I was looking at.

  I knew soon enough, however: America was under serious attack.

  The words and the images were too horrific to comprehend. Although my uncle had expressed his worst fears, none of us could truly believe that someone we knew, someone we had loved, had anything to do with the catastrophic events we were watching.

  Despite Abu Haadi’s warnings, it seemed impossible for my father to be the one responsible for the chaos and death going on in America. The attack I was seeing was far too vast, something that only another superpower could organize. This was far bigger than my memory of Abu Haadi’s words and gestures, first holding his hand only a few inches from the ground, telling me, “Omar, this is how big the Embassy bombings were”, then raising his hand as high as he could reach, “This is how big the next mission will be.”

  Was this the mission? Surely not!

  Then I remembered a surreal moment. The night before, I had received a surprise telephone call from my mother, saying that she had taken my advice and had built up the courage to ask my father for permission to leave. She had left Afghanistan and was now in Syria. She had her two babies with her, along with Abdul Rahman. Her other children had been left behind in Afghanistan.

  “Ladin?” I asked.

  My mother paused, then said, “He is with his father.”

  That little boy’s plight tugged at my heart.

  In light of the current calamity, the implications of my father allowing her to leave struck me with great force. Had he let her go only because he knew what was coming?

  After seeing the New York towers, I called my mother, to learn that she was watching the television in Syria, but she was too distraught to have a normal conversation. The phone call was brief.

  The members of the huge bin Laden family reacted in the same way as my mother. Everyone shut down. No one spoke of the incident. My uncle never again addressed the possibility that my father was behind the attacks. My grandmother refused to consider the idea that her son had anything to do with the burning buildings.

  I, too, fed my own uncertainties with a million reasons why he could not have done this terrible deed. I did not want my father to be the one responsible.

  Only much later, when he took personal credit for the attacks, did I know I must give up the luxury of doubt. That was the moment to set aside the dream that I had indulged, feverishly hoping that the world was wrong and it was not my father who brought about that horrible event. After heari
ng an audiotape of my father’s own words taking credit for the attacks, I faced the reality that he was the perpetrator behind the events of September 11, 2001.

  This knowledge drives me into the blackest hole.

  Everyone knew that the American president, George W. Bush, would not let the attack go unanswered. We were waiting and wondering as to when the mighty American military would send their response. Truthfully, I lived in dread, thinking of my younger siblings and the horror they would experience from those massive American bombs.

  No one in the family heard from my father, although in the past he had always managed to make contact when he wanted to.

  Everyone in our bin Laden family became so subdued that we rarely spoke about any topic. Each was lost in his or her own thoughts.

  Finally, the suspense was over when the United States started their attack. On October 7, 2001, the Americans retaliated in the most massive bomb attacks anyone in that country had ever seen, which continued all through October and into November.

  Thousands of people in Afghanistan were dead. People were running for the borders, desperate to escape the bombings. Several of the Arab newscasters carried reports of the dead fighters because many were Arabs. I saw the image of Abu Hafs and heard that a bomb had demolished his home. Supposedly many people died along with him. I wondered if my brother Mohammed and his young wife were among the dead.

  Later I saw a fuzzy image of Abu Haadi flash across the television screen. He, too, was dead. My thoughts kept drifting back to the day when Abu Haadi said that I should leave, or I would die with him. He had been right; he was dead, and I was alive. I remembered that he had prepared his burial shroud, and kept it handy. I wondered if anyone had had time to wrap him in it for the burial.

  I could discover nothing about my brothers and sisters, although there were constant reports of sightings of my tall father. Knowing that Osman was the same height, I wondered if the satellites were picking up images of my younger brother.

  Supposedly, my father had returned to Tora Bora, to the mountain where he felt most at home. He would be hard to find there, I knew. No one knew those mountains like my father. I remembered that he recognized all the big boulders, knowing exactly the distance from one to the other. I heard reports that my father had sent his wives and children to Pakistan, and that he had followed.

  I will forever be haunted by the image of poor Ladin. My baby brother was the most nervous and easily frightened of all the children in our family. He had recently turned eight years old, too young to be without his mother. Was Ladin scrambling over those huge boulders and hidden paths I had maneuvered through so long ago when my father forced me to hike to Pakistan? My greatest anger was reserved for my father for forbidding Iman and Ladin to leave with their mother.

  Much time has passed since those awful moments. I have experienced many disappointments and I have known joy. Some people have tried to harm me, and those I will not name, while others have graciously offered a helping hand, including my bin Laden relatives, my mother’s relatives in Syria, the Egyptian government, led by President Hosni Mubarak, Sheik Hamad bin Khalifa al-Thani, the emir of Qatar, and King Abdullah bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud, the king of Saudi Arabia.

  My mother is alive and well. She wants to say a special thanks to all the people who have helped her since she returned to Syria. She wants to thank her family, my father’s family, and most importantly, the Syrian government headed by President Bashar al-Assad. President al-Assad and his family have been gracious and kindly to her and her children. My mother is very busy caring for her young daughters. I feel I played a small role in her survival. As for the fate of my siblings Sa’ad, Osman, Mohammed, Fatima, Iman, and Ladin, I have no idea if they are dead or alive, for I have not seen them since 2001, and, as far as I know, no one in my family has had contact with them. I have been married twice, and I have a handsome and sweet son, named Ahmed. My lovely Aunt Randa recently died of ovarian cancer, leaving many people to mourn her.

