by Jean Sasson
From what I remembered of Pakistan, I would not be unhappy there. I knew little about Yemen, other than that both of our families had come from there, but felt it was a conservative Arab Muslim country that would be well suited to our traditional style of living.
The flight seemed to last forever, leading me to believe that perhaps we were going to circle the earth. But eventually the pilot began to descend. That was when I first noticed some big mountaintops far below. Some more minutes passed and we could feel our altitude sinking even more. When I peered out the window again, I saw that we were close to landing on a plain, flat area of earth surrounded by mountains. Some trees came into view. My thoughts were be-fuddled. I remember thinking, “What is this far, far country?”
Suddenly a very small airport came into view and I caught a dim glimpse of the natives who lived in the land. Men dressed in what I believed to be Afghan costumes were dotted around the airport area. I recognized that native dress from the summers in Pakistan. Whether I was looking at Afghans in Pakistan or Afghans in Afghanistan remained to be seen.
My heart skipped a few beats before I calmed all uncertainties by reminding myself I should and would rejoice that our family would be together again, no matter where that might be.
Upon landing everything was a bit chaotic. Our entire party was quickly taken to a long line of minibuses and small Toyota trucks parked around the airport grounds. I remember little else about that exhausting day. I do recall that we were transported to a big white house called the old palace, where someone had organized the nicest rooms for my husband’s wives and children. There were other ladies living there, women married to the men who worked for Osama.
I felt uneasy because I had not yet seen my husband or my son, whom I had expected to be in attendance to greet us. Someone said that we had arrived in Afghanistan, but I wanted to hear that from them. I rested but did not sleep, because of all of the questions swirling around in my head.
But the following morning I was in for a lovely surprise when my handsome son Omar came calling, patiently waiting for me outside the palace.
Dressed as a Pashtun Afghan, my son looked very different. Even with the loose-fitting clothes I could see that my already small son had lost weight. He was having difficulty breathing, reminding me of his troubling asthma. I would ask about those problems later, but for the moment I said nothing. The smaller children filled the silence with their teasing ways, laughing together about their brother’s funny dress.
When he smiled his sweet, hesitant smile, I knew it was my Omar. Although he was still not very tall, Omar had a new maturity on his face. I supposed that the months spent with his father had taken him into the world of men.
My most kindly son gently lifted my hand, kissed it, and said, “Hello, my mother. How are you doing?”
I replied, “I have been well, Omar. The sight of your face is best of all.”
My son kissed my veiled face more than once.
The suspense gathering, I finally asked, “Omar, where are we?”
“You are in Afghanistan, in the city of Jalalabad, not so far from the Pakistani border.”
So, it was true, Osama had brought us to Afghanistan. There was nothing to do but to thank God for our safety and our togetherness. I only asked, “Our belongings? When will they follow?”
Omar avoided looking at me, finally saying, “I do not know.”
I had a niggling worry but asked nothing more. Soon I would see my husband and hoped that he would clarify everything for me.
I did not have a desire to stay in the palace, which was filled with many women and children I did not know. So I asked Omar, “What are our personal arrangements?” I assumed that my husband was waiting for me at a nice place that would be our personal home.
My son seemed a bit hesitant as he answered, “You are all coming with me, to Tora Bora. Father is waiting there for you.”
I remembered the name Tora Bora. My husband had described it a few times when telling our sons about the battles he had once fought from that hideout. I could not imagine why we would be going there, but I had learned after many years of living with Osama not to ask questions, for all would be revealed when my husband thought it best.
I had trusted my husband from the first moment of our marriage, and he had always taken care of his family. I had no reason to believe that this time it would be different, although I could not imagine living so high that I might touch a cloud. I had always lived comfortably by the sea or on the plains.
The rest of that day I was very quiet, saying nothing as I cared for my smallest children.
The following morning Omar came for us with a caravan of small trucks. Omar shared our vehicle and, in his way, provided few details. We talked casually about the other children and what had happened in Khartoum since Omar’s departure. I did not probe, but I felt that my son had a sense of trepidation about him, the cause not becoming clear until I saw what he already knew. I was relieved that Omar did not question me about his beloved horses, for I knew only that they had been abandoned, as had our horses in Saudi Arabia.
The geography of Afghanistan was as amazing as I had heard. My eyes were seeing a breathtakingly beautiful land. I had a thought that I would like to paint the striking landscape, but then I remembered that all my artist supplies had been left in Khartoum.
I was so weary that my eyes closed. My first months of pregnancy sapped my energy, but the road was so bumpy that sleep was impossible. Iman and Ladin soon exhausted themselves and napped fitfully.
Soon we were climbing a big mountain with our truck slipping and sliding across a dirt road not much larger than a pathway. I was convinced we would all perish! I was glad that I was wearing the veil so no one could see the alarm on my face, but Omar spotted my knotted hands. “My mother, the first time is scary. But our drivers are the best. No one has gone over the edge yet.”
My son wanted to make me feel better.
