Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [3]
Many of the families in our neighborhood had originated from other lands. Mine came from Yemen, a faraway country that was reported to be spectacularly beautiful. I was never told specifics as to why our ancestors had left, but so many Yemeni families have emigrated to nearby countries that it is said Yemeni blood flows throughout the entire Arab world. Most likely it was simple poverty that drove our Yemeni ancestors to sell their livestock, close their homes, abandon inhospitable fields, and leave behind forever old friends in familiar towns.
I can imagine my ancestors sitting in their home, the men, dashing with their curved daggers, possibly chewing the leaf of the qat tree, while the women, with black eyes intensified by kohl, listened quietly as their men discussed the challenge of parched land or missed opportunities. The old incense trade had died out, and the rains were too uncertain to grow reliable crops. With hunger pangs stabbing the small bellies of their children, my ancestors were likely persuaded to mount tall camels and trek through the green valleys rimmed by those high brown hills.
Upon their arrival in Syria, my ancestors established their home on the Mediterranean, in the large port city of my own birth and childhood. Latakia was noted in texts over two thousand years ago, described as having “admirable buildings and an excellent harbor.” Framed by the sea on one side, and fertile land on the other, it has been coveted by many, and in the process was occupied by the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Romans, and the Ottomans. Like all ancient cities, Latakia has been destroyed and rebuilt numerous times.
Up until the time I married and traveled to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, my life experiences were limited to my family home, my school, my hometown of Latakia, and my country of Syria.
I was a daughter proud of her parents. When I was old enough to understand the things people said around me, I became aware of friendly talk regarding both the inner and outer beauty of my family. I was glad, of course, that we were respected for our good character, but my girlish pride was particularly pleased by talk of our handsome appearance.
My father worked in trading, which is a common way for Arab men in the region to make their living. I never knew much about my father’s daily life, for daughters in my culture do not accompany their fathers to work. I do know that he was diligent, leaving our home early in the morning and not returning until the evening hours. His hard work ensured a comfortable living for his family. Looking back, I believe that my father had a soft touch for his daughters. He was firmer with my brothers, whose naughty ways sometimes made it necessary for him to be alert.
Mother remained at home caring for our personal needs. She was a gifted cook and fastidious housekeeper. With a husband, three sons, and two daughters, her work was never finished. Much of her day was spent in the kitchen. I’ll never forget the wonderful meals she prepared for her family, beginning with a delicious breakfast of eggs, cheese, butter, sweet honey with feta cheese, bread, and jam. Our lunches might be hummus, made of chickpeas and spices, various vegetables fresh from the garden, newly picked tomatoes and cucumbers, mint-pickled eggplants stuffed with garlic, and pecan nuts. Our nighttime meal would be served between seven and eight. Our big eyes were often greeted by plates of mother’s delectable rice with peas, stuffed vine leaves, okra and kibbe, a dish particularly popular with Arabs, which is basically ground lamb with bulgur wheat mixed with salt, pepper, onions, and other spices.
Of course my sister and I helped with the housework, although our duties were light compared to Mother’s tasks. I kept my bed neat, washed dishes, and when I was not in school, was my mother’s kitchen helper.
Mother was the chief disciplinarian for all the children. In truth, when I was a young girl, I was frightened of her strict rules regarding the social