by Jean Sasson
It happened that our oldest sons, Abdul Rahman, Sa’ad, and Omar, were working hard that day training their dogs to protect our home. Something Abdul Rahman did spooked the dogs. Sa’ad, deciding to play a funny joke on his brother, yanked loose the leashes and off all five dogs went after Abdul Rahman’s legs and ankles. Poor Abdul Rahman panicked when the dogs starting nipping at him, so he ran away. He was galloping like a race horse, running too fast for the terrain, failing to watch the path as he kept turning back to make sure he was leaving those dogs behind. As luck would have it, Abdul Rahman ran right off the ledge and onto the top of the wooden and straw roof covering Osama’s office.
While my husband and his visitors were discussing the most serious world events, tree branches and dried grasses suddenly rained on their heads. A child came next, arms flailing and legs kicking. My panicked son plunged straight through the roof, his fall interrupted by the hard floor. Stunned by the uncontrolled tumble, Abdul Rahman lay crumpled at the feet of my husband’s astonished visitors.
Omar had very rapidly maneuvered his way down the mountainside by this time and reported that the sight would have been amusing had it not been so scary. My husband and his visitors did not move a muscle, sitting as still as stones while Abdul Rahman crashed in amongst them. Omar said he looked carefully at his father’s face to see what would happen, preparing to run for safety if necessary, but Osama kept his business face, as though it was perfectly normal for a child to plummet through the roof.
After a long drawn-out silence, Osama slowly dusted the debris from his head and body, rising to his feet to step over to our dazed son. He brushed the roof debris from Abdul Rahman’s clothes before checking to make certain that our son had escaped without any broken bones. One of the visitors commented that it was lucky that the roof “nicely broke” Abdul Rahman’s fall.
Osama gently led a shaken Abdul Rahman out of the room and quietly told him, “My son, go home to your mother.” My serious husband then peered up to see a frightened Sa’ad and Osman peeking over the edge. Omar reported that his father spoke with ominous calm, “Sa’ad. Osman. Move the dogs from this area or I will kill them at the end of my meeting.”
The boys gathered their dogs and scattered. Omar watched as his father coolly returned to his meeting and the four men resumed their business as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Omar was the son who most worried me. I saw that since coming to Afghanistan he had become very sad. I did not express my concerns, but carefully observed as Omar spent too many long hours sitting in our home. Sometimes he would turn his back to the world and perch for hours with his ear next to the radio, leading me to believe that he had fallen asleep with that radio to his ear. But when I slipped around to get a view of his face, he would have his eyes wide open like a corpse, although a breathing corpse. My most sensitive son was in trouble and his mother did not know what to do to help him. The only good advice I could offer was to remind him that everything was in God’s hands and as such all would be okay.
Before the wives and other children had arrived in Afghanistan, Omar had his father all to himself. I believe that such closeness did my son good. Of all my children, Omar felt the keenest longing for a father’s love. But now that the entire family had arrived in Afghanistan, Osama once again became distant, coming to his wives and children infrequently.
One day I was surprised when Abdul Rahman, Sa’ad, Omar, Osman, and Mohammed came to me, with Omar as their spokesman, saying, “Dear mother, we never see our father. Can you speak with him and tell him we need his attention?”
I was so startled that I could not speak. Some consideration was required, for since the beginning of my marriage I had never questioned my husband. Osama always had his mind on matters of the world, and did not appreciate input from his wives. But now my nearly grown sons were asking their mother for a simple favor.
“Yes. I will,” I promised, pledging that I would find the strength to approach my husband.
The next occasion when Osama appeared in my humble hut to take the evening meal with us and stay the night hours, I gathered my courage to tell him, “Osama, your sons need you now that they are becoming men. Please do spend some time with them.”
Osama looked stunned, for never had I been so bold. He did not reprimand me, though, but said, “I will speak with them.”
The hut was so small that there was nowhere for me to go so that my husband and boys might have their privacy. So when Osama called them in for a little talk, I was a witness.
My boys gathered to sit in a circle, and like good boys they sat in a respectable way with one leg under their body and the other knee touching their chests. There they sat without looking up. In our culture boys do not meet their father’s eye in a daring manner, instead speaking while their eyes remain downcast. As usual, Omar was the one chosen by his brothers to convey the message. I was awed to hear Omar speak so clearly, and without fear. “My father, we are feeling ignored. You are our father but you spend all your time with your men.”
Osama sat easily, sipping on his tea, studying his sons. Finally he said, “My children, it is not that I do not want to spend time with you. I would be very pleased if I could be with you all many more hours in each day, but you know my situation and how difficult our lives have become. You know the hours that I work. You must learn to be grateful for the brief times we see each other.”
My boys did not say anything. I knew Osama’s response was not the answer they were seeking. Sensing that additional talk was needed, Osama told them something that few people knew, for Osama is not a man who easily reveals the hurts in his heart. He spread the fingers and thumb of his right hand as though counting and said, “In my whole life I only saw your grandfather five times. Five times! Those very brief meetings, all but one with my large clan of brothers, were the only times my eyes saw your grandfather. And then he died.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Truly, we must all be grateful that we see each other as much as we do.”
