Growing Up bin Laden: Osama's Wife and Son Take Us Inside Their Secret World

Growing Up bin Laden: Osama's Wife and Son Take Us Inside Their Secret World

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Overview

From the New York Times bestselling author of Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia

In their own words, Osama bin Laden's wife and son tell the astonishing story of the man they knew—or thought they knew—before September 11, 2001.

The world knows Osama bin Laden as the most wanted terrorist of our time. But people are not born terrorists, and bin Laden has carefully guarded the details of his private life—until now, when his first wife and fourth-born son break the silence to take us inside his strange and secret world. In spine-tingling detail, Jean Sasson tells their story of life with a man whose growing commitment to violent jihad led him to move his wives and children from an orderly life to one of extreme danger, even choosing the teenage Omar to accompany him to the mountain fortress of Tora Bora.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780312560874
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Publication date: 12/07/2010
Edition description: First Edition
Pages: 352
Sales rank: 553,169
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.00(d)

About the Author

Najwa bin Laden is Osama bin Laden's first wife and mother to eleven of his children. Omar bin Laden is Osama bin Laden's fourth-born son. Neither has been in contact with Osama bin Laden since leaving Afghanistan before September 11, 2001. The New York Times bestselling author Jean Sasson has lived and traveled extensively in the Middle East for the last thirty years and currently lives in Atlanta.

