Chapter 1 My Youth najwa bin laden I was not always the wife of Osama bin Laden. Once I was an innocent child dreaming little girl dreams. These days my thoughts often drift back in time and I remember the little girl that I was and the safe and happy childhood I enjoyed.
Often Ive heard adults speak of their childhood with regret and even anger, glad that they have escaped the younger years. Such talk is ba. ing to me, for if I could, I would go back in time to the .rst part of my life and I would remain a little girl forever.
My parents and siblings and I lived in a modest villa in the port city of Latakia, Syria. The coastal region of Syria is lovely, with sea breezes and fertile land where lucky farmers grow fruit and vegetables. Our backyard was abundant with green trees bursting with delicious fruit. Behind our narrow seaside plain one could see the picturesque coastal mountains, with terraced hills of fruit orchards and olive groves.
There were seven people living in the Ghanem house hold, so our home was undeniably hectic. I was the second child born to my mother and father and enjoyed good relations with my older brother, Naji, and my younger siblings, Leila, Nabeel, and Ahmed. There was also a half-brother, Ali, a few years older than the children of my mother. My father had been married several times before he married my mother, fathering Ali with an earlier wife.
My closest sibling was Naji, who was one year older. Although I loved my brother dearly, he, like most boys, possessed a mischievous streak that caused me many moments of terror.
For example, I was born with a fear of snakes. One day, Naji used his pocket money to slip into the local bazaar to purchase a plastic snake, then knocked very politely at my bedroom door. When I answered, my brother gave me a ro guish grin and suddenly thrust what I thought was a live snake into my hand. My piercing screams stirred the entire house hold as I dropped the snake to run so fast one would have thought I was riding on air.
My father happened to be home and rushed to deal with the crisis, almost certainly believing that armed bandits had come to murder us. When he . nally realized that my hysterics were caused by Naji, who was proudly brandishing the fake snake, he stared long and hard at my brother before he began to shout a fathers threats.
Naji remained unrepentant, crying out over Fathers yells, “Najwa is a coward! I am teaching her to be brave.”
Had we been able to see into the future, when snakes would become routine visitors to my mountain home in Afghanistan, perhaps I would have thanked my brother.
My favorite spot in the villa was the upstairs balcony, a perfect place for a young girl to escape to dreamland. I spent many enchanting hours lounging there with a favorite book. Generally, after reading a few chapters I would use my .nger to hold the page and gaze outward to the street below me.
The houses in our neighborhood were nestled closely to one another, with small commercial establishments all around. I loved to observe the busy tra.c of human beings rushing throughout the neighborhood, completing their daily tasks so that they might retire to their homes for an agreeable eve ning of dining and relaxing with their families.
Many of the families in our neighborhood had originated from other lands. Mine came from Yemen, a faraway country that was reported to be spectacularly beautiful. I was never told speci.cs as to why our ancestors had left, but so many Yemeni families have emigrated to nearby countries that it is said Yemeni blood .ows throughout the entire Arab world. Most likely it was simple poverty that drove our Yemeni ancestors to sell their livestock, close their homes, abandon inhospitable . elds, and leave behind forever old friends in familiar towns.
I can imagine my ancestors sitting in their home, the men, dashing with their curved daggers, possibly chewing the leaf of the qat tree, while the women, with black eyes intensi.ed by kohl, listened quietly as their men discussed the challenge of parched land or missed opportunities. The old incense trade had died out, and the rains were too uncertain to grow reliable crops. With hunger pangs stabbing the small bellies of their children, my ancestors were likely persuaded to mount tall camels and trek through the green valleys brimmed by those high brown hills.
Upon their arrival in Syria, my ancestors established their home on the Mediterranean, in the large port city of my own birth and childhood. Latakia was noted in texts over two thousand years ago, described as having “admirable buildings and an excellent harbor.” Framed by the sea on one side, and fertile land on the other, it has been coveted by many, and in the pro cess was occupied by the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Romans, and the Ottomans. Like all ancient cities, Latakia has been destroyed and rebuilt numerous times.
Up until the time I married and traveled to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, my life experiences were limited to my family home, my school, my hometown of Latakia, and my country of Syria.
I was a daughter proud of her parents. When I was old enough to understand the things people said around me, I became aware of friendly talk regarding both the inner and outer beauty of my family. I was glad, of course, that we were respected for our good character, but my girlish pride was particularly pleased by talk of our handsome appearance.
My father worked in trading, which is a common way for Arab men in the region to make their living. I never knew much about my fathers daily life, for daughters in my culture do not accompany their fathers to work. I do know that he was diligent, leaving our home early in the morning and not returning until the eve ning hours. His hard work ensured an ample living for his family. Looking back, I believe that my father had a soft touch for his daughters. He was .rmer with my brothers, whose naughty ways sometimes made it necessary for him to be alert.
Mother remained in our home caring for our personal needs. She was a gifted cook and fastidious house keeper. With a husband, three sons, and two daughters, her work was never .nished. Much of her day was spent in the kitchen. Ill never forget the wonderful meals she prepared for her family, beginning with a delicious breakfast of eggs, cheese, butter, sweet honey with cottage cheese, bread, and jam. Our lunches might be hummus, made of chickpeas and spices, various vegetables fresh from the garden, newly picked tomatoes and cucumbers, mint-pickled eggplants stu.ed with garlic, and pecan nuts. Our nighttime meal would be served between seven and eight. Our big eyes were often greeted by plates of mothers delectable rice with peas, stu. ed grape leaves, okra and kibbe, a particularly popular dish for Arabs, which is basically ground lamb with bulgur wheat mixed with salt, pepper, onions, and other spices.
Of course my sister and I helped with the housework, although our duties were light compared to Mothers tasks. I kept my bed neat, washed dishes, and when I was not in school, was my mothers kitchen helper.
Mother was the chief disciplinarian for all the children. In truth, when I was a young girl, I was frightened of her strict rules regarding the social conduct of her two daughters. This is not unusual in my culture, for girls are the shining light of the family, expected to be perfect in every way, while it is anticipated that sons will sow wild oats. Should a female child behave badly, the entire family su.ers enormous disgrace in the eyes of the community. Had I seriously misbehaved, it might have been di.cult for my parents to . nd a fam