Our boys echoed their father, making little noises with their tongues, their minds clearly in sympathy with his nearly nonexistent relationship with his own father.
Osama gave the boys something important to think about. “You must understand. I have all of the world’s business on my mind. I cannot be the perfect father who spends every minute of the day and night with my children. But from now on, I will try to spend more time with you, my sons.”
Our sons nodded, recognizing that there was nothing further any of us could do.
How I hoped Osama would do as he said. Our sons appeared as lost boys.
That night I thought a lot about my husband and my children, and felt an overwhelming urge to escape the walls of my rock hut, to breathe the free air around me. After my children ate their boiled eggs and flat bread, they retired to their mattresses, tossing and turning until each slowly drifted off to sleep. Only then did I peek to make sure that I alone was still awake. Feeling comfortable that I would not be caught, I slipped on the unfamiliar burqa, taking soft steps to the edge of the ledge, gathering the puffy fabric of the cloak under and around me to sit quietly on the stony cold ground. There I sat in silence, a woman covered from head to toe, alone with my thoughts.
There were few sounds to be heard, for the mountain creatures had retired, yet I could see for many miles as there was a full moon, shining brightly over the world, little glimmers of moonlight flashing like a silent echo off the endless chain of rugged mountains. I sat there, peering through the burqa’s latticed opening into the star-filled skies of Afghanistan. I was no longer a part of the hustle and bustle of earthly life. In fact, I knew that somewhere beyond the mountains of Tora Bora a busy world was passing me by. Such thoughts made me feel entirely alone in the world, a burqa-clad woman forgotten to all. Few people in the world even knew that Najwa Ghanem bin Laden existed. Yet no one could deny that I had lived, for I was a woman who had given life to nine children, with a tenth child soon to be.
Chapter 18
My Father’s Army
OMAR BIN LADEN
My father failed to keep his promise to devote more time to his sons. After our meeting, life went on as before, with our father totally involved with his “world business” and his sons hanging around the perimeter of his Jihadi life.
While in Sudan, he had maintained an interest in normal matters of life, such as his businesses, whether farming or factories, but once he lost the right to live and work in that African country, his fury sparked a tremendous desire for revenge. That’s when violent Jihad became his whole life, rather than merely a part of it.
After Mullah Omar sanctioned our presence, my father felt confident enough to send out the call for warriors for Jihad. Men began to swarm into Afghanistan, worker bees looking for “their queen,” or in this case, “their king.” And why not? My eyes were a witness to the overwhelming effect my father’s mere presence had on tough warrior men.
That’s the time when I took an active interest in the world of Jihad, and the evolution of my father’s al-Qaeda organization from its origins in Abdullah Azzam’s Services Office, which had been formed for the purpose of organizing resistance against the Soviet presence in Afghanistan. The need for such an organization as the Services Office was acute. With so many young warriors stomping around in unfamiliar territory, it was necessary to establish a registration process in order to keep track of their whereabouts. There were other needs. Those soldiers needed housing in Pakistan during the registration process, and in Afghanistan for the training program. Training was extremely important, for most were ignorant of what was needed to be an effective soldier. Commanders had to be chosen to lead the soldiers.
The undertaking to establish a well-organized military force was enormously complex, for Abdullah Azzam and my father started with little more than large sums of money and an eagerness to fight a holy war.
In those days, my father was an enthusiastic student, learning much from Abdullah Azzam. My father soon founded his own guest house (House of Helpers) in order to assist the fighters, and in fact, created his own private army of Arab volunteers.
By the time the war drew to a close, my father was looking to expand his mission. Although ridding Afghanistan of the Russian invaders had consumed much of his energy for nearly ten years, he became increasingly passionate about changing the face of the Middle East, wanting to rid the area of western interference, as well as overthrowing Arab kings and dictators, who were to be replaced by religious leaders. After his mission to change the Middle East was accomplished, his second mission would be to change the face of the world.
The entire world should be Islamic.
Now we know that the al-Qaeda organization was formed as a result of my father’s world vision. Although there were other Islamic organizations with a similar vision, because of my father’s wealth and passion for Jihad, his al-Qaeda organization became the main umbrella over Islamic Jihad ambitions. That’s when the meandering tentacles of al-Qaeda first began to spread throughout the world with its new mission of violence.
After the Gulf War, my father’s attention locked on the Americans and the British. His hatred for the Americans soon led to his unfortunate break with the Saudi royal family.
His position had further hardened since his exile.
My father began setting up training camps all over Afghanistan. Many were located in the abandoned Russian military camps, while others were newly constructed. As I grew older, I was allowed to wander around the borders of my father’s business. For the first time I began to hear alarming stories about how Americans hated Islam so much that they were sending their massive military all over the world for the purpose of murdering innocent Muslims. I remember being shown a map that displayed every country that allowed American soldiers to be based on their soil. The Americans had military bases in over fifty countries, and military personnel in approximately 150 countries.