Read an Excerpt

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 I’ve 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 moneyto 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 father’s threats.
Naji remained unrepentant, crying out over Father’s 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 father’s 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. I’ll 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 mother’s 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 Mother’s tasks. I kept my bed neat, washed dishes, and when I was not in school, was my mother’s 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 family who would allow their sons or daughters to wed into our family. A girl’s careless actions might deprive brothers and sisters of worthy marriage part­ners.
When I was a teenager, my mother did not agree with how I dressed. While she was a conservative Muslim woman, covering her hair with a scarf and wearing dresses that cloaked her from neck to ankles, I rebelled against such traditional dress. I resisted her pleas to dress modestly, even refusing to cover my hair. I wore pretty, colorful dresses that  were not so old-fashioned. In the summer I rejected blouses that covered my arms, or skirts that hung to my ankles. I would argue with my mother if she spoke against my modern fashion. Now I am ashamed that I caused her such grief.
I remember how proud I was when I .rst went to school. I wore the usual girls’ uniforms, which was a jumper when I was very young, though once I began secondary school, I could no longer ignore my mother and wore a jacket over my dress for modesty.
How I loved school! School expanded my small world from family mem­bers to new friends and teachers who had so much information crammed into their heads that I didn’t know how their skulls kept from bursting. I was an inquisitive child, and read as many books as possible, mostly enjoying stories about faraway places and people. I soon came to realize how much I shared with other young girls my age, no matter where they might live.
In my culture school- age boys and girls rarely mix outside the family circle, so my school was for girls only. I came to know a number of impoverished stu­dents, and their poverty taught me one of the greatest lessons of life. I particu­larly remember one friend whose family was so poor that her father could not purchase school supplies or even food for the lunchtime break. Without con­sidering how it might a.ect my situation, for my family was of modest means, I shared my money, my food, and my school supplies with my little friend. I felt the greatest rush of happiness at her reaction.
Since that long- ago day, I have learned that the joy of giving is more acute when sharing creates a personal hardship. It is easy enough to share when a person has plenty.
I recall a second friend, who was often on the verge of tears. I soon learned that her father had recently divorced her mother. My poor friend was not even allowed to even see her mother, but was forced to live with her father and his new wife. My sensitive heart ached for her situation, for every child wants their mother near. I realized that sharing does not necessarily mean the giving of money or goods; there are times that the greatest gift is to set aside one’s own troubles and listen, to care about another’s heartache.
I happened to meet this childhood friend by chance recently. My heart sang with joy when she told me that she had found happiness in the second part of her life. She took the veil out of choice, and she married happily. She didn’t surprise me by saying that her children bring her the greatest joy.
While school was a mind-opening pleasure for me, there  were other hobbies that added spice to my life. Contrary to many people’s assumptions about the lives of conservative Muslim women, I was a skilled tennis player. Although I never owned special tennis attire, I would wear a long dress so that I did not ex­pose too much of my legs while leaping about, slip on comfortable shoes, and practice for hours. My goals  were to hit the ball just right, or return a serve with such power that my girlish opponent would be left standing with her mouth open in surprise. Yet in truth, the main thing was the sport. To this day I can still hear the laughter that would ring out when my girlfriends and I played tennis.
I also loved riding my colorful girl’s bicycle. Once again I would select a long dress so I would not expose my legs to bystanders, then run out of the house with my brothers and sister to pedal up the gentle slopes of Latakia. We would squeal with laugher as we .ew past surprised neighbors on the way down. Other times I would  ride my bicycle to the homes of my girlfriends or nearby relatives.
