by Jean Sasson
I knew then that terrible times were upon us.
So, finally, the Osama bin Laden family would be a true mountain family, our activities lit by candles or gas lanterns. Most worrying, no pipes had been laid to bring water to the area. Would my delicate mother now balance a water jug on her head, struggling to climb a rock mountain to bring drinking and cooking water into her kitchen? Then I remembered that there was no kitchen. Where would our food be prepared? A second later I realized that there was no bathroom. I grimaced. This would not do because my mother and aunties and sisters were often hidden away, unable to leave their homes if men not of the family were in the area. They must have an accessible indoor toilet!
Once again, my father seemed to read my mind. “We will build a small bathroom for each set of two rooms.”
Pulled into a debilitating melancholy, as before I could only grunt in reply.
Once again, my father appeared euphoric when he should have been in despair. Something about the old times of war had triggered an unexpected enthusiasm. How I longed to argue with him, to point out that while the ramshackle buildings might look sweet to a warrior like him, they were unsuitable for women and children. But I didn’t, for I was not yet of an age when bravery came instinctively. I still felt like a child in my father’s presence, helplessly caught in the swift-moving vortex that was taking his family with him to a destructive end.
“Yes,” my father said with a confident tone. “All will be well.”
I glanced at Abu Hafs and Sayf Adel, who were accustomed to my father’s way of thinking and maintained their usual composure. Two other soldiers were scratching their heads in bewilderment, but like me, they would never dare argue with my father. In fact, every man who served my father had a habit of requesting his permission before opening their mouths. “Dear prince, may I speak?”
At my father’s command, his men and I spent the next few weeks tossing out the ten-year-old rubbish of war, sweeping the dirt floors, draping animal hides over the open doors and windows, and traveling back and forth to Jalalabad to buy ordinary supplies. We purchased three small portable gas cookers, each with one ring, for my father’s wives. There was a need for metal pails for hauling water from the nearby spring and a few metal pots for cooking. We gathered enormous quantities of plastic dishes and simple cotton bedding, along with a few military cots for the adults. I was glad that my father sent us back to the stores to find a bunch of cheap carpets to spread on the floors.
Even after our efforts to tidy up and furnish the buildings, the huts appeared bleak and inhospitable.
The most difficult job was to construct three simple bathrooms, yet we finally completed the task. I wondered if they could fulfill their purpose in the absence of a water supply, but my father said there was a company in a nearby village that could possibly deliver containers of water. Hopefully my mother would not be hauling drinking and cooking water from a mountain stream.
Once we had done all that we could do, my father announced that he had decided against bringing his wives and children for an additional three months. The war was still erupting in pockets and no one seemed to know what to expect. My father was apprehensive because he still had not received any message of welcome from the reclusive Mullah Omar.
Despite my relief that my father was being cautious, I was missing my mother. Perhaps her sweet presence might bring clarity to my father, helping him to understand the absurdity of women and children living perched on a mountaintop in stark, cold, and inferior dwellings.
My father, his men, and I mainly remained in Tora Bora, although there were trips back and forth to Jalalabad. My father met with various military men there, but he often told me to wait outside while he spoke to them.
As time passed, I became more familiar with the soldiers who had made the plane trip from Khartoum. My favorite of all my father’s men was Mohammed Atef. Like so many of the soldiers, Mohammed Atef was no longer welcome in his native land of Egypt. Although he had once been a police officer, after becoming disgruntled with the political situation, he had become a member of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad. Before long he was in political trouble in Egypt, fleeing his country to travel to Afghanistan to join the Jihad there. That is where he and my father forged a firm friendship.
Mohammed Atef was thirteen years older than my father. His hair was dark brown, and he wore a full beard. He was a big man, less than an inch shorter than my very tall father, but slightly more heavily built. I believe that my father loved Mohammed Atef as much as one man can love another. Due to their indestructible friendship, Mohammed became like a favored uncle to my father’s children. Despite what he became later in life, he was always kind to me and later to my brothers.
Mohammed smiled, telling me, “Call me Abu Hafs,” meaning “father of Hafs.”
I politely inquired about his son, and that is when I learned that he had no son. Unlike my father, Abu Hafs said he was content with one wife who had given him several daughters, although he had a deep longing for a son. He said, “Since I know God will bless me with a son one day, I have already selected his name. I might as well take the honored title.” He laughed and after looking to see that my father was not nearby, I laughed with him. Despite the fact I was a teenager and was expected to carry a weapon, my father was still likely to reprimand me for exposing too many teeth when smiling or laughing.
And that is why everyone called Mohammed Atef, Abu Hafs, father of Hafs, honoring him for a son that he never had.
My father was so austere that I often wondered at their friendship, for Mohammed was carefree and quick to crack jokes. My father rarely smiled, and so seldom indulged in idle chatter that I can count the times on one hand. Yet somehow the two men connected, forming the closest friendship of my father’s life.
