Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [70]
We even had money to spend, something new and tantalizing for us, although we did not obtain the money in a purely honest way. Our father was of the opinion that his children should never be given money, not even for school snacks. We needed pocket money for basics, but he said, “No. You need to suffer. Hunger pangs will not hurt you.” Improbably, our father was different from so many fathers who wanted nothing but the best for their children. Our father appeared to relish seeing us suffer, reminding us that it was good for us to know what it felt like to be hungry or thirsty, to do without while others had plenty. Why? He said that we would end up being the stronger ones. Those with plenty would grow up weak men, unable to defend themselves.
His was an opinion that found no agreement with his sons, but of course, we were not allowed to oppose our father. If we protested, there was no possibility of a calm discussion between father and son. Instead, he would quietly order us to stand to be beaten. His wooden cane was his favorite weapon, but there were times he became so excited when hitting his sons that his heavy cane broke into two pieces. When the cane snapped, he rushed to grab one of our sandals by the door, using that to hit us.
It was not unusual for the sons of Osama bin Laden to be covered with raised red welts on our backs and legs.
In the past our drivers in Saudi Arabia would feel for our pitiful situation, coming to see that our father was cruel. Those poor drivers tried to compensate, being gentle and kind, and slipping us small amounts of change, money they could ill afford to give. But in Sudan, we had no such luck. The men working for our father did not live as closely to our family and were unaware of our personal situation.
Being clever boys, however, we found methods to obtain a little small change.
In those days our mother had an allowance from our father, so she had money to spare. From the early days of her marriage she had acquired a habit of concealing money in her bedroom. She would tuck bills under magazines, in books, or in drawers. We knew all her hiding places. My brothers and I would take turns looking out for our mother while one brave boy would dash into her room for a quick search.
Since Mother never once mentioned mislaid money, we concluded that she recognized our needs, yet would not go against our father’s wishes to actually give us cash. Rather than disobey our father, she left currency where she knew we could easily find it. Were this not her intent, I’m sure she would have spread the word that her money was being stolen.
After finding her stashes, we would slip from the house and dash to some of the small markets scattered throughout our neighborhood. There we would splurge on snacks and soft drinks. We were never discovered, much to our relief, for we knew the penalty for outright disobedience.
With our newfound funds we even took up a hobby. We became interested in pigeons, for it was a popular pastime in Sudan. We had heard that the village close to our compound was the best place to purchase high-quality pigeons. Luckily we had personal means of transport, because our father had decreed that the oldest boys could have bicycles. This had happened shortly before we left Saudi Arabia around the time I was nine years old. Before then, we could not have bicycles or any kind of mechanical transportation. I remember pleading with my father for a bicycle or a motorbike, telling him that I must have one for short trips. I’ll never forget his words, “If you need to travel, Omar, travel on a goat.”
But for whatever reason, one day he simply changed his mind and commanded one of the family drivers to purchase Abdullah a motorcycle, a Quad bike, and that the rest of the boys could have bicycles, the most expensive that money could buy. That was one of the happiest days of our young lives. We loved our bicycles so much that we had