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"On a hot August afternoon, aspiring pop star Wafah Dufour walks into the media lunch hub Michael's, in Midtown Manhattan. Accompanied by her publicist, Richard Valvo, the slender, exotic young woman with long dark hair in a high ponytail \u00E0 la I Dream of Jeannie is dressed in a white tank top, green love beads, lacy miniskirt, and backless pumps. Conversations continue as heads look up to check her out.\n\nMs. Dufour passes by Anna Wintour, the editorinchief of Vogue, who is lunching with designer Isaac Mizrahi, then stops at the next table to meet former Sony Music chairman Tommy Mottola and NBC head Jeff Zucker.\n\n\"You know Wafah bin Ladin\" Valvo asks the men loudly.\n\n\"Wafah Dufour,\" she snaps, shooting him a look that's more pleading than hostile.\n\nThe niece of the man who orchestrated the destruction of the World Trade Center seventyeight blocks to the south has a point. After September 11, the name bin Laden (which is how it's spelled when referring to Osama) turned radioactive, borderline satanicbyassociation. It made her feel cursed, presumed guilty\u2014made her wonder if it might keep her from ever getting a record deal. So she took her mother's maiden name, Dufour, which makes for a better first impression, even though the bin Laden taint is always there.\n\nMs. Dufour, who's vague about her age but almost certainly younger than 30, sits down at a good corner table and thanks me for helping her tell her story. \"It's really important for me,\" she says with a French accent. \"I was born in the States, and I want people to know I'm American, and I want people here to understand that I'm like anyone in New York. For me, it's home.\n\n\"It's really tough that I have to always explain myself,\" she continues in a soft, husky voice. \"It's like every time I meet someone, I have to move a huge mountain that's in front of me, and sometimes I get tired.\"\n\nThe face is alluring (big dark eyes, long lashes, plump lips, caramel skin), but she looks wounded. And there's something else. At first I can't quite figure it out, but then it hits me: She looks a little like her uncle, albeit a waify ninetyeightpound tinyfooted version. Sexy Osama! I hold that thought while I listen to her explain that she's his half niece and one of hundreds of bin Ladens, most of whom are in Saudi Arabia, where she hasn't been since she was 10. She has no contact with most of her relatives, including her father, doesn't speak Arabic, has an American passport\u2026 The list goes on. \"At the end of the day, I believe that the American people understand things and they have compassion and they see what's fair,\" she says. \"They're very fair, and that's why I love America, and that's why my mom loves America.\"\n\n Her mother, Carmen bin Ladin, is the author of Inside the Kingdom: My Life in Saudi Arabia, a memoir about her fifteen years with Yeslam bin Ladin, Osama's older half brother. It is a devastating insider's look at Saudi society. The 2004 best-seller reads like a thriller, with Carmen gradually realizing that she is trapped in a culture where women are brainwashed into accepting their role as pets. She endured nine years of virtual confinement inside the bin Laden family compound, broken occasionally by a family vacation. In 1985, at the end of one such summer abroad, the apparently hypochondriacal Yeslam complained of a weak heart and lungs and of stomach pains, delaying the family's return to Jeddah. Carmen seized the opportunity to enroll her daughters in a school outside Geneva. They never went back to Saudi Arabia.\n\n On the morning of September 11, 2001, Ms. Dufour was with her mother in Geneva, where she had spent the summer after getting her master's degree in law from Columbia University. They were in a car when a friend called Carmen's cell phone and told her of the first plane hitting the tower. Once home, they turned on CNN and saw the rest. Then bin Laden's name started popping up. Wafah had planned to return to her SoHo apartment on the fifteenth but instead stayed in seclusion at her mother's for the next six months before moving to London, where she was hounded by the press. In the fall of 2004, she returned to New York to pursue a career in music.\n\n Ms. Dufour thought she was lying sufficiently low\u2014not going out much, just focusing on songwriting and guitar lessons. But she eventually wound up in the New York Post, in a story that claimed she was living it up on the social scene. It refers to her as a \"pushy spoiled brat,\" a \"wannabe\" who \"wants to be a pop star but no record company will have her,\" according to \"a pal.