Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [163]
Chapter 27
To Syria
NAJWA BIN LADEN
I felt Osama’s eyes upon me as I walked past to settle myself in the black SUV. I wondered if my husband would say goodbye, because he had been strangely quiet about my departure. As soon as I settled in the back seat of the vehicle, my husband headed in my direction, stopping to peer intently through the window at my burqa-clad self.
My husband surprised me with his words.
“Najwa, no matter what you might be told, I will never divorce you.”
Wordless, I stared. Divorce? I had not been thinking of divorce. I was only going to Syria to have my child.
Osama then said, “As soon as you can travel, return with the baby.”
“My husband, I will,” I replied. “I will return with the child as soon as I can.”
Osama smiled, knowing that I meant what I said. In all our years of marriage, I had never lied to my husband.
The ill feeling was palpable between Omar and Osama. Omar did not turn back to speak to his father and Osama did not make any effort to talk to his son. I was not privy to what had happened between my husband and my son, because neither speaks easily of private matters, but something serious had created a schism. Since Omar had become a teenager, his path had swerved from his father’s. I only hoped that time would bring them close. I knew from his earliest days that Omar had loved his father with more feeling than any of my children, but that love had been damaged.
Just then Omar started the engine of the car. He drove away, his neck strong and rigid, determined to leave without any emotion, but at the last minute I saw my son’s neck rotate as he relented and took one final look at his father. I looked back, too, although I am sorry I did, for my eyes could see nothing but my tiny son Ladin standing lonely by the side of the road, weeping for his mother. Iman was standing near her older brother Mohammed, keeping up her brave facade. But little Ladin’s face showed all the emotion of his heart. Unable to restrain himself, Ladin began running along beside our vehicle, still crying out to Omar, “My Brother, please take me with you. Please let me go with my mother. My Brother, I beg you.”
Omar wound down his car window and waved, shouting, “We will take you next time, Ladin. We will.”
My mother’s heart was broken. My two youngest children were clearly frightened. But the evening before I had talked with them both, and had given them my heartfelt promise: “I will be back. Be brave. I will be back.”
And I would. I had no intention of leaving my children forever. I would return.
I sighed deeply and turned my attention to Fatima. I knew that Fatima and her husband were going no farther than the Pakistani border, where Omar, Abdul Rahman, Rukhaiya, and I would transfer to a taxi which would take us to a Pakistani airport. From there we would fly to Syria. “Fatima,” I said, “take special care of Iman and Ladin.”
“I will, my mother. Do not worry.”
We were all quiet for long periods, for any journey by road in Afghanistan is dangerous and exhausting, and passengers tend to keep their attention on the hillsides hugging the road. Although Osama had arranged for us to travel in his newest and best vehicle, a large, reliable SUV, the roads were so dreadful that within a few miles we felt as though we had been beaten with big sticks.
My pregnancy of seven months was no fun. I felt awkward, unable to find a comfortable position. Rukhaiya was only a toddler so she required a lot of attention, climbing over my body from me to Fatima and back. Fatima had been assisting with her younger siblings for as long as she could remember. I knew that my Fatima would make a wonderful mother, but due to her youth, I hoped any pregnancies would be far in the future.
Fatima’s husband, Mohammed, reported that the car journey would take three days, and those days would be hazardous. Afghanistan remained an unruly land with ongoing tribal squabbles and gangs of bandits lurking to rob travelers. We had heard that bandits often murdered their