Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [29]
I leapt with glee, believing that I had tempted my father away from his military work. Now I was certain that he would leave behind his worries to join his young sons in a game of ball. I smiled happily, running as fast as my short legs would take me. I was proud of myself, thinking that I was the only one with enough spark to remind him that he had young sons.
I gathered up each of my brothers, speaking rapidly in an excited voice, “Come! Father wants to see us all! Come!”
I failed to notice that my older brothers were not so eager to gain our father’s attention.
I was still anticipating something good even as my father ordered us to stand in a straight line. He stood calmly, watching as we obediently lined up, one hand clutching his wooden cane. I was grinning happily, certain that something very special was about to happen. I stood in restless anticipation, wondering what sort of new game he was about to teach us. Perhaps it was something he played with his soldiers, some of whom I had heard were very young men.
Shame, anguish, and terror surged throughout my body as he raised his cane and began to walk the human line, beating each of his sons in turn. A small lump ballooned in my throat.
My father never raised his soft voice as he reprimanded my brothers, striking them with the cane as his words kept cadence, “You are older than your brother Omar. You are responsible for his bad behavior. I am unable to complete my work because of his badness.”
I was in excruciating anguish when he paused in front of me. I was very small at the time and to my childish eyes, he appeared taller than the trees. Despite the fact I had witnessed him beating my brothers, I could not believe that my father was going to strike me with that heavy cane.
But he did.
The indignity was unbearable, yet none of us cried out, knowing that such an emotional display would not have been manly. I waited until he turned his back to walk away before running in the opposite direction. I could not face my brothers, knowing that they were sure to blame me for bringing our father’s cane down on their backs and legs.
I sought solace in the stables, seeking out my favorite horse, a beautiful white Arabian mare called Baydah. She was about fourteen hands high, with a coal black tail and mane. I thought she was a queen, with her strong, proud stance. Baydah loved me, too, and could pick me out from a large crowd, galloping to me to pluck a juicy apple from my fingertips. I remained with Baydah for hours, so stricken that I could not think coherently. As the sun began to leave the sky, I forced myself to return home, for I was too frightened to cause a further ruckus. I slipped in without notice, wanting to avoid my brothers, who would surely blame me for their beatings. Once in bed the dam of sorrow burst with sudden and unexpected loud wails coming from deep within.
My cries were so loud that my worried mother came into the room and asked, “Who is that crying?”
Mortified, I buried my head in my pillow so that the sounds of my misery might be muffled.
Now that I am an adult, I believe that perhaps my father had too many children at too young an age. Or perhaps he was so immersed in his war work that our importance failed to register against such a massive cause as fighting the Russians.
During my childhood, I can recall one magical moment when my father held me in his arms. The charmed incident was connected to prayer time.
When Father was home, he commanded his sons to accompany him to the mosque. One day when we were at the farm, the sound of the muezzin’s