For many years I experienced great joy as a .edgling artist, painting por­traits and landscapes on canvas and smooth pieces of pottery. I spent hours mixing the colors and making the pictures pleasing to my artist’s eye. My sib­lings  were impressed enough by the quality of my paintings to predict that Najwa Ghanem would one day become a world-famous artist.
These days I am unable to enjoy such pursuits, but even now, as a mother alone with many responsibilities to my young children, I still derive some small pleasure from using my imagination. In my mind I often paint beautiful scenes or strong faces conveying great intensity, or I imagine my muscles being stretched tight from cycling up and down a steep hill, or even winning a tennis match against a faceless opponent.
I suppose one might say that Najwa Ghanem bin Laden is an artist without paints, a cyclist without a bicycle, and a tennis player without a ball, a racket, or a court.
My siblings had their own hobbies as well. We all liked musical instru­ments and it was not unusual for guests to hear a guitar strumming from some hidden corner of our home. My older brother even gave me a present of an ac­cordion. I am sure I was a funny sight, for I was slim and delicate and the ac­cordion better suited to the hands of a hefty musician.
The best time was the summer, when relatives would come to stay in our home. Most of all, I took pleasure in visits from my father’s sister, Allia, who lived in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. My Auntie Allia was lovely in every way, inspir­ing awe in everyone who met her. Since she dressed so fashionably when visit­ing us, I was surprised to learn that back home in Saudi Arabia she wore the hijab, which means full cover for a woman, including her body, face, and hair. In Syria, however, she wore modest but elegant dresses that covered her arms and legs. She also wore a .imsy scarf over her hair but did not cover her face.
Auntie Allia was known for her kindness even more than she was for her style and charm. Whenever she heard of a struggling family, she would secretly provide for their upkeep.
I overheard my parents speak quietly of her .rst marriage to the very a.  u­ent Mohammed bin Laden, a wealthy contractor in Saudi Arabia. Because of his special friendship with King Abdul Aziz al-Saud of Saudi Arabia, Auntie Allia’s .rst husband had become one of the wealthiest men in a country brim­ming with wealthy men.
The marriage was brief and my auntie had only one child from Mohammed bin Laden, a son named Osama. After her divorce, my auntie married Mu­hammad al-Attas, a Saudi man who worked for Auntie Allia’s . rst husband. Attas was known to be a caring husband to my auntie and kindly stepfather to my cousin. Never have I heard a hard word spoken against my auntie’s hus­band. Together the couple had four children, three sons and one daughter.
I knew them all very well, for the entire family accompanied my auntie when she visited relatives in Latakia. We had many meals together in our home, occasions I remember as being particularly festive, with lighthearted talk and laughter. Osama, of course, was part of the group. My cousin, already a year old at the time of my birth, was always in my life.
Once I became seven or eight years old, memories began to stick. Osama seemed much more than a year older than I, perhaps because he was such a serious, conscientious boy. He was a mystery to his cousins, yet we all liked him because he was very quiet and gentle in his manners.
In describing the young boy Osama that we all knew, I would say that he was proud, but not arrogant. He was delicate, but not weak. He was grave, but not severe. Certainly he was vastly di.erent from my very boisterous brothers, who  were always teasing me about one thing or another. I had never been around such a soft- spoken, serious boy. Despite his serene demeanor, no one ever thought of Osama as being weak-willed, for his character was strong and . rm.
When Auntie Allia and her family visited, the entire family would some­times take day trips to the mountains or the seashore. During such family jaunts, we kids would run about with excitement, racing each other on the beaches, playing hide and seek, or tying a rope to a tree and then making a swing or jumping the rope. I remember how thoughtfully Osama would select juicy grapes, handing them to me to eat o. the vine. My brothers meanwhile might be shouting gleefully that they had found some crunchy pecans lying under the branches of the tree. Other times we all might climb short-trunk trees to pluck sweet apples or thrust our hands through bushes laden with tart berries. Although Mother warned us about snakes, I was so happy to be playing with my cousins that even my fears didn’t hinder my activities.
