Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [124]
My mother said little when I told her that we were leaving the bin Laden Mountain to return to a life in the city. My mother refuses to condemn my father, even to me, her son, yet I saw her small shoulders lift and I believed that motion signified a lifting of stress. I hoped that her worries lessened. I could tell that she was concerned about the safety of her youngest children, particularly her two young daughters. By this time my mother was heavily pregnant with her tenth child, so I prayed that we would be off the mountain before the time came for the child to join us.
Despite the fact that the civil war had exploded, I believed that any kind of life would be better than the life we were living. For the first time in months, my spirits rose. A pleasant thought crossed my mind: Perhaps after escaping Tora Bora, I might even find a way to flee the country.
Chapter 19
Mountain Life
NAJWA BIN LADEN
While living on my husband’s mountain, I watched my oldest sons grow into adults. Abdul Rahman was a man at nineteen years, while Sa’ad followed closely at eighteen. Omar, who seemed many years older than the actual time he had spent on earth, would soon be sixteen. Osman, who was growing as tall as a mountain, was fourteen. It appeared that Osman would be the son that achieved his father’s lofty stature. Sweet, quiet Mohammed was twelve, striving to keep up with his older brothers.
I spent many hours with my youngest children, for we were mainly isolated in our living quarters. Fatima was a serious ten-year-old girl, shadowed by seven-year-old Iman. Ladin, still called Bakr by Osama, was my youngest son, an active toddler at three. My daughters adored their little brother and took pleasure in being little mothers, the way many little girls pamper toddler siblings.
My daughters and I had managed to acquire some sewing supplies from my sons, who were sometimes allowed off the mountain to go to the villages below to purchase supplies. So my girls and I sat together and chatted while we darned old clothes and tried to make new ones without the benefit of a sewing machine or electricity.
The nighttime was spooky on the mountain. Other than moonlight, we only had gas lanterns to light our way. I was still cooking on a one-eyed burner, which was nearly impossible with so many hungry children to feed.
Hunger and cold were our two most vexing problems. There were many people that my husband must feed, yet his resources were few. Although there were times that I swayed from weakness because there was not enough food, my main worries were for the unborn child I was carrying and the lively children at my feet. Never had I imagined that I would see my children cry from hunger pangs. I have never known a more helpless feeling.
The cold mountain weather was a big problem. Our only heat was supplied by the wood-burning metal stove. We kept the fire burning day and night, but to no avail, became Tora Bora Mountain was subject to terrible blizzards. With snow piled up to the top of our roof, it was difficult to heat even three tiny rooms. Many were the hours that my children and I hovered close to that metal stove, shivering with cold, and wondering how we might survive without frostbite.
My sister-wives faced the same challenges, and I do not know what we would have done without each other. Our husband had so many business matters that he was away as much as he was on the mountain. Thank goodness my sons were old enough to take over some of Osama’s duties of looking out for their mother, aunties, and siblings.
The isolation brought me closest to my son Omar. For the first time I had the opportunity to observe all my children closely, and Omar’s behavior revealed that he had grown the strongest personality and had become a man in all ways. Yet he had many facets to his character. My good son was trustworthy, faithful, and decent, yet he could be short-tempered, reaching quick decisions that he stubbornly held to even in the face of evidence that he might be wrong.
Our sleeping quarters