Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [20]
At first Osama’s face wore a puzzled expression as he squatted to the floor and tugged with his slim fingers on Omar’s curls and girlish costume. He looked at Omar, then back at me, and back at Omar once again. Osama’s long fingers brushed the pretty dress on our son and quietly announced, “Omar, this dress you are wearing is for a girl. You are a boy.” He lightly brushed Omar’s hair with his hand. “This hairstyle is for a girl. You are a boy.”
My heart plunged in dread, for never did I seek my husband’s displeasure. In fact, I was known to be the most obedient wife.
Finally my husband gazed up at me. He did not shout, but spoke even more softly than usual, his voice as smooth as silk. “Najwa, Omar is a boy. Put him in boy clothes. Cut this long hair.”
I nodded mutely and did as I was told, at least temporarily.
My entertaining fantasy was over, at least when my husband was home. But I was still feeling naughty inside, at least on that one issue. As soon as Osama returned to Pakistan, my rebellion once again crept to the surface. I was so easily enticed by Omar’s beauty that I instinctively pulled those girly dresses over Omar’s head. My small joy continued until the afternoon when my husband walked into the house unexpectedly and I was caught in the act of admiring a pretty pink dress on Omar, whose hair was bouncing with curls.
Osama did not speak. He stood staring, his expression telling me that from that time on I should not tempt fate. And so I let go of my little sin, once again cutting Omar’s hair into a boyish style and quietly folding away those little girl dresses. Yet hope remained alive that one day a daughter would grace our home to fill those precious dresses.
Although there were many happy occasions, that was also a time filled with worries. After Omar was born, my husband began spending too many long weeks in Pakistan. When I accidentally overheard him tell other family members that some of his trips now included Afghanistan, I felt ill at the thought of the father of my children being in physical danger. Yet I did not dare complain, for my husband had made it abundantly clear that it was not my place to comment on anything outside our home.
We did not have a television, for my husband did not believe his family should be corrupted by such images, yet I learned through conversations with girlfriends and other members of my limited circle that my husband had become a well-known Saudi hero. I heard silly talk that many people wanted to inhale the very air that Osama breathed.
While it was no surprise that he and his brothers in the large bin Laden family gave much money to the cause, because it is well-known that the devout are generous when it comes to Muslim charities, everyone was astonished that a wealthy bin Laden son actually risked death or injury on the front lines.
Without knowing the specifics of my husband’s military or political life, I felt keenly that there was danger in that Afghan air. Every day I prayed that God would keep him safe for me. I knew that my worries were not unreasonable after he returned to Jeddah with red raised scars all over his body. My own eyes told me that he continued to involve himself in dangerous missions, for he was wounded more than once.
I was also alarmed when Osama confessed that he had learned to fly a helicopter. After observing my anxious expression for a few days, my husband brought in a large round stick and placed it in my hands.
“Now, Najwa,” he instructed, “hold the stick comfortably with your two hands, like this, and slowly move it around while you walk through the room.”
I did as my husband said.
“Is that difficult for you?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Then do not be worried about my safety. To pilot a helicopter is as easy as moving that stick.”
On another occasion when I asked