Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [8]
I have never been told the particulars of that conversation, and it would be considered disrespectful to ask. To my surprise, while my heart was leaping with joy that Osama wanted to marry me, my mother argued against the match. Her lack of enthusiasm was not due to any dislike of Osama but to something more basic: She did not want me to move so far away.
Mother pleaded, “Najwa, please do not agree to this marriage. I want you close, daughter. If you go to Saudi Arabia, our visits will be as rare as expensive jewels.”
For a moment I stared at my mother without responding. She was right; once I was settled in Saudi Arabia, my visits home would be rare, for in those days people did not travel as frequently as they do now. I could understand my mother’s sadness, as it is one of the great joys of an Arab mother to see her children and grandchildren on a regular basis.
Marrying Osama also meant that my life would change in other, more dramatic ways. After moving to Saudi Arabia, I would be wearing the face veil. And Osama was so conservative that I would also live in purdah, or isolation, rarely leaving the confines of my new home.
Although I knew that my response would not please my mother, I replied firmly, “It is my life, Mother. I will decide. I love him. I will marry him.”
I have always been strong when I decide on an action. No one would keep me from marrying Osama.
And so it came to be that I was married in 1974, when I was fifteen, but soon to turn sixteen. My husband was seventeen.
On my wedding day, I was young in years but mature and certain in my thoughts. I was not apprehensive. All was perfect. My wedding dress was elegant and white. My hair was chic and perfectly styled. I knew that I looked as beautiful as I could look. My desperate wish was that my groom would be pleased with my appearance.
Although most weddings in Syria were flamboyant events, my wedding was purposely small and subdued, held in our family home and entirely appropriate for the conservative beliefs of the man I was marrying. We took special care to seat female guests on one side of the room, and male guests on the other side. After the brief ceremony, the segregated wedding party sat down to an abundant dinner of the usual Syrian dishes, barbecued meat, crushed wheat with pigeons, grape leaves, and kibbe. There were many desserts, but I felt no hunger, eating little. The entire evening felt dreamlike: I was a woman married to the man I loved.
Everything lively was banned. There were no musicians present to strum their instruments or to sing their songs. Those with dancing feet were instructed to remain motionless. Laughter and jokes were discouraged. The evening never progressed beyond small talk. Yet I was happy, for I could tell from the sweet expression on Osama’s face that he was pleased with me and satisfied with my choices. And so it was that my life progressed from childhood into adulthood by the end of that evening. I was a married woman in every way.
There were disappointments. Even though Osama and his family remained in Syria for a short time so that we could become accustomed to the change in our relationship, I was distressed to learn that my husband had to return to Saudi Arabia without me. My official travel documents were not yet ready. Such documents took time, even though I had married into one of the most influential and wealthy families in the kingdom. Instead, I would remain in my parents’ home, still a schoolgirl, waiting for approval of my new status as a Saudi citizen, the wife of Osama bin Laden.
My mother was much more pleased than I was about the delay. I was excited at the idea of living in a new country, and yearning to start my new life as a married woman.
The next few months were terribly unsettled, as I tried in vain to concentrate on my studies, while eagerly waiting for letters from Osama. From the words he wrote, I believe