Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [66]
Shortly after nine each morning, students were given a break when we were free to meet other boys and to purchase a snack from the school canteen. Since our father had banned American soft drinks, my brothers and I were sure to purchase a can of cold Pepsi and a packet of crisps, or potato chips.
Since our school was one of the most expensive private schools in the city, many students came from wealthy families. Yet there were others whose families were of the professional class and in a few cases the poorer working class. Even if it meant pinching pennies and saving from their small family budgets, Sudanese parents made extreme efforts to give their children a good education. That meant there was a varied assortment of boys at our school, making the experience much more interesting, at least to me.
There were sports and games before the day ended. For the most part, my brothers and I greatly enjoyed playing with the Sudanese students, who were friendly. Yet there was one schoolyard game that I’ve never forgotten, mainly because it required a brutality that was not found in any other activities.
The boys would be selected for two teams. There was an assigned safe area. The teams would line up at a distance from the safe area with the goal being for various players to reach the safe area by outrunning the members of the other team. If one was unlucky enough to be caught, he would receive a physical beating. Those whippings were not your typical schoolyard thrashings. No, the physical poundings were painfully meaningful. Those slow of foot came away with black eyes, bent noses, and massively swollen lips.
From the days when my aim was to outrun my long-legged father in the hat game, as well as my time in Saudi Arabia when schoolyard bullies had chased me, I had learned to fly like the wind. As I studied the brutality of this new game and the distance I would need to sprint to safety, I knew I must run faster than ever before. When my turn came, I could have easily qualified for the Olympic trials. My feet practically flew over the playground and I outran them all.
I often asked those boys why they participated in such a violent game, but their only responses were affable grins and convincing talk that the game was steeped in their culture. The Sudanese believed that boys must not only be schooled, but should also be strong and hard, and that nothing toughened a body like a good beating. Obviously adults shared the boys’ opinions, because teachers would observe without interfering even when a boy was beaten bloody. No parents came to the school to complain about their injured children. Years later when I heard of the brutal Sudanese wars and the fighting among the various tribes, I understood that Sudanese boys really did need to learn physical endurance. In real life adult male Sudanese fighters ripped into each other with the ferocity of hungry lions.
After all that strenuous activity, we would all board the bus at one o’clock in the afternoon for a pleasant ride back to al-Riyadh Village. The same boys who had beaten each other silly on the playground maintained a perfect demeanor. I was astounded. In my Arab world such a beating would never have been forgotten, leading to years of fierce reprisals between entire families and even whole tribes. In the land of my birth, brutal tribal wars have been ignited over less.
The new country we now called home was fascinating. I enjoyed staring out the bus windows at the noisy street scenes. Colorfully dressed Sudanese appeared to be celebrating. Not only did men mingle with women, but such boisterous public gatherings are unknown even among men in Saudi Arabia. In the country of my birth, most of