\"\n\n The experience shook Ms. Dufour so much she hired veteran publicist Richard Valvo, who told her she couldn't hide anymore. \"I was telling Richard it's not about the name, it's about the music,\" she says. \"For me that's the only thing that's important. And he said, 'You have no choice. Everybody knows who you are, and now you have to explain yourself.' I didn't know how to explain. To explain what? I never met\u2026him.\"\n\n Valvo, 52, is slick, with a close-cropped hairdo and an Armani suit. His dream is to play a gay Mafia hit man on The Sopranos who gets to whack Tony. \"At \u00EFfirst Wafah was very afraid of the press,\" he says in a Brooklyn accent. \"Otherwise, I would have done a lot more from the beginning. We were slow to get her story out.\"\n\n Valvo becomes di tracted. \"That's Grace Hightower, Robert De Niro's wife, that's who it is,\" he says, over my shoulder. \"With Francine LeFrak. Francine's father was one of the biggest landlords in New York City. Ton of money.\"\n\n Eventually, his attention drifts back to his client. \"She's not out shopping. It's all about music and work, and she goes home early in the evening\u2014it's what she does. She's not in the Hamptons every weekend.\"\n\n Ms. Dufour nods. \"I try sometimes\u2014\"\n\n \"And I'm not being the publicist who's covering up; I'm telling you the truth! She goes out visiting\u2014she has two friends that she sees\u2014and she comes over to my place a lot.\"\n\n \"I come and eat all your peanut butter!\" Ms. Dufour says.\n\n Keith Kelly, a New York Post media reporter, stops by.\n\n \"You know Wafah bin Ladin?\" Valvo says.\n\n \"Wafah Dufour,\" Ms. Dufour says.\n\n Kelly: \"Everything good?\"\n\n Ms. Dufour: \"Everything is well. And yourself?\"\n\n Valvo: \"I take good care of her.\"\n\n Ms. Dufour: \"Yes, you always do, Richard.\"\n\n [Exit Kelly.]\n\n \"I've adopted her,\" Valvo continues. \"I'm in the publicist mode, but I went out of the publicist mode with her from the very beginning because she was so scared. I became\u2014I don't know, her brother, I guess, right? Her older brother? I have so much fun with Wafah. We've become friends. She knows all my personal business.\"\n\n I ask Valvo if he was hesitant to take her on as a client.\n\n \"No, but have I gotten static for it? Yes,\" he says, recalling a woman who asked him, \"What the fuck are you working for these people for and taking their money? What is wrong with you?\"\n\n Another media guy strolls over and says hello to Valvo. Ms. Dufour shows me her iPod, which is filled with nearly 5,000 songs. I scroll through: AC/DC. Allman Brothers. Beach Boys. Butthole Surfers. Coldplay. The Cure. Lou Reed. Mozart.\n\n Ms. Dufour tells me about her demo and how she hopes to inspire women in Middle Eastern countries who have no voice, but Valvo interrupts: \"Wasn't it weird the way he said hello and, like, walked away?\"\n\n \"Oh, Richard, you're obsessing.\"\n\n Valvo tells me he's considering endorsements for Ms. Dufour.\n\n \"People have asked me about modeling, but I don't want to do it,\" she says. Then the two debate what kind of photographs might be appropriate for GQ. \"What do you think, more fashion-sexy pictures?\" she asks, smiling. \"Not too, you know\u2026\"\n\n \"Not risqu\u00E9,\" Valvo agrees. \"But a high-fashion shot with phenomenal makeup and wild hair. It's the music business!\"\n\n There's mischief and delight in Ms. Dufour's expression now. Valvo notes his client's sense of humor of late. \"I see in working with her she's loosened up. You're getting the best of her. Wafah knows what she wants, and she doesn't deviate at all. She's very headstrong.\"\n\n \"I have cojones.\"\n\n \"It's so good to see you smile so much. You used to sit there so sad when we were with a reporter, like you were about to be ecuted.\"\n\n\n\n Two days later, I catch the tail end of Wafah's weekly four-hour music lessons at an apartment on the Upper West Side. There are five other students, and now it's Wafah's turn for a solo. She's only been in the class for three months, and though it's clear she can sing, she hasn't yet mastered sightsinging, a difficult ercise in which she's expected to perform music she has never seen before. \"One-three-five-four-three-two-onnnnnne,\" she sings, or rather peeps, hile looking down at the notes. \"Eight-seven-six-five-eight-seven-eight. One-three-fiiiiiive. Threee-twoooo-onnnnnnne.\"\n\n \"You jumped the one!\" the female instructor cries out.\n\n She tries again, louder, much better. \"One-three-fiiiive. Eiiiight-nine-eight. Eight-five-four-three-two-onnnnnne.\"\n\n \"That was very good, Wafah. How does that feel? Good? Okay.