Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [81]
For days I was frozen with shock and grief that an innocent person might be murdered at the hands of those he had believed offered protection. I fretted over the terrors my friend had endured in the last days of his young life—first being brutally gang-raped, then being falsely accused of having illicit sex, then his last image being that of a gun placed to his head before his world turned dark and his life on earth ended.
Creeping memories reminded me that I, too, could have suffered the same fate. Threats of rape were the preferred method of intimidation by the bullies at my former schools in Jeddah and Medina. I had never told anyone of the threats, for I was ashamed to be so menaced, but now I couldn’t help but wonder that if such a thing had happened, would I have forfeited my life for another’s crime?
For the first time I also realized that some of the men surrounding my father might be dangerous even to the sons of Osama bin Laden. Such men had danced with brutality since they were young, and now malice ran in their blood. I had always recognized this, yet felt immune to their cruel impulses. But Mohammed Sharaf was one of the most prominent leaders. If his son could be raped and murdered, my brothers and I could be targeted as well. From that time on we were very vigilant about whom we trusted, and for the first time had a glimmer of understanding as to why our father felt that his young sons must be kept secure.
One question kept troubling me: Why would my highly educated and soft-spoken father hang about with such ruffians, even if they were faithful to his cause? I really could not understand.
Although most of the veterans who had followed my father from the days of the Afghanistan-Russian war never exhibited criminal conduct, there were a few who bore watching. One of the men had murdered a puppy, while another buried a dog alive. A third slaughtered a beloved pet monkey.
Because of our Islamic teachings, few Muslims are fond of dogs. Our own Prophet suggested that it was best to avoid dogs. Despite this religious instruction, my father had ordered some German shepherd watchdogs from Germany and he often kept those dogs nearby. My brothers and I made friends out of some of the neighbor’s pets, as well as stray dogs that hung around the al-Riyadh Village, by saving some leftovers and feeding them. In the beginning our acts sprang from boredom, but as time passed, the cuteness of the puppies tugged at our hearts. Each of us soon had our favorites.
My preference was a dog named Bobby. He was a rich ginger and white color, medium in size, with funny floppy ears. Bobby had a wife named Shami. Those two loved each other and seemed to be sexually faithful. There was another dog we named Lassie and she tried to tempt Bobby, but he was uninterested at first. Since Lassie was more beautiful than Shami, we would try to encourage Bobby and Lassie to mate because we wanted puppies out of those two beauties.
Eventually this happened and Lassie became the mom of some beautiful pups. Then one day my favorite of the pups began to foam at the mouth. I called one of my father’s war veterans, hoping we could take the pup to the local veterinarian, but that veteran decided on the spot that the pup had rabies. He said he couldn’t shoot it, otherwise the entire neighborhood would be roused, but he would have to kill it. Before I knew what was happening he had dragged in a rope, climbed a tree, tied one end of the rope to a branch and the other around my pup’s neck. He called on my brother Abdul Rahman to hold one end of the rope, ordering him not to let go. Poor Abdul Rahman, not knowing any better, did as he was told. I was just a kid and stood there protesting in vain while my pup hung by the neck until it died.
A second veteran became so annoyed with the large number of stray dogs hanging around the neighborhood that he dug a hole in the ground and made