Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [69]
Nothing my father could do calmed Lazaz. He repeatedly attacked my father, the fury in his eyes flashing threats of violence. Suddenly I noticed that one of my father’s friends had loaded and lifted his weapon, its barrel aimed directly at Lazaz’s head. The faithful man was taking no chances that Osama bin Laden might be crushed by a horse, no matter how valuable or beautiful a stallion Lazaz might be. Thankfully my father saw the man’s action out of the corner of his eye, even as he was busy trying to keep away from Lazaz’s flailing hooves. My father, who loved horses more than any man, shouted, “No! Go! Bring more men!”
Someone did as he asked and soon the enclosure was filled with five or six men, none, other than my father, accustomed to taming horses.
But eventually poor Lazaz was cornered and secured. On that day my father ordered Lazaz to be “twitched,” which means a short loop of rope is attached to a piece of wood that is put around the muzzle of a horse and tightened until it is painful. Arabs believe that the tightness releases a chemical that subdues a difficult horse.
Before long my father had returned Lazaz to the point that he could be ridden, and from that day, for as long as we lived in Khartoum, Lazaz was relatively content.
I am sorry that in addition to his good activities, I know now that my father continued to be involved with his militant activities, although due to my young age I was not privy to specifics.
Meanwhile, our father remained convinced that as Muslims, we should live as simply as possible, scorning modern conveniences. Although we were allowed to use the electric lights in our villa, all were forbidden to use the refrigerators, electrical stoves, or the cooling or heating systems. Once again, our mother and aunties were forced to cook meals for their large families on portable gas burners. And, with Sudan’s hot climate, all suffered without air-conditioning.
None of the children agreed with our father about these ideas, although his wives refused to express their opinions. In fact, when we knew our father had traveled out of Khartoum, my older brothers and I would sneak to turn on the refrigerator, or even flip the switches for the air-conditioning. But our mother was so terrified that our father would discover our rebellion that we would soon go back to his rules.
I overheard some of his faithful Mujahideen quietly complaining because they were not allowed to use the modern conveniences either. Those men had lived a harsh warrior’s life for too many years, and saw no reason for needless suffering when surrounded by modern conveniences.
Even when guests from wealthy Gulf countries arrived to stay in the guest house, my father’s rules were not relaxed. Many times I saw prosperous businessmen and royal princes sweating profusely, some of them made cranky by the impossibly high temperatures. After hearing numerous complaints, my father finally purchased a supply of small hand fans made from woven grass, which the Sudanese sold in the open market. I had to stifle my laughter watching those high-ranking visitors frantically fanning the warm air around their heads and bodies.
My brothers and I spent much time scheming to flee the al-Riyadh neighborhood so that we could escape our father’s mad world. Being active boys formerly accustomed to living the life of prisoners, we began to test the boundaries of our newfound freedom, lingering out of our family home for longer and longer periods each day.
In the beginning we were only brave enough to hang about in the family garden. Looking for anything to fill the empty hours, we asked some of our father’s workers for construction materials to build houses in the garden trees. Those men were agreeable, finding us what we needed. Our tree homes became quite elaborate with each boy having his own personal space.
Our unexpected liberation tasted sweet! Suddenly we had freedom to