\"\n\n \"Wafah wants a meaningful career,\" the instructor tells me after class. \"She could make it just on her looks, but she doesn't want to. It's hard, because she keeps getting distracted. She keeps getting pulled over to these events and into the studio.\"\n\n We make to leave. \"Okay, I'll see you next week,\" the instructor says.\n\n \"Bye-bye, Wafah!\" her classmates holler.\n\n We decide to walk across Central Park. \"I'm very melancholic, but I hide it very well. That's my nature. People who know me really well know that side of me.\"\n\n I mention that I've noticed she can switch from gloomy to fun-loving in a heartbeat, and she laughs. \"That's very Gemini,\" she says\u2014her sign.\n\n We stop at a French bistro near the Upper East Side apartment that an investment-banker pal is letting Ms. Dufour stay in temporarily. She calls herself a gypsy: \"I'm living out of suitcases, I don't have a place to live, I don't have a job. I'm running after a dream.\"\n\n I learn that she likes boys, Friends, Wedding Crashers, and the first Matrix. She'd seen the Rolling Stones that summer and loves \"the devil song.\" Madonna and Britney are both \"amazing performers.\" She once told her mother she'd rather be blind than deaf. \"Not a lot of people would say that, but for me, music changes my mood, and it makes me really happy.\"\n\n She's afraid of cockroaches and crocodiles but doesn't mind snakes, spiders, or mice. Her favorite color? Purple. She drinks Corona \"from the bottle,\" loves pizza, but avoids seafood. Fish are \"disgusting\" and should stay in the sea. But she can eat tuna sushi. Not a California roll, though\u2014crabs remind her of cockroaches.\n\n She also hates milk and dishonesty. She won't say whether she hates George Bush. As for Dick Cheney, she never listens to what he has to say but thinks he's the secretary of state. Brad Pitt is a \"sexy hunk,\" while George Clooney is a \"sexy hunk even more\" and the best-looking guy alive. She daydreams, isn't germ-obsessed, teaches a little French on the side. Friends tell her she's a \"talking machine.\" Owns a pair of open-toe shoes with very high red stiletto heels. Calls them her \"whore shoes.\" \"That is so anti-Muslim!\" she squeals.\n\n She's a struggling artist. \"Honestly, do I look like a spoiled brat?\"\n\n I tell her no, she has a good attitude.\n\n \"I can't be otherwise,\" she says. \"I would be, like, crazy if I had to take everything personally all the time. I want to be accepted here, but I feel that everybody's judging me and rejecting me,\" she laments\u2014persona non grata in both the East and the West. \"Come on, where's the American spirit? Accept me. I want to be embraced, because my values are like yours. And I'm here. I'm not hiding.\n\n \"I'm not allowed to have fun,\" she continues. If she does\u2014for instance, if the tabs spot her out, carefree and clubbing\u2014much moralistic editorializing can be expected. \"Everyone relates me to that man, and I have nothing to do with him. There are 400 other people related to him, but they're all in Saudi Arabia, so nobody's going to get tarred with it. I'm the only one here.\"\n\n And yet she tries to resist judgment. \"My mom is always telling me tha if I say something too drastic, I might get killed by a fundamentalist,\" she says. \"My mom is freaking out every day that some crazy fundamentalist is going to say, 'How dare she say that?' \"\n\n She bums a cigarette for me from a group of chic international types a few tables away. Outside she sees a suave Swiss dude she knows and says hello. She greets him in French (\"\u00E7a va,\" \"super,\" etc.) and gives him a peck on both cheeks. The dude pats his heart and tells me she's very sweet. Back inside, she orders profiteroles.\n\n \"Let's do sexy pictures,\" she says.\n\n Gulp. Say what?\n\n \"Let's do sexy pictures. But not too sexy.\"\n\n Then I realize she means for the magazine. She laughs and pulls out her iPod. I scroll through again. A-Ha, Beastie Boys, Cat Stevens\u2014did she know he now goes by Yusuf Islam?\n\n \"You're kidding! I didn't know. I had the greatest hits.\u2026He changed his name from Cat Stevens to what? I'm shocked.\"\n\n Moby, Beethoven, Pink Floyd. \"I love them. Seal, I love Seal. I love 50 Cent. I love 'Candy Shop.' You want to hear it? No, this is terrible, I shouldn't be playing you this!\" she says, fiddling with the iPod, then handing it to me.\n\n But it won't play. Nothing.\n\n \"Can you hear? Wait\u2026what's going on? I hope it's not broken. Oh no. It's broken. Fuck. I can't believe it's broken. This is such a drag.\u2026Now I'm really sad.\"\n\n So she tells me about the song instead.