My Sumer with Bin Laden

Osama Kill Shot. Artist rendering by Yours Truly.

Not the Bin Laden, but a Bin Laden.  Her name was Thoria, she was 13 and had those same doe-y eyes that the Bin Laden had.  Had. He’s dead now, shot through the eye.  The media gave us that detail because, us Americans, we like detail. 

doesn't even capture, like, a 1/10 of how pretty it is

In 1992 I was 15 and formulating big plans for the future.  Thoria’s Uncle Osama, as it turns out, was somewhere in The Sudan probably doing the same thing.  But we weren’t worried about all that yet.  Not quite yet.  Thoria and I were both attending the same summer school, Le Vieux Chalet, high up in the stupidly gorgeous Swiss Alps, and as idyllic as that may sound in your head…I want you to multiply it by 10 cos you think you know but you have no idea.  We’d spend mornings learning French -poorly in my case - and afternoons hiking and playing tennis, among other outdoorsy type activities.  Each night ended with a hearty meal in the dining room, followed by shared clean up duties.  It was odd to know that the girl sweeping dinner detritus into my dustpan was a billionaire.  Odder still to think it was probably her first time touching a broom ever.  I only knew Thoria was so wealthy because there were whispers…mostly from the Spanish girls as they were very concerned with things of that nature.  (A side note: The Italians weren’t so interested with any of it.  At every break from French class you could find them in their Kappa sweat pants practicing choreographed dance moves to Rhythm is a Dancer.  That is all they cared about.) 

This was the school.

There was some cultural tension from the get go, but generally, everyone got along.  One day, though,  when Paula Skirt (there were three Paula’s, this one always wore a skirt) had 500 Swiss Francs stolen from her room, suspicion was cast far and wide and landed on the Saudi girls.  Not one in particular, but one of any of them.  Now I’m not an idiot, I know that some rich people steal money…to be honest, that may be how most of them get that way…but these girls weren’t thieves.  Forgetful maybe.  Bad at sweeping definitely, but not thieves.  I knew that intuitively.  But I sat back and watched this weird thing happen in my little idyllic summer school.  The Spanish girls retreated. Dug their trenches.  Stopped inviting everyone to their afternoon bike rides to Gstaad for celebrity spotting.   At dinner they sat on one side of the room, their clique casting sidelong glances across the room. The Saudi girls sat on the other side of the room…not sure who to trust and not sure who trusted them.  I sat somewhere in the middle, trying to avoid the Italian girls who desperately wanted me to join their dance troupe.  It went like this for days until finally, a confrontation went down on the clay tennis court.  Each of the girls denied theft of course, then the Saudi girls retreated, their dignity bruised.  The Spanish girls were indignant and held their ground.

Back then, the US was still used as an “honest broker” in diplomatic matters.  Me, in my white gym socks along with  my egalitarian sensibilities, looked and acted the part.  Thoria Bin Laden approached me and calmly said, “call the Spanish girls to our room tonight, we want to show them something.”

Uh-oh.  Ambush.

And it was an ambush of sorts.  That evening, after I cleaned the dinning room while the Italians did the running man to Eros Ramazotti around me, we all met in Thoria’s room.  All 7 of the Saudi girls were there, in their abayas and hijabs…like shadows, all in black.  Everyone was quiet, not knowing what to expect.  And then the presentation started. They introduced us to Islam, told us what it was like to live in Jeddah, what it meant to them to be an Arab.  They showed us their prayer rugs. They pulled out the Koran, read passages to us.  Taught us some bad words in Arabic.  We were riveted.  Mesmerized by what they were saying and their composure.

Paula Skirt was there that night, too.  Quiet for the most part, she was the first to ask if she could try on the abaya.  Pretty soon we were all wearing the abayas and swearing in Arabic.  We ended the evening laughing and singing songs, giggling the way teenage girls annoyingly tend to do.  No one mentioned the 500 Swiss Francs that night, and when Paula found the misplaced money in her suitcase the next day, no one said anything then either. The apology was implicit and organic and not necessary.  I think back on that one night often, when a bunch of girls saw the way shit was going and decided that instead of turning bitter and resenting a bunch of assholes who didn’t understand them, they took the time to make them understand.  The Saudi girls said, look, here is why we are different.  It’s such a minor fucking detail though.  Let’s laugh about it and then go ski on a glacier. (You can do that in the summer in Switzerland, btdubs.)

6 years later, Osama Bin Laden declared a fatwa on the US.  Then the bombing at the barracks in Saudi Arabia. Then Kenya and Tanzania. Then the USS Cole.  And of course 9/11.

Can you believe this shit?

And as much money as she had, not for any of it, would I have wanted that last name.  I think of Thoria often, remember her eyes and that soft, slow smile.  She’s all grown up now…probably fitted out in Gucci, in the back of a gold plated, chauffeur driven limo in the South of France.  Traveling between her yacht and her fancier yacht.  Maybe she’s married and she’s gotten rid of that name.  Hopefully, she has.  But I wonder if she thinks of those days before her legacy shifted irrevocably, when we were all just silly kids trying to learn French, moaning about hiking uphill and complaining about all that fresh air and gorgeous scenery.  I’m sure she does.  I know I do.

I'm also pretty fucking sure she’s never touched a broom again.

Always remember, never forget. 

Eros...play me off.