My father said that I needed responsibilities while on the mountain so I would serve as his personal tea boy. Believe me when I say that I was happy to have responsibilities, for the boredom of life on Tora Bora Mountain evades description. Being by his side for nearly every moment of the day and night gave me a good insight into my father’s true character. For all of my childhood, he had remained a distant figure, too busy to squander time with his children, but in Afghanistan I was the only family member with him, often one of only three or four people he felt he could trust completely. His trust was not misplaced, for although I hated what he did, and what his actions brought to his family, he was still my father. As such, I would never have betrayed him.
Over time, he began to relax and share his habits. Admittedly, I found some pleasure in those times and did all I could to please him.
I remember one afternoon when I washed his feet before prayer. Little did we know that a mullah who lived nearby was on his way for a visit, arriving to observe the rite that was becoming routine. Muslims must wash before every prayer, which is five times each day. One day when he was particularly tired, my father asked me to splash the water upon his feet. From that first time, I took up the custom.
The foot washing displeased the Mullah, who made a big point of telling my father that what I was doing was wrong in the eyes of Allah. No man is below another man. No man should wash another man’s feet, or perform similar subservient acts. The mullah said, “Even if the king of Saudi Arabia comes for a visit, this boy should not wash his feet.”
My father listened quietly, his face flushed with embarrassment, for he had enormous respect for most men of religion and the last thing he wanted was to appear ignorant of God’s commands. My father turned to me, his voice sharp, “Omar, you hear the mullah. He is right.” From that time I was not allowed to wash my father’s feet. I felt angry at the mullah, for the ritual was one of the few times in my life I felt a strong connection to my father. I longed to protest, but didn’t.
There had been a number of unpleasant incidents involving the ritual of washing. One day in Tora Bora, when I was serving tea to my father and some of his friends, he reminded me of one of the most mortifying moments in my yo
ung life.
“Omar, do you remember the time when we were with that Egyptian general from the Russian war? I had fought with him here in Afghanistan.”
My face turned red with the humiliating memory. We had been living in Khartoum at the time, and my father had ordered me to bring water for washing. Since the general was his honored guest, my father instructed, “First you must wash the hands of our visitor, Omar.”
I bent down on one knee to do as my father ordered, but the general had other ideas, refusing the courtesy. He pulled away, saying, “I only want the jug. I will wash myself.” I was young and didn’t know what to do but to obey any adult giving orders, so I passed him the jug.
At the precise moment of the handover my father saw the general take the container in his hands, completely misinterpreting what was happening. Without asking what was going on, my father began to scream threats and insults, “Do you want me to beat you with my stick? Why do you embarrass me? How dare you expect the general to wash your hands! Why should he wash your hands? You are nobody!”
My father was so angry that spit spewed from his mouth. He seized the jug and personally washed the hands of the general, who had grown very quiet.
I had anticipated a severe beating when the general departed, but for once my father did not turn to violence. I assumed that my father had become so busy with his affairs that he had forgotten about the incident.
Now, several years later, I squirmed with disgrace as he recounted the story to his friends in every detail, shaming me in front of men I had come to know. At the end, he looked at me with approval, “You have learned much since then, my son.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. My father was still unaware of what had actually occurred on that day, that the general had been the one to take the jug out of my hands. But I didn’t bother explaining, for I had learned long ago that once my father made up his mind, facts would not change it. If one disagreed, his anger could spark in only a second. Who wanted to incur his wrath?
I did my best to make his life easier. I prepared his tea in the way he liked it, boiling hot but weak, with two spoons of sugar, always poured in a small glass. I don’t remember my father ever requesting coffee; his favored drink was tea, or at times honey in hot water, which he claimed had healing properties for the mind and body. My father scorned all soft drinks and would not allow ice to be put in any drink. He actually detested cold liquids and if some unknowing person presented him with a cold drink, he would let it sit until it naturally warmed.
He confessed that he was missing his favorite drink, which he had often prepared while living in Sudan. Dried sultanas would be placed in a large jug, which would then be filled to the top with water. Left overnight, the sultanas and water would mix, leaving a very healthy grape juice that he would drink during the following day.
His food of choice was fruit and he looked forward to the mango season. He was a bread eater, but only ate enough to fill his stomach. He was not particularly fond of meat dishes, but preferred lamb above chicken and beef, all served over a plate of rice. Truthfully, my father cared little what was put before him, and often said he only ate enough to sustain strength. I can say that he spoke the truth.
My father kept two items with him at all times, his walking cane and his Kalashnikov. He demanded that other favored items be within easy reach: his prayer beads, a small copy of the holy Koran, a radio that picked up stations from Europe, including his preferred station, the BBC, and lastly, a small Dictaphone. Back in Khartoum my father had begun a habit of recording many of his thoughts and plans. He carried on with the practice after arriving in Afghanistan.
While I was keeping him company, he would often spend hours speaking into the Dictaphone, recording many thoughts, including historical facts, current politics, and stories from Islam. When frustrated at the recent changes in his life, he would thunder over past grievances or pose new ideas that he believed would alter the course of the world.