\n\n \"It's about the candy shop,\" she says. \"No, I'm really shy, I'm not gonna tell you the lyrics. Okay, so the singer, 50 Cent, says he's going to take the girl to the candy shop.\u2026It's about candy shops and lollipops.\u2026'\n\n I stare at her.\n\n \"So the guy's going to take the girl to the candy shop and make her de-de-de-dah the lollipop.\"\n\n The girl's making 50 Cent eat candy?\n\n \"No, the guy is taking her to the candy store and making her eat the candy. Please get it, please get it!\"\n\n He's going to have her lick his lollipop? Oh. Why write a song about that?\n\n \"The way he says it. I'm gonna take you to the candy shop! Make you lick it like a lollipop.\"\n\n I think about baseball or something, then change the subject: What's it like for her when Osama releases another video?\n\n \"I don't even watch it.\"\n\n The longest relationship Ms. Dufour ever had was two and a half years. She's a cheap date and not that picky, she says. She won't date fundamentalist Muslims, though.\n\n Wafah means \"loyalty\" in Arabic, but she can't imagine being faithful to someone for, say, ten years. \"I think that even women can't be faithful. I read in a study, and I think it's true, that after three years you're not in love anymore\u2014it's more about friendship.\"\n\n She's currently seeing someone but doesn't know where it's going. Doesn't want kids yet. If she had some, she'd send them to her mother. \"She would do a better job than me. I would never send them to my dad, though. He would fuck my kids up. I'm so lucky to have my mom.\"\n\n\n\n Carmen Dufour, who had a Westernized childhood outside Geneva, wasn't keen on marrying a Middle Easterner. But she quickly fell for Yeslam bin Ladin in the summer of 1973, when he and his family rented a floor in her mother's house. At 24, he was handsome, rich, smart, and seemingly easygoing. When she crashed his Porsche, he just smiled.\n\n Yeslam's ambition in life was to breed Dobermans, until Carmen convinced him he could do more. He said he would, if she'd marry him. So they got hitched in Jeddah, his hometown; a few years later, Wafah was born in Santa Monica while her parents were studying at the University of Southern California. When her father found out his new baby was a girl, he left the hospital.\n\n Back in Saudi Arabia, Carmen was stunned to learn that she couldn't go for a walk by herself around the bin Laden compound without a veil, but even when she could get out, there were no stores, restaurants, or parks to go to, no theaters or concerts. Books were scarce, and anything concerning love and romance, politics, Israel, or anything written by Jewish authors was banned. TV was heavily censored, too\u2014not much on besides Koran chanting, news about the king, cartoons, and Columbo.\n\n So she tried to create a Westernized household. Returning from the occasional trip to Geneva, she'd smuggle in books and stocked her house with Western records and videos. She invited over foreigners who were there on business, and started having regular Thursday-night tennis parties that evolved into a kind of salon for the international crowd. Birthday parties for kids were forbidden, but she broke with that tradition and invited boys over to play with Wafah, who grew up stubborn, headstrong, and playful. Disapproving Saudi women began to whisper.\n\n One day at her all-girls school, Wafah was smacked in the face by her teacher. When Carmen showed up to find out what had happened, the teacher denied it, and the other students claimed that Wafah had made it all up. Once, when she heard music at school, Wafah began to dance, but her classmates scolded her because it was haram, which means \"taboo.\" After Wafah came home with I hate Jews. I love Palestine written in her notebook and her sister Najia told her mother that if she didn't pray she'd go to hell, it dawned on Carmen that after a few more years of this education, she might lose her daughters to fundamentalism. And if they went to the other extreme and rebelled, she could lose them for real. In Saudi Arabia, women who bring shame on the family can be put to death.\n\n \"She got scared for us,\" Ms. Dufour says. \"She thought, 'My daughters are going to have to marry someone who's twenty years older. They won't be able to drive. They won't even be able to think. They won't be able to get out of the country.' \"\n\n Says Carmen, during a lengthy, emotional phone conversation, \"I realized that if they were brought up with the Saudi mentality, they could be brainwashed and lose their personality.\"\n\n Carmen met Osama one afternoon when the tall, pious budding terrorist rang the doorbell looking for Yeslam. Catching sight of her unveiled face, he turned away, mumbled something, and made shoo!