Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [116]
Osama gently led a shaken Abdul Rahman out of the room and quietly told him, “My son, go home to your mother.” My serious husband then peered up to see a frightened Sa’ad and Osman peeking over the edge. Omar reported that his father spoke with ominous calm, “Sa’ad. Osman. Move the dogs from this area or I will kill them at the end of my meeting.”
The boys gathered their dogs and scattered. Omar watched as his father coolly returned to his meeting and the four men resumed their business as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Omar was the son who most worried me. I saw that since coming to Afghanistan he had become very sad. I did not express my concerns, but carefully observed as Omar spent too many long hours sitting in our home. Sometimes he would turn his back to the world and perch for hours with his ear next to the radio, leading me to believe that he had fallen asleep with that radio to his ear. But when I slipped around to get a view of his face, he would have his eyes wide open like a corpse, although a breathing corpse. My most sensitive son was in trouble and his mother did not know what to do to help him. The only good advice I could offer was to remind him that everything was in God’s hands and as such all would be okay.
Before the wives and other children had arrived in Afghanistan, Omar had his father all to himself. I believe that such closeness did my son good. Of all my children, Omar felt the keenest longing for a father’s love. But now that the entire family had arrived in Afghanistan, Osama once again became distant, coming to his wives and children infrequently.
One day I was surprised when Abdul Rahman, Sa’ad, Omar, Osman, and Mohammed came to me, with Omar as their spokesman, saying, “Dear mother, we never see our father. Can you speak with him and tell him we need his attention?”
I was so startled that I could not speak. Some consideration was required, for since the beginning of my marriage I had never questioned my husband. Osama always had his mind on matters of the world, and did not appreciate input from his wives. But now my nearly grown sons were asking their mother for a simple favor.
“Yes. I will,” I promised, pledging that I would find the strength to approach my husband.
The next occasion when Osama appeared in my humble hut to take the evening meal with us and stay the night hours, I gathered my courage to tell him, “Osama, your sons need you now that they are becoming men. Please do spend some time with them.”
Osama looked stunned, for never had I been so bold. He did not reprimand me, though, but said, “I will speak with them.”
The hut was so small that there was nowhere for me to go so that my husband and boys might have their privacy. So when Osama called them in for a little talk, I was a witness.
My boys gathered to sit in a circle, and like good boys they sat in a respectable way with one leg under their body and the other knee touching their chests. There they sat without looking up. In our culture boys do not meet their father’s eye in a daring manner, instead speaking while their eyes remain downcast. As usual, Omar was the one chosen by his brothers to convey the message. I was awed to hear Omar speak so clearly, and without fear. “My father, we are feeling ignored. You are our father but you spend all your time with your men.”
Osama sat easily, sipping on his tea, studying his sons. Finally he said, “My children, it is not that I do not want to spend time with you. I would be very pleased if I could be with you all many more hours in each day, but you know my situation and how difficult our lives have become. You know the hours that I work. You must learn to be grateful for the brief times we see each other.”
My boys did not say anything. I knew Osama