Growing Up bin Laden Page 6

  “I rushed to the mound of dirt and rocks and began hurling debris and burrowing through dirt. I had hardly made a crack in the rocky mound before the helicopter returned, once again making the air hot with flashing explosives. I was forced to retreat once more, although careful to keep my eyes on the mound of stones hiding the entrance. The firing would eventually cease and I would rescue Abdullah, or so I thought. But God had other plans.”

  Osama glanced at our sons, asking, “Do you know what happened?”

  Our boys quietly murmured “La, la.” (No, no.)

  “I saw a miracle. God sent a second missile to hit the exact entry spot at the cave where Abdullah Azzam was trapped. That second explosive opened up the cave as cleanly as if it had been carved out by expert diggers.” He nodded, remembering. “Abdullah Azzam came walking out of that God-made crevice as calmly as a man going to a picnic!”

  My boys were awed by the thought of God’s miracles.

  A few days afterward, Osama informed me that he had plans that he believed would make me happy. He said that on his next trip to Peshawar, the city in Pakistan that was his base for gathering supplies and organizing fighters to be sent into Afghanistan, he was going to find a home suitable for our family. He had decided that on occasion, when our oldest boys were not in school, the family would go with him to Peshawar.

  I had never been to Pakistan, but was eager to make the trip, wishing that we could accompany him sooner, rather than later.

  For the past three years, Osama’s life had resembled that of an industrious bird flying from one roost to another. He would fly from our home in Saudi Arabia, to Peshawar in Pakistan, and from there dip into Afghanistan to connect with the Arab fighting forces on the ground. When he felt it vital to return to Jeddah, in order to raise additional funds for the fighters or work with his brothers in the bin Laden business, he would come back to us. But even when he was in Jeddah, his time with his family was severely limited; nearly every waking moment was crammed with important meetings regarding the battle against the Soviets or the construction business.

  I was pleased to hear that we would be spending some time in Pakistan. I had grown weary of staying in Jeddah while my husband was away for months at a time; and our growing sons needed their father, particularly our youngest, the toddler Omar, who seemed to miss his father more than all the other boys combined.

  By this time Osama and I had been married for eight years. Although there were tensions connected with his work in Afghanistan, for the most part, we had a sun-drenched marriage. I was more than pleased with my husband, and his behavior made it clear that he was equally happy with me.

  How could I know that our married life would soon change forever?

  Chapter 4

  Born the Son of Osama bin Laden

  OMAR BIN LADEN

  Since the time I could observe and reason, I have mainly known my father to retain his composure, no matter what might be happening. That’s because he believes that everything in this earthly life is in the hands of God. It is difficult, therefore, for me to imagine that he became so excited when my mother told him it was time for me to be born that he momentarily misplaced his keys.

  After a frantic search, I’m told that he settled my mother hastily in the car before spinning off at a reckless rate. Luckily he had recently purchased a new car, the latest Mercedes, because on that day he tested all its working parts. I’ve been told it was golden in color, something so beautiful that I imagine the vehicle as a golden carriage tearing through the wide palm-tree-lined boulevards of Jeddah.

  A short while after that chaotic journey, I made my appearance, becoming the fourth child born to my parents. I had three brothers who came before me, Abdullah, Abdul Rahman, and Sa’ad.

  Mother has often reminded me that I was her most trying pregnancy, causing her genuine discomfort with my never-ending kicks. She had taken those months of my intense activity as a warning sign, in the same manner that scientists monitor a restless volcano. Mother knew that her fourth-born was going to have a forceful personality.

  I was only one of many in a chain of strong personalities in our bin Laden family. My father, although quiet-natured in many ways, has always been a man that no other man can control. My paternal grandfather, Mohammed Awad bin Laden, was also quite famous for his strength of character. After the premature death of his father, who left behind a grieving widow and four young children, Grandfather bin Laden sought his fortune without a clue as to where he would end up. He was the eldest of his siblings.

  Since Yemen offered few possibilities in those days, at eleven years of age my grandfather bravely turned his back on the only land and the only people he had ever known, taking his younger brother, Abdullah, with him to join one of the many camel caravans trekking through the area.

  After traveling through the dusty villages and towns of Yemen, they arrived at the port of Aden. From there they sailed a short distance across the Gulf of Aden to Somalia, on the African continent. In Somalia the two bin Laden boys were employed by a cruel taskmaster, known for his furious outbursts. One day he became so annoyed at my grandfather that he hit him on the head with a heavy stick.

  The injury resulted in the loss of sight in one eye. My grandfather and uncle were forced to return to their village until his recovery. The following year they set out once again, this time traveling in the opposite direction, north to Saudi Arabia. I’m sure they were eager to stop at many outposts, but nothing seemed to have the magic they were seeking. The two boys, young and unlettered, lingered only long enough to earn sufficient money to stave off hunger and to continue what must have seemed an endless journey. Something about Jeddah, in Saudi Arabia, appealed to my grandfather, because that walled city on the Red Sea marked the end of their arduous voyage.