As I scurried about tending to his needs, I heard him rail against the Saudi royal family, other rulers in the area, and the Americans and the British. He seethed over the disrespect shown to our Islamic faith, which seemed be the root of his growing discontent. My father’s thoughts and words often triggered a flurry of emotions, resulting in a loud voice and an angry face, which was not his customary manner of speaking.
After a week or so of hearing his tirades, I shut my ears to his unpleasant rants, but now I regret my inattention. Many times I wish I had those tapes in hand so that I could better understand what it was that drove my father to hate so many governments and so many innocent people.
In truth, I learned more about my father’s life during those three or four months than in all the years of my early life combined. Although my father was so serious that he rarely spoke of personal events, there were times in Afghanistan when he actually relaxed, pulling me with him into his early life.
Since I now know that I will never see my father again, for his violent path has separated us forever, I often think about those times and the stories he shared. Some of his fondest memories seemed to date back to childhood visits to Syria, to the home of his mother’s family, to the time when he was not so angry with the world.
“Omar, come,” he would say in his low, pleasant voice, patting the colorful flat cotton mat beside him. “I want to tell you a story. When I was only a teenager and we were holidaying in Syria, I often went with your mother’s brother Naji for long walks. The two of us enjoyed exploring the woods, checking out every turn in those narrow winding paths, very often leaping over bubbling streams. The trees in the hills of Syria were virgin. I believe that your Uncle Naji and I were the first ever to walk under their shady canopy. One day we were hiking in an area that had particularly dense undergrowth when we suddenly heard the noise of a snake. That snake was directly in our path, but I didn’t wish to kill it, so we stood to observe what the snake might do. Not moving, the snake watched us with equal interest. Finally it slithered a bit to the side and I quickly passed by his spot, but your Uncle Naji was too curious, saying he wanted to examine the snake’s colorful markings. I warned him, but your uncle was determined and so he inched closer to the long creature, when suddenly the snake became irritated by the human attention and coiled and hissed. Foolish Naji thought the snake’s conduct interesting and edged closer, when that snake suddenly spiraled straight out of his coil and began to slide forward, causing Naji to break into a run.” My father paused to smile and remember. “Naji was moving so fast that he quickly caught up with me and passed me. When I turned back I had a jolt of surprise. The snake had refocused his attention onto me. Off I went, your uncle and I struggling to outrun each other so that neither would be near that fast-moving snake.”
My always too serious father chuckled once more, remembering that day and concluding, “I have too many times found myself in trouble as the result of the carelessness of others.”
He enjoyed evoking memories of his mother, my Grandmother Allia, with whom he had shared the most pure and loving mother-son rapport from the time he was born. Even when I was a young child, I recognized their unique relationship. In fact, everyone in our close family circle knew that he loved his mother more than he loved his wives, his siblings, or his children. Anything she desired, he provided. If he was home, he visited his mother every other day. Any time he spoke of or to his mother, a sort of glow came to his expression.
In Afghanistan, he revealed a few stories that I had never heard. “Omar, here is a story you must know about your grandmother. I remember once when our family was visiting in Syria and your step-grandfather Muhammad Attas had taken your grandmother and me for a short drive. We were on holiday and feeling leisurely. Muhammad failed to notice that our sluggish pace had irritated a minibus driver on the road behind us. That ill-tempered driver became so irate that he pushed his gas pedal hard, passing to block our car before leaping from his minibus and rushing toward us with a red, angry face. That man was so
enraged that when Muhammad opened his door to receive him politely, to attempt to defuse the situation, the heated driver actually threatened him before giving him a rough push.
“Omar, you remember how gentle Muhammad has been for his whole life, never lifting a finger to harm anyone. Anyhow, wishing to avoid an altercation, Muhammad slipped back into the driver’s seat, closing the door, leaving the man outside to rant, to wait him out. Although Muhammad remained calm, that man’s behavior had so incensed my usually gentle mother that she jumped out just as Muhammad jumped in! She moved so quickly that neither Muhammad nor I could catch her. She rushed up to the rude man and hit him across the face before pushing him to the ground. Unsatisfied and furious that such a person was free to harass other drivers, she noted his minibus license tag and hurried to report the incident to my half-brother, who happened to know the Assad family, who as you know are the Baathist rulers of Syria. The result was that the man was arrested within a few hours.”
He shook his head, smiling. “My mother is a strong, willful lady.”
The stories I liked best of all had to do with his own father, Mohammed bin Laden, who had been killed when my father was only a child. My father, who had never emotionally recovered from the loss, kept the long-dead Grandfather bin Laden on a pedestal.
There was something odd that I had noticed from my youth. I never heard my father call his father, “my father.” Instead, he always referred to him as “your grandfather.” I have no explanation for this, other than it seemed to pain him to use the words “my father.”
There are many false stories regarding my father’s relationship with his parents. For example, I read once that my Grandmother Allia was divorced by my Grandfather Mohammed bin Laden almost as soon as my father was born. Not true. In fact, my grandmother was the one who requested the divorce, although this did not occur until after she had become pregnant a second time.