There  were sad moments, however, including September 3, 1967, when my cousin Osama’s father, Mohammed, was a passenger in a small airplane that stalled and crashed. At age sixty-one, Osama’s father was killed, along with several other people.
My cousin was only ten years old, but he had greatly loved and respected his father. Osama had always been unusually restrained in his manner and in his speech, but he was so stricken by the death of his father that he became even more subdued. Through the years he spoke little of the tragic incident.
My mother’s voice was hushed when she told me about Osama’s loss. I was so shocked I  couldn’t react, but I did retire to the balcony to re.ect on my love for my own father, and the emptiness I would feel without him.
When they were young, my brother Naji and Osama sometimes got them­selves into trouble. Once they were camping and on a whim decided to go for a long walk, hiking to Kasab, a town in our Latakia Province, close to the Turkish border—and managed to walk themselves right across the border into Turkey. In our part of the world, straying into another country can result in serious consequences, with careless travelers disappearing forever.
A Turkish army o.cer spotted the strangers on his territory. As he yelled excited threats and pointed his weapon, Naji and Osama exchanged a single glance, then turned and ran faster than horses until they reached a garden. Thankfully the Turkish guard did not follow them clear into another country.
On another occasion, Naji and Osama went to Damascus, the ancient city that is the capital of Syria. Osama always enjoyed long walks more than most, and after a brisk hike, the two boys and their friends found shade under a tree. They were tired and a bit hungry. You might know that the tree just happened to have branches heavy with succulent apples. Tempted at the sight of the fruit, Naji and his friends climbed the tree, telling Osama to stay behind as a look­out. Naji said later that he knew that his pious cousin would probably balk at plucking apples from a tree that was not his, so he didn’t want Osama partici­pating in the actual pilfering.
The boys scrambled up the tree, but before they had time to gather a single apple, a mob of men started running in their direction, shouting angrily while whipping leather belts in the air.
“Apple thieves!” the men yelled. “Come out of the tree!”
There was nowhere to escape, so my brother and his friends slowly retreated from the safety of the bushy limbs to face their challengers. As their feet touched the ground, the men began to beat them with those strong leather belts. In between gasps, Naji yelled for Osama to “Run away! Run away as fast as you can!”
Osama was their guest, and it was important that a guest not be harmed. Also, Naji knew how dearly Auntie Allia loved her .rstborn son. My brother did not want to return home with bad news about Osama.
At Naji’s urging, Osama dashed away from the confrontation. For some reason the owners decided it was of the utmost importance to capture the . ee­ing boy, so they kept after Osama until they caught him, threatening him with their belts. Alone, without the protection of his relatives or friends, Osama was set upon by one of the largest men, who leaned forward and bit Osama’s arm, a bite so strong that Osama carries a slight scar to this day.
Osama pulled the man’s teeth from his .esh and pushed him away, then faced those angry men: “You had better leave me alone! I am a visitor to your country. I will not allow you to beat me!”
For some reason Osama’s intense expression made those men turn away. They lowered their belts, staring at him for a few minutes before saying, “You are being released only because you are a guest to our land.” By this time, my brother and his friends had made their escape. With Osama in the clear, the apple thieves  were allowed to re unite and return to a place of safety. Osama’s wound was cleaned and bound and thankfully he did not su.er from an infec­tion.
Those happy days of childhood years passed too rapidly, and as I entered my teenage years, unanticipated emotions began to swirl between my cousin and me. I was not sure what was happening, but knew that Osama and I had a special relationship. Although Osama never said anything, his brown eyes lit with pleasure anytime I walked into a room. I trembled with excitement when I felt my cousin’s intense attention. Soon our hidden emotions would rise to the surface and change our lives forever.  Excerpted fromGgrowing Up Bin Laden by Najwa bin Laden, Omar bin Laden, and Jean Sasson.
Copyright © 2009 by The Sasson Corporation.
Published in November 2009 by St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction
is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or
medium must be secured from the Publisher.
 