-ing hand gestures. Soon after, he went to Afghanistan to fight the Soviets.\n\n In 1977, Carmen gave birth to a second daughter, Najia. In the early '80s, Yeslam\u2014who'd been toiling on the bin Laden company ladder (his father had built a construction empire from scratch)\u2014started a brokerage firm in Jeddah. He soon amassed a personal fortune of around $300 million but had begun to grow distant, cranky, and obsessive about his health. According to Inside the Kingdom, the third time Carmen got pregnant, he asked her to get an abortion; reluctantly, she agreed.\n\n On family holiday in Geneva, Yeslam began to feel increasingly uncomfortable spending time in the West. He hung out with Saudi men, then started having affairs, Carmen writes. She got pregnant again and this time refused to have an abortion. Soon after, she spotted Yeslam w th another woman, and the couple separated. Wafah saw her father once in a while. He'd tell her to change her jeans because they were too tight or to remove her lipstick. They stopped talking after he denied being the father of her youngest sister, Noor. \"That really hurt me,\" Ms. Dufour recalls. \"How can he do that to his daughter?\"\n\n Wafah was a skinny, bespectacled, melancholy teenager. \"I wasn't that happy in my teens, but nobody really is, I guess. I didn't look good at all. Pimples everywhere. Teachers liked me because I was a good, nerdy student\"\u2014never a party girl. \"It's sad. I look, like, so boring. I've never taken any drugs except pot. For me, pot is not really a drug. It's not like I take it all the time, maybe three times a year. I wasn't allowed to go out until I was 18 because my mom wanted me to focus on good stuff.\"\n\n After her parents' separation, her mother met a Dutch-Brazilian man and dated him for twelve years.\n\n \"He's like my dad,\" Ms. Dufour says. \"He basically raised me. But he never married my mom because my dad\u2014listen to this sick story\u2014my dad doesn't want to give my mom a divorce because he wants to keep control of her.\" Fruitless legal proceedings have been going on for years. \"And eventually her relationship with this other man broke up, because he wanted to have a wife and children. They're still very good friends. I consider him a gazillion times more my father than my real father. And the day I get married, my stepdad is going to be the one walking me down the aisle.\"\n\n After she got a law degree from Geneva University at 20, she enrolled at Columbia for her master's. Her father refused to pay for her education, but her stepfather came through. \"My dad hasn't given me a penny since I'm like 18, not one penny,\" she says, adding that he owns three private jets, houses all over the world, and dates girls her age. \"So he doesn't care what I do. He doesn't give a damn. That's a big problem in my head, I guess. When you have problems with your dad, and you don't understand\u00E2 Thank God I have my stepdad. Otherwise, I think I would have been completely insane.\"\n\n I ask her what she thinks her father would say if he saw her now, in a tiny cutoff-jean skirt, drinking an Amstel Light.\n\n \"I think he would die,\" Ms. Dufour says. And if he saw sexy pictures of her in a magazine? \"I think he would have a heart attack.\" She says she spoke to him once since September 11\u2014one of only two times they've had contact in the past ten years. \"How cuckoo is that?\" she says.\n\n I ask her what they talked about.\n\n She hesitates. \"I don't speak to him, and that's it. I don't know him as a person, I don't know how he thinks, and of course it's not about him\u2014it's about every day anybody who doesn't have a father figure is left with a hole in their lives, you know?\" Tears come. \"It's like you're asking me about a stranger,\" she says.\n\n I ask Ms. Dufour what it was like learning that the World Trade Center had been hit. \"I was freaking out, crying hysterically, watching this in horror,\" she recalls. \"I was like, 'Somebody's bombing my city, and I wanna go home!' I was on the phone, but I couldn't reach anyone. And later they said they are thinking that one of the bomb suspects is Osama, and I realized that I was related, of course. My mom was saying, 'What happens now? 'What is going to happen to you?' And she was freaking out for us. I'm like, What is going on? I said, 'Thank God I'm going back.' \"\n\n Then a newspaper raised the question of whether Ms. Dufour had been tipped off about the attacks. After the rumor was repeated in other publications, a friend who was staying at her SoHo apartment began getting death threats meant for her.