Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [143]
I found some of my old school friends and we mused over the good times we had enjoyed together. Many of those boys had never known what happened to the bin Laden boys, just that one day we were at school and the next we were not. They had not heard of the assassination attempt on Osama bin Laden, which was the reason our father had withdrawn us from the school. A few admitted that they had later learned we had left Sudan entirely. Most assumed we had returned to Saudi Arabia, to the good life, and were surprised to hear that we had gone to Afghanistan. A few of the boys looked at me sadly, smart enough to know that our bin Laden lives were not as they should be.
Afterwards I went to visit the businesses my father had set up and the lands he had purchased, all with our bin Laden inheritance. Many businesses had once borne our family name, including a large leather-processing factory where my father had taken his sons on several occasions, proudly noting that it was one of his most successful business ventures.
I arrived to see that the leather factory was closed and the building had been given to a nearby college, which was using it as housing for teachers. I grew angry at the idea, for that factory belonged to the bin Laden family, and no one had the right to present it as a gift to others.
I wasted so much time at that factory, pacing about and wallowing in anger, that I suddenly realized that it was growing dark. Knowing I should return to Khartoum quickly, before the night made the journey unsafe, I decided to swim the Nile, rather than take the long route over roads to get to a bridge.
This decision was not as foolish as it might seem, for my brothers and I had swum the width of the Nile many times. There was no reason to feel foreboding. Although the sun had disappeared from the sky, the full moon lit the night, reflecting light off the river’s waves. By my calculations I could swim to the city within ten or fifteen minutes. Walking would take several hours because the nearest bridge was a long way off.
I sat on the edge of the river to remove my shoes, thrusting them between the waist of my pants and my flesh, then waded into the cold, dark water. I could see the palm trees swaying on the opposite shore, reminding me that I had only a short distance to swim.
Within minutes I was in trouble. The current was deceptively strong, pulling me away from the shore, pushing my body down the river. Rather than float to conserve my energy, I kept fighting the current, thinking that if I only tried harder I would make it to the shore. My futile efforts were exhausting. Soon I grew so tired that every muscle in my body pulsated with pain.
Hours passed as I bobbed in the Nile, my thoughts drifting incoherently. I cursed myself. I should have brought Sa’ad with me to the factory. I had not even told him where I was going. In fact, no one knew where I was, not even the fine family who had offered me a place to stay. No one had a clue that I was floundering in the Nile. I would most likely be eaten by a crocodile, disappearing without my family knowing my fate.
I prayed to Allah, begging him to send me a single piece of driftwood, something to hold on to until I could reach the shore. Allah answered my prayer; at that moment I caught a glimpse of an object floating past, and when I surged forward to grab it, my feet touched the bottom. I was at a spot where the river runs shallow. I had been flailing when I could have stood and walked out of the water.
Feeling rather foolish, I scrambled to the sandy bank thankful to be alive, yet not knowing where I was, for I had drifted a very long way. I would have to wait for sunrise to find my way back into Khartoum. The night air was freezing. I searched the edges of the Nile until I found a big stick, probing the sand until I found a good place, not too soft and not too hard, plunging the stick into the dirt until it was firmly planted. I then removed my wet clothes and hung them from the stick. My shoes had been lost.
I had never been so cold, not even