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments ix

A Note to the Reader xiii

Part I Early Days in Saudi Arabia 1

1 Najwa: My Youth 3

2 Najwa: Married Life 12

Jean: A Note Regarding Osama bin Laden's Political Activities 29

3 Najwa: Mother of Many Sons 31

4 Omar: Born the Son of Osama bin Laden 38

5 Najwa: Marriage Surprises 49

6 Omar: Growing Up bin Laden 56

7 Omar: Moving to Medina 68

8 Najwa: Many Children for Osama 74

Jean: A Note Regarding Osama bin Laden's Political Activities 77

9 Omar: The Nightmare Begins 79

Part II Our Life in Khartoum 89

10 Najwa: To Africa 91

11 Najwa: Family Affairs 101

12 Omar: Golden Times in Khartoum 106

13 Omar: The Scent of Death 123

14 Omar: Journey into the Unknown 139

Jean: A Note Regarding Osama bin Laden's Political and Militant Activities 144

Part III Afghanistan 147

15 Omar: Retreat to Afghanistan 149

16 Omar: Tora Bora Mountain 157

17 Najwa: A Far, Far Country 180

18 Omar: My Father's Army 192

19 Najwa: Mountain Life 202

20 Omar: The Violence Escalates 206

21 Omar: Real War 219

22 Omar: Jihad Vacation 226

23 Omar: True Terror 236

24 Omar: The Tightening Noose 250

25 Najwa: Young Marriage 258

26 Omar: The Beginning of the End 262

27 Najwa: To Syria 267

28 Omar: Return to Saudi Arabia 274

29 Najwa: Leaving Afghanistan Forever 281

30 Omar: September 11, 2001 284

Final Comments Jean Sasson 287

Postscript 291

Appendix A Osama bin Laden's Family: Who were They? What Happened to Them? 295

Appendix B Osama bin Laden Chronology 306

Appendix C Al-Qaeda Chronology: 1988-2008 319

Index 323

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Growing up bin Laden: Osama's Wife and Son Take Us Inside Their Secret World 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 13 reviews.
Anita-2674 More than 1 year ago
This is one of my favorite books. Everyone should read this because it gives you a behind the scenes look of the Bin Ladens family circle, outside from what the media wants you to believe. This book throws you right into the personal and private moments between Osama and his children, as well as showing the role of a father, husband, and the many close friendships Osama had. It helps you fully understand the Bin Ladens in a deep and up close manner. A 5-Star Book!!!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book is written with the help of Jean Sasson who is an excellent author, however, Najwa, Osama's first wife, and Omar, Najwa and Osama's fourth son, are the ones whos stories we read. These two were both very close to Osama and they share their experiences and viewpoints of Osama throughout their lives. Arabs are very secretive people, and it must have taken a lot of will power to speak so openly about his life, and give the world a chance to read about it. However, Omar was very against his father, as you will find out, and he wanted to clear his family name from any disgrace it holds due to Osama. He felt that his the whole bin Laden family deserved this chance. Osama created an awful world for his family and Omar felt that his privacy was invaded due to Osama's treturous life. We find out that Omar was Osama's predecessor. Omar prayed for peace while Osama prayed for war. They ended up being nothing alike. Osama claimed everything he did was for his God. Omar clearly knew that God would never want killings like this to happen. Osama married his first wife, Najwa, who was also his first cousin. She envied Osama's way of looking at life. He was very serious, and greatly involved in his religion. His family grew as he was at one time married to four wive and had over 13 children altogether. They lived well in Saudi Arabia, but soon Osama became involved in the creation of the Jihad group, al-Qaeda, a group that ruined him forever. They moved to Khartoum, Sudan to start a new life. But soon, they were punished and forced to move to Afghanistan. Here everything began to go bad. Omar and Najwa bring us into an untold world of, not only the bin Laden family, but also the Arab world. It is a very fascinating story that everbody should read!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I enjoy studying people what motivates them, what makes them tick? I'm glad you decided to investigate further into the email from Omar. Najwa and Omar thank you for your story.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Growing Up Bin Laden offers a fascinating look inside the deranged serial-terrorist Osama Bin Laden's life and family. This is the only book that includes the true and factual stories of his son Omar and his first wife Najwa, written by acclaimed Middle East expert, Jean Sasson. The book paints a very tragic picture for these because they were forced to endure this vicious and savage man’s ruthless and barbaric lifestyle. This is a highly informative book and one that should be read by anyone that wants to understand the inner-workings of this horrific monster. I commend Jean Sasson for having the courage to tell such an in-depth and monumental story.  
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Growing Up bin Laden is a compelling story that changed my view on the world.  Whether you know about Osama bin Laden or not, this book will bring tears to your eyes many times.  I personally feel nothing towards Osama bin Laden, but that is not all that this book is about.  We get an inside look at how his wife and children lived, and for the most part, they were in the dark about Osama’s militant activities. I would recommend this book to anyone that is willing to be emotional and forget, for just a minute, the things that this man did to our nation.  Through reading this book, you will learn to gain sympathy for the ones you didn’t know you could ever have sympathy for. One thing I do advise is, there are some parts in the book that go in depth about things like animal cruelty or villages being bombed.  If you cannot handle the thought or description of things along those lines than this book may not be for you.  There are only a few parts in the book that go in depth about something so sad.  Before I read this book I had a lot of unanswered questions: Why?  How?  When? These were my questions about the terrorists’ attacks, but never until I read this book did I think about how did these attacks and Osama’s militant activity affect the ones who loved him?  But this book made me think about that. Overall, I really liked this book; I thought it brought out a side in me that I had never seen before.  I would recommend this book to anyone in high school or older.  There are a lot of things that happened to this family that may be confusing, but if you keep reading, all your questions will be answered.  