\n\n \"I wanted to disappear,\" she recalls. \"There were a lot of articles saying things about me, and I just couldn't cope with it. Saying that I fied before, that I knew about the attack and I was living the high life, that I was partying like a mad animal. Yeah, I was partying a bit, after my exams.\"\n\n Reporters kept calling Carmen's house while friends distanced themselves from the family. Hotels and restaurants didn't want them, either. Ms. Dufour fell into a serious depression, and after a while her mother sent her to a therapist.\n\n \"I was crying all day,\" she tells me. \"I was saying, 'How can I be me?' For me it was an identity crisis, because I didn't want to be related to something so awful. I'm like the victim, but I'm also part of what hits the target. And in my head, I know exactly where I stand, but\u2026So it's so tiring that I always have to explain myself, that I have nothing to do with anything.\"\n\n Carmen did what she could. She released a statement and went on TV, insisting that she and her daughters had no connection to Osama bin Laden. Until that time, Ms. Dufour said, she'd never even thought about him. \"I was struggling with the fact that my dad didn't want to be our dad. So do you think I was thinking about the other ones? It was the least of my concerns, what they were doing in Saudi Arabia. I mean, I couldn't care less.\"\n\n\n\n On a Saturday night, I meet Ms. Dufour on Bleecker Street. We end up at a lounge called Dusk. She tells me that music is her \"savior,\" the thing that's kept her sane when everything went wrong. She writes or cowrites all her songs and wants to express what she's been through with them and get respect from musicians. It's not about fame.\n\n Sid, the bartender, happily agrees to turn off the jukebox and put on some of Ms. Dufour's songs. The place fills up with a deep, dreamy, floaty voice that's wistful but somehow upbeat. Sid and I are impressed. He says she sounds like Desiree. I say Sade and Madonna. Ms. Dufour says Toni Braxton. I feel sooo free, I feel soooo high, I feel so free, I feel like a butterfly dancing in the sky, goes one chorus.\n\n \"That's like a pot song,\" she says. It's the first one she ever wrote.\n\n After our fifth or sixth drink, I need a smoke. Outside, I repeat a statement I read by American Idol's Simon Cowell, that for an aspiring singer, there's only one name worse than bin Laden: Hitler. Ms. Dufour makes a frowny face. \"Why does he judge? I mean, okay, he's a judge, but he's never heard me sing.\"\n\n Would she like to perform in the Middle East sometime?\n\n \"My mom wouldn't let me; she'd be scared that someone would want to kill me,\" she says. \"Listen, I would love to raise consciousness. Maybe women could hear the songs and realize that I'm doing my dream and hopefully they can, too.\"\n\n I point out that Gandhi was willing to die for his cause. She ponders that.\n\n \"You know, Gandhi was much older than I am, and I think that wisdom comes when you're older,\" she says. \"I think I'm too young to die today.\"\n\n I confess that sometimes when I think of her uncle, there's a perverse sense of awe somewhere in the twisted recesses of my brain. Osama may be a monster, I reason, but he's nevertheless a warrior with balls and an unwavering resolve. On some level the man is a badass, no?\n\n \"Ridiculous,\" she says. \"When you were a kid, were you watching cartoons and saying, 'The bad guy's a warrior'?\"\n\n \"I know he's the bad guy, but he's a very formidable bad guy.\"\n\n \"Do you like Darth Vader?\"\n\n \"No. So how should I think of Osama?\"\n\n \"Okay, how do you call someone who kills people?\"\n\n \"A murderer?\"\n\n \"There. You have your answer.\"\n\n When I ask if Osama is more like an Ewok, she laughs. Then: \"I don't want to say stuff and then have my life on the line by some fundamentalist who's going to come and chop my head off.\"\n\n Ms. Dufour tells me that besides her mother, her heroes are Nelson Mandela and Madonna.\n\n \"Madonna stuck to her guns; she's very smart, and she doesn't take no for an answer,\" she explains. \"She has cojones.\"\n\n If Madonna and Osama were put in a room together, who would win the conversation? I ask.\n\n \"Madonna would win. Against everybody! She would shag him rotten! And then shag him rotten again! And then there would be no more Osama! He wouldn't be able to walk!\"\n\n Ms. Dufour's expression grows a little forlorn.\n\n \"I'm just like any other person,\" she says finally. \"And I want to live my life like any other American, which I am.\u2026I believe in America, and I hope they'll understand. Because I really just want to be normal.\""^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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