Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [68]
As sons of Osama bin Laden, we were the beneficiaries of that worship. To protect Osama’s family, every man would have sacrificed his own life.
We were cautious of those guards at first, for their loyalty to our father made us believe that our father’s eyes were in their heads. We were too young to realize that we needed protecting, that there were people in the world who wanted our father dead, and if we were killed during the process, so be it. We believed that everyone on earth—except for those teachers in Saudi Arabia—revered our father, because most of the people we met loved him to the point of worship. “Your father is the prince,” we heard again and again.
Although our father had scores of men watching out for his sons, living in a busy neighborhood made it easier for us to evade the guards. Activity around our home was usually brisk, so we slowly learned ways to melt into the crowd or to slip away when the guards were busy with one thing or another.
Over time, we gained even more freedom. The Sudanese shackles we had so feared were slowly loosened. Did our father finally trust us? Or was he so busy with his various projects that we skipped his mind? I never knew the answer to that question.
To be sure, our father was engaged in many business interests during those years in Sudan. He once astounded us by saying, “Sudan is our home now. I will live out my life in this land.” I remember how odd I felt at hearing his words, wondering how he could bear a permanent break with the land of his birth.
But with his loyalties now attached to Sudan, my father became enthralled with a goal of bringing the impoverished country up to modern standards. From his time in Saudi Arabia, he had seen real economic prosperity and he wanted that success for Sudan. Without the oil wealth of Saudi Arabia, he surmised that fertile areas of Sudan would be the solution to bring the African nation out of poverty. In fact, the region south of Khartoum to the border of Ethiopia was popularly known as Sudan’s bread basket. That is the area where my father had numerous farms, growing many different kinds of vegetables and sunflowers. He also became involved in construction work, farming, and horse breeding.
Soon after arriving in Khartoum our father informed us that he had already purchased a horse farm. It was nothing elaborate like our farm near Jeddah, yet it was only fifteen minutes by car from al-Riyadh Village, so we went to the stables at least once a week. He had purchased a few horses before we arrived, and the stallions exported from Saudi Arabia brought the number to seven. I was delighted with every horse, with my favorite being the stallion named Lazaz, one of the horses my father had managed to bring from Saudi Arabia. The beautiful Adham was set to arrive in Khartoum as well.
Lazaz, which most Muslims will recognize as the name of Prophet Mohammed’s horse, was a pure Arab stallion with a chestnut mane and tail with a contrasting white blaze and three white socks, on his left foreleg and both back legs. Lazaz was a proud stallion, not the sort of horse that encouraged casual play. His greatest joy was running with his harem of mares and any interruption was a challenge for his human handlers.
I remember the day Lazaz was nearly killed for threatening my father.
Lazaz had recently arrived on a transport from Jeddah and was feeling frisky, for he had not been ridden in several months. He was prancing in a circular enclosure, eager to get away for his own horsey business. My father thought the time had come to take him out for a brisk ride. Lazaz had other ideas. When my father tried to saddle Lazaz, the stallion reared up on his back legs, dancing, angry, ready to attack. My father, who was a great horseman, was equally un-wavering in his aim to reclaim Lazaz.
They were fighting it out, a determined horseman and his equally determined stallion. My heart was in my throat because