Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [144]
Before the sun appeared in the sky, I was awakened by voices. Startled, I looked up to see a large group of angry men bombarding me with questions, “Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you here?”
I told them my story, which they didn’t seem to believe. I was becoming afraid, for I was only a teenager, lying naked in a hole, and the men had a roughness about them that alerted me to danger.
For what reason I will never know one of the older men began shouting, “He is a ghost! He is a ghost!” Several of the men flinched and pulled away from me. Another one gasped. Ghosts obviously frightened them, for they turned and fled up the shoreline.
I lay still for a few moments, thinking about what had just happened. Realizing that a calmer mind might think better of the ghost idea and convince his comrades to return to beat and rob me, I cautiously crept out of my hole, dressed, and searched for a better place to hide. After a few miles of walking, I dug another hole and tried once again to capture some much needed sleep. As fate would have it, a different group of men soon arrived, as suspicious as the others. They, too, demanded to know who I was and what I was doing in their territory.
Remembering the reaction to the mention of a ghost by the other gang, and knowing that most rural people are often superstitious, I shouted loudly, “I am a ghost! I am a ghost!”
Those men froze, and then, taking me at my word, the whole group ran like the wind. From such reactions, I sensed that I must be in a very dangerous, lawless region, and decided to look for a village where I would find a cleric.
Luckily I soon found a village with a mosque where a kindly man of God gave me food and a place to rest. Afterwards, he guided me to the best place to find a way back into Khartoum. I managed to catch a ride on the back of a wagon, which was sheer misery, for the dirt road was so dry that grit blew into our faces.
When I reached the outskirts of Khartoum I took a taxi to the home of the family where I was staying. My host was waiting for me, frantic for my safety. Surprisingly, when I told him my story, he became furious, shouting accusations, saying that I was a bad Muslim! Then he accused me of spending the night with a woman. My true story of swimming the Nile, nearly drowning, spending the night in a hole, being accosted by ghost-fearing natives, and finding sanctuary in a village mosque, was so implausible to his ears that he never believed the truth he was hearing, remaining annoyed up until the day I left Khartoum.
His reaction disheartened me.
After such unhappy experiences, I settled down and tried to find a bride. Everywhere I turned, I met with rejection. Perhaps my host had warned his friends that I was prone to wild nights. I’ll never know. But no one wanted their daughter to marry me.
Imagine my surprise when I learned that Sa’ad had accomplished the impossible. With single-minded purpose, the same as when he looks for food or describes a delicious meal, my brother had focused and found himself a pretty bride. Knowing Sa’ad, he probably harassed everyone he knew until they grasped that the only way to shut my brother up was to find him a bride. The girl was sixteen years old, old enough for marriage with her family’s permission.
Sa’ad was elated that his wedding was set. The wedding was not a big affair, but decidedly joyful because the groom was so excited. The wedding was held at the girl’s home, with the women inside and the men outside. Afterwards, her papers were prepared and arrangements were made for her to accompany her new husband back to Afghanistan.
Wifeless, I returned to the comfort of my mother and siblings in