Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [64]
Marble stairs took us to the second floor. Both Auntie Khadijah and Auntie Siham had generous-sized apartments on the second, or middle, floor.
Climbing to yet another level, the third and top floor, always my mother’s favorite position in any home, we came to our family’s living quarters. There we found four bedrooms, a living room, bathrooms, a third kitchen, and a stairway leading to the rooftop. As in Saudi Arabia, Sudanese homes were built with flat roofs, an area serving as an open living space.
The house was rather disappointing for our tastes, but there was nothing to do but settle in and hope for the best. Undoubtedly, we were mischievous boys and the moment our parents locked the door leading to their private area, we burst into action, eagerly exploring the various rooms and good-naturedly quarreling over sleeping arrangements, although we were cautious to keep our voices low to avoid provoking our father’s legendary temper.
The house was plainly furnished, which wasn’t a surprise. Our father always scorned anything elaborate when it came to his family, often stating that we should not be pampered, and we were not. There were cheap Persian carpets on the floor and beige curtains on the windows. There were blue cushions placed seatlike along the walls, in the manner common in many Arab homes. There were no decorations, not even one picture hanging on the walls, although we did notice evidence of our father’s work tacked up on the walls of his study on the lower level. We tried to make sense of some maps and plans for the roads and factories he was currently building, but could not. As usual, his study was crammed with hundreds of books, both in English and Arabic, mainly to do with religion and military matters. Our father spoke and wrote fluent English because his own father had decreed that his children should be highly educated.
When we finally retired, we found that there was not enough space for all of us to have conventional beds, so we slept on mattresses tossed on the floor, ending with wall-to-wall mattresses in the bedrooms. In the morning it was necessary to roll up our mattresses for storage in order to walk around in the room.
The attached outdoor garden was generously laid out, with plenty of space for a group of boys to play. Unlike Saudi Arabia, which has little in the way of garden vegetation, there were some trees, thick bushes, and flower beds dotting the edge of the garden. In fact, everything about the physical grounds of al-Riyadh Village was to our liking, including a large empty lot a short distance from our home that we hoped to use as a soccer pitch.
Things were looking up.
Despite these early positive signs, worries nibbled at my mind. What about the mares we had left behind? When would our stallions arrive in Khartoum? Would our father purchase additional horses in Sudan? Would I find friends in this new environment? Would I be required to attend public school?
School was my principal concern. What if my Sudanese school experiences deteriorated into something even more hideous than I had already endured in Saudi Arabia? I prayed that our father was too occupied with his businesses to find a school for us.
Within a few days my brothers and I received the sobering news from one of our father’s drivers that we had already been enrolled in school. But when we learned that we would be attending the finest private school in all the country, the Al-Majlis Al-Afriiki Ta’leen Alkhaas school, our spirits lifted.
When we were fitted for our school uniforms, I noticed that they were in much the same style