The mountains were so closely connected that they appeared as one. Omar, so sensitive that I accused him of being a reader of minds, said, “Soon you will be used to this,” before relating the very surprising news that one of those huge mountains had been given to my husband by the man recently killed in a tribal feud, Mullah Nourallah. I admit that information did not make me feel any better, as I was not fond of my husband becoming too personally attached to such a high mountain in such a distant land.
At that moment we passed a security checkpoint, my husband’s men guarding the area with their big guns. Of course they were expecting us, so we passed freely. Once the trucks were parked, Omar shocked me with his words, “My mother, we must walk the remainder of the way.”
Thankfully the walk was not so long. I had several worries. Perhaps I would stumble and harm my unborn child. Or perhaps one of the younger children might plunge off the tall mountain. I glanced back to see Khairiah and Siham following closely, and although we were all wearing our veils, I knew in my heart that their faces were filled with worry. Where on earth was our husband bringing us?
When I turned my face upward to the sky, I saw Osama’s large figure standing on the edge of a ledge. His men had alerted him to our arrival and he was now intently watching as a human trail of women and children climbed his mountain. He appeared to be standing on a flat area of the mountain and I wondered if he had ordered his workers to chisel down the granite. I was surprised to see that Osama had company. There was a tall dog standing near my husband. Omar told me, “That is Bobby, my watchdog. Mullah Nourallah gave Bobby to me a few weeks before he died.”
I began to wonder about that man Mullah Nourallah. He was a great giver of gifts, from dogs to mountains. Arabs honor those who are so charitable. A very generous man who cared about my husband and my son had been killed. I felt sorry for that, although most likely the man was in white paradise even as my children and I were in danger due to his generosity, braving the steep mountain he had so graciously given to my husband.
We drew nearer to
Osama. I could see some ramshackle buildings made of dark gray rock behind him. I admit those buildings did not excite me. While my heart was made heavy by what I was seeing on the mountain, I felt a spark of genuine gladness to see my husband’s towering figure.
Osama greeted each member of his family before leading me inside the largest of the buildings. Omar took his brothers over to introduce them to that long-limbed dog, Bobby. Everyone else stood quietly and waited.
The buildings were basically stone huts, haphazardly constructed of different-sized rocks that had been carved out of the mountain with a crude attempt to shape them into blocks. When Osama said that I was looking at my new home, I really could not believe him.
My husband had never apologized for anything that came my way. That day was no different. Instead he pointed out that my eight children and I would have two rooms and a bathroom. There was a sitting room combined with a cooking room; and one tiny bedroom, supplied with a wooden bed built especially for me. There was a very small bathroom that had been recently constructed. Never had I seen such a place in my life, but I was so numb with shock that I nodded and feigned an interest.
I would be living with my children in extremely small square rooms set on top of a very dangerous mountain. Knowing that my husband would not tolerate any complaints, I mentioned the things that I knew were not normal for mountain huts, such as the walls painted white and most of the center floor recently covered in thin concrete. The edges of the floor that met the walls remained dirt, but there were some cheap nylon carpets softening the effect. I made no reference to the fact that there was no electricity on the mountain, even though Osama had always allowed me to use electric lighting, even when everything else of the modern world was forbidden. I guessed that we would be using lanterns, and I was right, for Osama pointed out some gas cylinders so we could replenish the lanterns when they went dry.
I saw no taps for running water, although I did not raise the topic. I spotted a new portable gas burner with only one ring, the kind that people use on camping trips, so I knew how I would be cooking our meals. My children would sleep on thin cotton mattresses on the concrete floor, as there was no furniture, other than one wooden bed, although I did see some thin cushions stacked in the corner of the largest room.
Thinking of how we might heat the hut, I looked around and spotted a steel box in a corner. There was a pipe connected to that box that led through the wall. A bunch of rough-hewed logs were stacked nearby.
Osama’s eyes followed my own and he said, “The mountains are filled with trees. The boys will provide you with plenty of wood. You will be warm.”
The mountain felt cold to me, even though we had arrived during the early part of September. Although I have lived my adult life in isolation, I knew enough to be aware that the mountains of Afghanistan were famous for fierce winter storms.
I shivered in anticipation of what was coming our way.
I waited until later that night to tell Osama that we were going to have another child. I can’t remember his response, although by that time he was the father of seventeen children, so he was most likely immune to a lot of excitement.
And so my children and I came to live in Tora Bora, on a very tall mountain that belonged to my husband. Although I was happy that we were all together, those were difficult times in so many ways.
It was not long before all of us were weary of our limited diets. We had eggs, eggs, eggs, or potatoes, potatoes, potatoes, or rice, rice, rice.
For breakfast we had scrambled eggs, white salty cheese, bread, water, and green tea. For our midday meal we sometimes had rice mixed with vegetables, or potatoes, and on occasion okra and tomatoes, if we were lucky. We rarely ate meat. Normally I would not be concerned for myself, but I was pregnant and anxious about my unborn child. My growing children were another big worry, for I knew that they required protein in their diets. For supper we had to repeat our breakfast meal, with eggs and bread. On very rare occasions we might get a can of tuna each, a treat thrilling for my little children, who never received sweets or any of the special foods that children love.