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Es un libro bien interesante. me gusto mucho el hecho que trata de la familia pero desde un punto de vista bien personal. El hecho que la historia sea contada por ellos mismos q fueron los q lo vivieron te permite sentir y ponerte en su lugar. Ademas el hecho que le añadieran fichas historicas luego de algunos capitulos hace mas facil uno ubicarse en la trama. Ademas me gusto el hecho que ella describa ademas de los sucesos sus pensamientos y los lugares en los cuales estaba ya que le permite a quien nunca a estado en esos lugares por lo menos captar sus impresiones.
owen1218 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I really liked the segments by Najwa, Osama's first wife. She really gives us a great picture of who Osama was as a man and as a husband, that really challenges the stereotypes we are bombarded with by politicians and the corporate media. By and large, he seems to have cared a lot about her and treated her as well as he could, or well as he could under the circumstances he generated. She is a woman who still clearly loves her husband and despite everything remains loyal to his memory. There are times when she seems cognizant that something is wrong, as when she discusses the loneliness she felt when Osama took his second wife, but found comfort in the patriarchal dogma of her religion. She is a sensitive and loving woman, and a smart woman, albeit a smart woman whose dedication to her husband and her children overrode any concern for her own welfare.Omar's accounts are also interesting. Although his father treated his wife and daughters well, he was much harsher in raising his sons. In a large way, Osama saw his sons as the Islamic soldiers of the future, and raised him towards this purpose. A sensitive boy, Omar would not be molded the way his father wanted, and craved for his love. I can understand why he broke from his father, and I can understand and respect why he has striven for peace, particularly in light of his life situation, but I don't necessarily understand why the book tries to construct him as brave. It could be said that he was brave in standing up to his father the way he did, but I don't see that it was particularly brave to flee his family in Afghanistan to live the life of luxury and privilege that he was accustomed to as a child. He was also far less than brave or else extremely naïve to deny that Saudi Arabia was behind the assassination attempt against his father when they were living in Sudan. Presumably, Omar recognized that he would wear out his welcome in Saudi Arabia were he to make the obvious conclusions about the actions of the Saudi royals. All of this said, Osama's son seems to be a good man with a troubled past, trying to find his way forward. His relationship with his father provides the reader with a helpful and interesting alternative to Najwa's more intimate perspective.Jean Sasson's commentary is rather irritating for the most part. Her purpose in this book seems simply to be to reconcile these first person accounts humanizing Osama with the xenophobic accounts of the corporate media portraying him as an inhuman monster. Although it is true that she provides some context in certain parts of the book where it is helpful, on the whole I am mostly grateful that she wrote as little in the book as she did. Her closing section is particularly annoying, being in total context to much of the rest of the book. But on the whole I am glad that she has put this book together for publication. It is probably the most honest biography available on Osama bin Laden.
TheMakeupArtist More than 1 year ago
I wasn't sure I wanted to read this book; however, I think Jean Sasson is a gifted writer, and I deeply respect her convictions, and how she gives voices to people that simply may not be allowed to have one. She is unflinchingly honest in her thoughts and gives the reader the full picture, not just half truths. It's true, we aren't born with hate on our hearts, that it is taught; conversely, we also have the ability to be able see beyond the hate, and act with understanding and compassion for all living beings. Unfortunately, Osama bin Laden chose to go down the path of hate, and we are all feeling the repercussions. I have a few close friends that lost loved ones on 9/11, and I have seen and felt their loss. There is nothing worse than not being able to console a hurting friend when they live under a constant veil of tears. The cowardly attack on 9/11 changed all of our lives, and has forever scarred the soul of every American citizen. I will not apologize for feeling some sense of relief knowing that the very last thing Osama bin Laden saw cowering in the corner was a United States Navy SEAL's assault riffle. I cannot imagine any God opening the doors to 'paradise' knowing how much suffering and death was brought upon innocent souls. I never really understood the 'why' behind Osama bin Laden's hatred, and I thank Omar bin Laden for speaking out, and giving us his point of view on his father's actions. It cannot be easy to live under the shadow of Osama bin Laden, and I think it took an incredible amount of courage to say what he says in this book. Although he is Osama bin Laden's son, he is not like his father; he is a man of courage and conviction. his mother, Najwa should be commended for raising her children under such difficult circumstances, and for giving her children the love and strength they needed to survive. It could not have been easy for her to tell her story. This book is a very honest look of life in the bin Laden family told with 2 very distinct and different points of view. I'm glad I read it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is for the audio book of Jean Sasson’s book, Growing Up Bin Laden. Growing Up Bin Laden offers a fascinating look inside the deranged serial-terrorist Osama Bin Laden's life and family. This is the only book that includes the true and factual stories of his son Omar and his first wife Najwa, written by acclaimed Middle East expert, Jean Sasson. The book paints a very tragic picture for these because they were forced to endure this vicious and savage man’s ruthless and barbaric lifestyle. This is a highly informative book and one that should be read by anyone that wants to understand the inner-workings of this horrific monster. I commend Jean Sasson for having the courage to tell such an in-depth and monumental story.  
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dontwanttobuyit More than 1 year ago
Who gets the proceeds from this book? Should we really buy it? NO