  During these years of loss and sorrow, I have had to reconcile myself to the truth about my father, Osama bin Laden. I know now that since the first day of the first battle against the Soviets in Afghanistan, my father has been killing other human beings. He admitted as much to me, back in those days when I was his tea boy in Afghanistan. I often wonder if my father has killed so many times that the act of killing no longer brings him pleasure or pain.

  I am nothing like my father. While he prays for war, I pray for peace.

  And now we go our separate ways, each believing that we are right.

  My father has made his choice, and I have made mine.

  I am, at last, my own man.

  I can live with that.

  Final Comments

  JEAN SASSON

  As a writer who mainly focuses on stories about the lives of women who have lived through dramatic, even dangerous, times, I frequently receive inquiries from men and women who hope I might bring their stories to the attention of the world. On rare occasions I find myself immediately intrigued.

  This was the case during the spring of 2008 when I saw an e-mail sent through one of my publishers’ websites claiming to be from a member of the Osama bin Laden family. Omar bin Laden was the fourth-born son of Osama bin Laden, the notorious al-Qaeda leader who had finally admitted his role in the September 11, 2001, attacks upon the United States. Omar said that he wanted me to reveal his personal story, to tell the world his experiences of growing up as the son of Osama bin Laden.

  Truthfully, my initial reaction was not positive. The images of 9/11 created such horror in my heart that I could barely think of Osama bin Laden without anger. But out of curiosity, I placed a telephone call to Egypt to speak with his son Omar.

  I quickly learned that Omar’s childhood had been miserable. Soon after our first conversation, I began to search the internet for information on Omar. Despite my empathy for any child of a ruthless father, my initial discoveries were not encouraging. This son of bin Laden was making headlines for two reasons. First, the media was most intrigued that he had married a woman nearly twice his age. The British tabloids were in a frenzy about this bit of unusual news, unsympathetically taunting the couple.

  Secondly, and more interestingly, Omar was pitting himself against his father. The son of a man who routinely called for death for non-Muslims was bravely promoting peace and not violence. This was a big surprise. From my knowledge of Saudi men, sons never speak out against their fathers. I have personally witnessed high-ranking royal princes tremble in anticipation of the arrival of their aging fathers. Saudis highly honor their fathers, a wonderful aspect of the Saudi culture, at least in most cases.

  Omar’s call for peace even as his father called for violence caused me to reconsider my initial inclination to refuse the writing project. My curiosity grew. What kind of father and husband had Osama bin Laden been? Had he loved his wives and children? If so, how could he fail to consider the effects of his reprehensible conduct on his innocent children? Indeed, after several more telephone conversations, I made many surprising discoveries about the private life of Osama bin Laden and his family.

  Omar had been a young boy of ten when his family had been forced to flee Saudi Arabia. He was a teenager when the family was told to leave Sudan. From there the family traveled to live in war-torn Afghanistan, then ruled by the brutal Taliban. Due to his father’s activities, Omar had lived an isolated life without the opportunity for an education. For years he was unable to visit his extended family.

  Omar seemed a natural peacemaker, yet he had no choice but to grow up around terrorist training camps. He had been forced to abandon his beloved horses each time the family had to flee. He had watched his beloved mother endure pregnancy after pregnancy while living in increasingly primitive environments. On three or four occasions, Omar had nearly lost his own life. He had been separated from his brothers and sisters, whom he loved dearly, leaving six siblings behind in Afghanistan.

  The questions in my mind
continued to fester. Had Osama’s sons been forced to participate in fighting? Had his young daughters been married against their will? Was Osama bin Laden cruel, or kind, to his wives and children? What really went on in the Osama bin Laden household?

  Certainly, Osama bin Laden had always been extremely private about his personal life. Suddenly here was an opportunity for the world to discover the unknown truth about a man who had lost the right to maintain that privacy.

  I discovered that no books written about Osama bin Laden or his family had the cooperation of a single bin Laden family member. Although Carmen bin Ladin’s book, Inside the Kingdom: My Life in Saudi Arabia, was a wonderful read, Carmen had married into the family. Her best-selling and very interesting story was more of a personal account of life in Saudi Arabia and her ongoing divorce dispute with Osama’s half-brother.

  Steve Coll’s highly praised book, The Bin Ladens, was meticulously researched and well written, yet the author received no cooperation from any primary bin Laden source. As the author himself puts it, “In response to numerous requests for interviews over a three-year period, bin Laden family members offered only very limited cooperation, other than those in Yemen; senior family members based in Jeddah granted no extensive or substantive interviews . . . Nonetheless, after the manuscript was substantially drafted, Julie Tate and I attempted to fact-check material about living bin Ladens with family representatives. Through their lawyers, the family declined to respond to the great majority of written questions submitted.”

  I soon learned that Omar’s mother was Osama’s first cousin and first wife. In fact, the couple had never divorced, although Najwa was no longer living with her husband. I was surprised to receive a letter from Najwa, telling me about Omar. Her letter touched my heart, for I realized the effort it took for her to write a letter to an American woman whom she did not know. I had learned through Omar that his mother was a highly conservative Muslim woman who had always lived in seclusion. Such a woman does not easily reach out to a westerner.