  I once heard that a penniless man can only go up in the world. That was certainly true for my Grandfather bin Laden, who was poor, yet full of energy and determination. He felt no shame in tackling any honest labor. Jeddah was the ideal place for such a character, for the city and the country were at an economic turning point. In the early 1930s my grandfather’s vigor, strength of mind, and attention to detail caught the attention of an assistant to King Abdul Aziz, the first king of Saudi Arabia, who had recently won many tribal wars and formed a new country, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

  King Abdul Aziz was known for his brilliance in getting the best out of men. He knew that he needed many smart, hardworking men to help modernize the kingdom, for his citizens were in need of hospitals, roads, businesses, and homes. The king was frustrated because he had many plans, but few competent builders to bring his plans to completion.

  The assistant who had noticed the quality of my grandfather’s work recommended him to the king. My grandfather genuinely liked the impressive king, who was physically and mentally strong. When the king asked my grandfather to make certain repairs, he was quick to do the work to the king’s liking. With the success of that first job, other jobs came his way.

  No one knew it at the time, but Saudi Arabia was set to become one of the richest and most influential countries in the world. After the 1932 formation of the kingdom, and the 1938 discovery of oil, the kingdom experienced a building boom never before witnessed. When the king wanted a new building or new roadway constructed, he turned to my grandfather. My grandfather’s diligence and honesty so pleased the king that he was put in charge of the most coveted job for a believer, the expansion of the Grand Mosque in Mecca.

  Everyone in our family knows that our Grandfather bin Laden had two main passions: work and women. He was extremely successful in both arenas. His ethic for hard work and total sincerity won him the complete trust of the king. With hard work came financial rewards, which enabled my grandfather to satisfy his second passion: women.

  In my culture it is not uncommon for men, particularly the very wealthy and the very poor, to have four wives simultaneously. My grandfather was soon so rich that he not only married four women, but continually
emptied several of the four marriage positions so that he could fill the vacated slots with new wives.

  With so many wives and ex-wives, my grandfather had so many children that it was difficult for him to maintain a relationship with each child. As was the custom, he did give extra attention to the eldest sons, but most of his children were seen only on important occasions. This did not mean he did not follow the progress of his children; he would take time out of his busy schedule to make cursory checks to ensure that his sons were advancing in school or that his daughters married well.

  Since my father was not one of the eldest sons, he was not in a position to see his father regularly. In addition, my grandfather’s marriage to my father’s Syrian mother, Grandmother Allia, was brief. After my father’s birth, his mother became pregnant by Grandfather bin Laden for a second time, but when she lost that baby to a miscarriage, she asked her husband for a divorce. For some reason, the divorce was easily given and my Grandmother Allia was free, soon remarried to Muhammad al-Attas and becoming the mother of four more children.

  Despite the fact that his stepfather was one of the finest men in Saudi Arabia, my father’s life did not evolve as he wished. Like most children of divorced parents, he felt a loss, for he was no longer as intimately involved with his father’s family. Although my father was never one to complain, it is believed that he keenly felt his lack of status, genuinely suffering from his father’s lack of personal love and care.

  I know how my father felt. After all, I’m one of twenty children. I’ve often felt that same lack of attention from my father.

  My father was known to everyone in and out of the family as the somber bin Laden boy who became increasingly occupied with religious teachings. As his son, I can attest to the fact that he never changed. He was unfailingly pious, always taking his religion more seriously than most. He never missed prayers. He devoted many hours to the study of the Koran, and to other religious sayings and teachings.

  Although most men, regardless of their culture, are tempted by the sight of a different female from the ones in their life, my father was not. In fact, he was known to avert his eyes whenever a woman not of his family came into his view. To keep away from sexual temptation, he believed in early marriages. That’s the reason he made the decision to marry when he was only seventeen years old.

  I’m pleased that my mother, Najwa Ghanem, who was my father’s first cousin, was his first wife. The position of the first wife is prestigious in my culture, and that prestige is tripled when the first wife is a first cousin and mother of a first son. Rarely does a Muslim man divorce a wife who is a cousin and the mother of the firstborn son. My parents were bound by blood, marriage, and parenthood.

  Never did I hear my father raise his voice in anger to my mother. He always seemed very satisfied with her. In fact, when I was very small, there were times that he and my mother secluded themselves in their bedroom, and were not seen by the family for several days, so I know that my father enjoyed my mother’s company.

  I understand his loyalty to my mother because she was a devoted wife and a wonderful mother. Her love for her children was indestructible. Although she was married to a wealthy man, and during the early years of their marriage had several housemaids assisting her, she personally took care of many of our needs, even hand-feeding us when we were sick.

  In my eyes, my mother was a perfect mother.

  My father was a different story. Although I cannot simply order my heart to stop loving my father, I do not agree with his behavior. There are times that I feel my heart swell with anger at his actions, which have harmed many people, people he did not know, as well as members of his own family. As the son of Osama bin Laden, I am truly sorry for all the terrible things that have happened, the innocent lives that have been destroyed, the grief that still lingers in many hearts.

