Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [54]
While our personal items were being transported by cargo ship away from Saudi Arabia’s long shores, my husband’s family was soon airborne, lifting into the indigo-colored skies of Jeddah to soar over the open desert.
There were eighteen of us. Each wife had been assigned seats with her children in various parts of the plane. While there were passengers unknown to us between our sections, we took no notice of those travelers. We exchanged many glances, looking forward or backward, peeking through our veils, silently inquiring if all was well with the others. Over the years the wives of Osama had become uncommonly dear to one another, considering we were married to the same man.
Osama’s first family was comprised of me and our eight children. Abdullah, a dear boy who cared deeply for his younger siblings, was fifteen years old at the time. Abdul Rahman, my second son, who was known to exert himself in whatever might catch his fancy, was thirteen. Both older sons were very quiet, behaving responsibly.
Chatty Sa’ad, often called the “joker” by his brothers, was twelve years old. As usual, high-strung Sa’ad appeared delighted to have a captive audience, making conversation with anyone who would listen.
My most sensitive child, Omar, who at the tender age of ten was beginning to prove himself an earnest and sincere adviser to his siblings, was sitting rigidly with a tense expression on his face. My mother’s instinct told me that Omar was still troubled over the fate of our mares on the farm. My fourth-born son loved animals and was always worried about one creature or another.
Eight-year-old Osman and six-year-old Mohammed were frolicking in youthful high spirits. Both were wriggling and giggling over something or other.
My four-year-old daughter, Fatima, was perched daintily beside me. Dear to my eyes was my one-year-old daughter, Iman, who copied every movement made by her older sister. My little daughters were such a profound joy for me.
Osama’s second family was Khadijah and her children. She had established herself only a few aisles away from me with her well-loved sons, Ali, who was a very serious and sweet seven-year-old boy, and Amer, her cherished two-year-old.
Osama’s third family was my closest friend in our “wife-family,” Khairiah, who was keeping close watch over Hamza, her active three-year-old boy, who was full of charming tricks.
Osama’s fourth family consisted of Siham and her three children. There was Kadhija, her pretty four-year-old daughter; Khalid, her happy three-year-old son; and finally, little Miriam, the premature baby who had been born the same day as my precious Iman, but who was now healthy, thanks be to God.
And so it came to be that four wives and fourteen children were on their way to their one husband and one father.
My husband’s face kept appearing in my mind. I was keen to see Osama, for it had been some weeks since he had mysteriously departed from Saudi Arabia. I had been told few details since that time, other than his startling instruction: “Najwa, do not leave one dish in Saudi Arabia.”
I knew that Osama would be waiting to greet us when we arrived at our destination. I prayed that God’s plans included just resolutions to all the problems my husband was facing, and that God would see fit to hand him the keys to the newly locked doors of Saudi Arabia. Then we might return to the home we had just left.
My musings, along with my two active little girls, kept me so occupied that two hours passed rapidly. Soon the pilot of the plane announced that we must prepare ourselves for landing.
I gazed through the small porthole window as we drew closer to our new home, Khartoum. Since I had never visited the country I would now call home, I was filled with curiosity.
Pressing my face against the window, I could vaguely see through my veil and watched the bare ground rising up beneath us. Teeny buildings