My growing children were always hungry, but I tried to relieve the our tension with a little teasing, once telling my boys that they would soon be clucking like chickens, for eggs were the only food in ample supply and my sons ate endless boiled eggs.
Lacking a built-in system of water was an inconvenience I shall never forget. In the early days we had to fetch water from a mountain stream, but that was nearly impossible for such a large group of people. After a few weeks, Osama arranged for a small truck to deliver water. Since females should not be seen by men not of our family, someone bored a small hole in the wall of the building for the delivery man to poke a pipe through to let the water in. My daughters and I jumped about in a funny way, as it was essential for us to be exceedingly nimble to take hold of empty plastic jugs to fill one then the other without spraying ourselves with water.
Never once did I complain to my husband, even as I washed our dirty clothes in cold water in a big metal bucket, or cooked rice on the paltry one-eyed burner, or cooled our perishable food in a mountain stream. I diligently swept the floor with an odd brush that someone had covered in a nylon mat. I had never seen such a broom, but it served the purpose.
I never complained even as I stifled screams when my smallest children ran recklessly on the mountain’s edge.
I never complained although my abandoned possessions often came to my mind. I never mentioned how I longed for my little treasures, my beloved books, the beautiful golden coins given to me each time I gave birth to one of my children. My secret stash of photographs of my children was painfully missed. Since the day we had married, my husband’s rulings on cameras and photographs swayed back and forth, first saying no to picture taking, then saying yes, and then no again. Picture taking was my one little sin, and from the early days of my marriage I always managed to capture the sweet images of my beautiful babies. Those pictures were some of my most cherished items that I knew were gone forever. I longed for some scented shampoos and soaps, but had to wash with the roughest detergents. I often thought about the pretty dresses that I had so joyously worn in the privacy of my home. I even missed my black abaaya and black veils and scarves, for as soon as our feet climbed the rock mountains of Tora Bora, Osama decreed that every member of his family must assume native dress. Even his wives would discard our familiar abaayas so as not to stand out from native women. And so he sent his drivers to the nearest village bazaar to purchase the Afghan chadris or burqas, those tentlike covers with a latticed slit for the eyes. I greatly preferred the black flowing abaaya with head scarf and face veil to the billowing pastel-colored burqa. But Osama said that I must become a burqa-clad woman, and so I did.
Every day was very similar to the next for my two sister-wives and myself. We three would pray five times each day, and after our chores we might meet to read the Koran, or to sit and look over the mountains to watch the forest animals around us, wondering what their lives were like. My little daughters, Fatima and Iman, spent much time with me and I entertained them by sharing fun tales about my childhood in Syria. The favorite times for my daughters, though, were when their brothers would take the time to sit in a circle and describe the life outside the rock walls of our home. My little girls mostly shared purdah with their mother, unless there were no strangers on the mountain and they were free to play with their brothers.
Even though I missed the life I had known before, there was nothing to do but to adapt. My life was for my family and so I did what I had to do. This did not mean that I blamed my husband, for I did not. He was in a situation where his presence was not allowed in most countries. He had to live where he could, and that place was Afghanistan.
Looking on the bright side of the situation, at least my children breathed fresh mountain air and the boys for the first time in their lives were free as the birds, running around on that mountaintop like little wild things. When there are so many chi
ldren, life is never dull. Out of boredom, my oldest sons were gathering a nice collection of dogs and making plans to start a rabbit farm.
Although Muslims are not keen on dogs, my husband allowed them on the mountain because he felt their natural habit of barking would offer a good alarm system from intruders. In fact, when we lived in Khartoum my husband had purchased two big guard dogs, ordering them from a catalogue to be shipped from Europe. They were German shepherd dogs whom my husband named Safier and Za’ear. One of the biggest surprises of my life was when one of my boys told me that he had witnessed his father petting those dogs. Never would I have guessed that my cousin and husband, Osama bin Laden, would allow his fingers to caress a dog. My husband follows the words of our Prophet Mohammed, who warned Muslims that dogs are dirty and should not be touched. Sadly, those expensive dogs did not enjoy a happy ending as one was stolen and the other suffered terribly from a mysterious disease before dying.
Hopefully the dogs in Afghanistan would be more fortunate. Omar had his sweet dog, Bobby, tall, white and brown with skinny legs so long he created much conversation and hearty laughs. He had very long silky hair that many women would envy. Abdul Rahman had been given a midsized black dog that had a cute attitude. Sa’ad had gotten himself a dog, too, but the memory of that dog’s face is left behind in Afghanistan. Osman had taken possession of two little brown dogs that were very amusing. I’m sure all those dogs had names, but for the life of me, I can only remember Omar’s dog, Bobby.
Those dogs created some excitement from time to time. One day my husband was in the special room that he had set aside for his meetings with other men, as it is not proper in our society for strange men to come into a home where women are living. My husband’s office was one ledge down the mountain, so nearby that we could see his rooftop from our vantage point, coming into contact with the flat area where the children played. On that day my husband had three important visitors, men that he had never met before, so I am sure he wanted them to leave with a good impression.