  My father was not always a man who hated. My father was not always a man hated by others. There was a time when many people spoke of my father with the highest accolades. History shows that he was once loved by many people. Despite our differences, I am not ashamed to admit that I loved my father with the usual passion of a young boy for his father. In fact, when I was a young boy, I worshipped my father, whom I believed to be not only the most brilliant but also the tallest man in the world. I would have to go to Afghanistan to meet a man taller than my father. In truth, I would have to go to Afghanistan to truly come to know my father.

  I do have fond memories of my childhood. One early recollection involved teasing about a man having more than one wife. Many times when my father was sitting with his male friends, he would call out for me to come to him. Excited, I would follow the sound of his voice. When I would appear in the room, my father would be smiling at me, before asking, “Omar, how many wives are you going to have?”

  Although I was too young to know anything of men and women and marriage, I did know the answer he was seeking. I would hold up four fingers and gleefully shout, “Four! Four! I will have four wives!”

  My father and his friends would laugh with delight.

  I loved making my father laugh. He laughed so seldom.

  Many people found my father to be a genius, particularly when it came to mathematical skills. It was said that his own father was a numerical genius who could add up large columns of numbers in his head.

  My father was so well known for this skill that there were times that men would come to our home and ask him to match his wits against a calculator. Sometimes he would agree, and other times not. When he would good-naturedly accept the challenge, I would grow so nervous that I would forget to breathe.

  Each time I believed that he would fail the test. Each time I was wrong. We were all staggered that no calculator could equal my father’s remarkable ability, even when presented with the most complicated figures. Father would calculate lengthy and complex figures in his head while his friends struggled to catch up to the maths whiz with their calculators. I’m still amazed and have often wondered how any human being could have such a natural ability.

  His phenomenal memory fascinated many who knew him. His favorite book was the Koran, so on occasion he would entertain those who would ask by reciting the Koran word for word. I would stand quietly in the background, often with a Koran in my hand, checking his recitation carefully. My father never missed a word. I can admit now, that as I got older, I was secretly disappointed. For some strange reason, I wanted my father to miss a word here and there. But he never did.

  He once confessed that he had mastered the feat during a time of great mental turmoil when he was only ten years old, after his own father had been killed in a plane crash. Whatever the explanation for his rare gift, his champion performances made for many extraordinary moments.

  I have bad memories, along with the good. Most inexcusable in my mind is that we were kept as virtual prisoners in our home in Jeddah.

  There were many dangers lurking for those who had become involved in that increasingly complex quagmire that had begun with the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan two years before I was born. My father had become such an important figure in the struggle that he had been told that political opponents might kidnap one of his children or even murder members of his family.

  Because of such warnings, my father ordered his children to remain inside our home. We were not to be allowed to play outside, even in our own garden. After a few hours of halfhearted play in the hallways, my brothers and I would spend many long hours staring out the apartment windows, longing to join the many children we saw playing on the pavements, riding their bikes or skipping rope.

  My father’s piety made him strict in other ways. Although we lived in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, which is one of the hottest and most humid cities in a country that is known for its hot climate, my father would not allow my mother to turn on the air-conditioning that the contractor had built into the apartment building. Neither would he allow her to use the refrigerator that was standing in the kitchen. My father announced, “Islamic beliefs a
re corrupted by modernization.” Therefore, our food spoiled if we did not eat it on the day it was purchased. If my mother requested milk for her toddlers, my father had it delivered straight from cows kept on his family farm for just such a purpose.

  My mother was allowed to cook her meals on a gas stove. And the family was permitted to use electric lighting, so at least we were not stumbling around in the dark, using wax candles to light dark rooms, or cooking food over an open fire.

  My siblings and I hated such impractical directives, although my mother never complained.

  There was one place where the sons of Osama bin Laden lived a fairly normal life. That was on our farm, located only a short drive south of Jeddah. Father built a family compound on the farm. The land was vast and the compound was large, with many buildings. The family homes were all painted a lovely soft peach to blend in with the calm color of the desert. There was a mosque on the compound because my father could not miss the five required daily prayers. My father’s favorite building at the farm was the stables especially built for his beautiful horses.

  My father loved the outdoors. He very carefully laid out an orchard, planting the area with hundreds of trees, including palms and other varieties. He also created a costly man-made oasis, cultivating reeds and other water plants. My father’s eyes would sparkle with such happiness at the sight of a beautiful plant or flower, or pride at the spectacle of one of his prancing stallions.

  It’s good we had that farm to play on, because toys were forbidden, no matter how much we might beg. Father would give us some goats to play with, telling us that we needed nothing more than God’s natural gifts to be happy. On one happy occasion he came walking in with a baby gazelle.

  My mother was not pleased when my brothers and I slipped the gazelle through an open window and into our farm house. The coat of the gazelle was shedding, and when my mother found gazelle fur on the furniture, she raised her voice, which was unusual for her. Later we realized that she was pretending to be angry because we caught her secretly smiling at our antics.