I watched the faces of my father’s soldiers as they began to point at the map, buzzing with talk that the Americans were everywhere. My father spoke out, “America is the only power in the world with an army capable of patrolling and controlling the world. They have gained a foothold in every region. And for what purpose? To destroy our Islamic society.”
I didn’t know anything of the world outside my immediate environment, so it was easy for such speeches to alarm me about the dangers I faced as a Muslim.
Jihadi leaders gave many lectures in which they told young Muslim men that the Americans had basically forced the state of Israel upon the Palestinians. We heard that every bullet the Israelis fired upon the Palestinians was a treasured gift from the Americans. Israeli gloves were covering American hands.
Of course, now I know that these views were not limited to al-Qaeda leaders, but had become common throughout the Muslim world. Because so many Arab governments cultivate these same beliefs, my father’s soldiers arrived mentally prepared for such talk. The government of America is greatly hated by nearly everyone in the Arab world, despite the fact that individually the American people are viewed more favorably.
At meetings held in Kandahar, warriors were driven into a great fury by videotapes showing Israeli soldiers gleefully stomping on Palestinian women; Israeli tanks purposely destroying Palestinian homes; Israeli soldiers viciously kicking young Palestinian boys; and Israeli soldiers hatefully shooting to kill young stone-throwing Palestinian children.
At the end of such viewings, young men would burst from meetings, their hearts exploding in rage. My father’s Jihadi warriors were ready for war, whatever form war might take. And who could blame them? That view was their only reality. Muslims must act before being attacked!
As a young and malleable boy, I came away from such meetings accepting as true that all Muslims were in dire danger, and it was only a matter of time before we would be forced to fight for our very lives. I began to understand why my father trained his family to sleep in dirt holes in the desert. Perhaps one day we might find ourselves in such a situation, and it was best to be prepared.
I had no idea that, in fact, the majority of the American people gave Muslims little thought one way or another. The American people have always lived in protective isolation, their oceans for the most part keeping the problems of the world at bay. The Israelis were another matter because they were a part of our Muslim neighborhood. It was clear that the Israelis thought of us more frequently and in more dangerous terms.
Very soon, my brothers and I became a more intricate part of my father’s world vision. Soon after my mother and siblings arrived in Afghanistan, my father gave the order for us to be trained with weapons. Although we had been hunting for years, and had been presented with our own Kalashnikov guns after the assassination attempt in Khartoum, my father said that the time had come for serious training.
First of all, our father selected some of his most experienced soldiers to teach us everything about the Kalashnikov, telling us that we were forbidden to be without it, even when at ease in our home. Certainly, I could not recall ever seeing my father so much as an arm’s length from his weapon, even when he was visiting with my mother.
I was not unhappy to learn more about weapons, for we lived in a dangerous world. Unfortunately, despite our familiarity with the weapon, my brothers and I were irresponsible. Due to our age, our gun etiquette was appalling. I remember an occasion when my brothers and I fired our weapons at each other’s feet, commanding, “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
Because we were our father’s sons, we were never corrected, although I’m sure that the fighters itched to give us a beating.
It was during this same time that our father suggested that my brothers and I visit some of his al-Qaeda training camps. My father’s suggestions were in reality orders, so off we went. I was surprised to see that
the living quarters provided for the fighters were even worse than our own spartan accommodation. The buildings were small mud-block buildings with few of life’s necessities. Of course, my father made sure there was no method of heating in the winter or cooling in the summer.
The trainees were tough men, some old, but most were young, all unshaven, with most wearing long beards. There was no specific camp uniform, so some trainees were dressed as Taliban, others as Pashtun, and to my surprise there were some soldiers strutting about in the uniforms of American or Russian soldiers. I was told that when the Russians left, they had not bothered taking their military supplies. Warehouses were discovered with uniforms, weapons, and food. Those supplies had been put to good use by my father. I never discovered where my father’s fighters procured the American military uniforms.
Before the men could even begin their training, they were required to take an oath of loyalty to my father. Their training routine was strict. The men rose early for the first prayers of the day before being served a meager breakfast of a boiled egg, bread, and tea. Training went on until 1 P.M., including special exercises designed to whip trainees into tip-top shape, from running on the flat ground of the valley to sprinting up steep mountains. They were taught how to fight in close combat. They had to run alongside vehicles, learning how to assassinate the passengers. They would jump hurdles and end in a somersault, learning how to get away if the mission went wrong.
They were taught how to take prisoners and what to do with those prisoners once they were under control. Special interrogation methods were taught to the soldiers who showed higher than average intelligence.
After the morning training session, they would break for a two-hour rest, and then resume training until six in the evening, when they took their evening meal. Rice and vegetables was common fare for dinner, although on occasion the soldiers might receive a gift of a can of tuna. After the training day ended, there were further requirements, because trainees had to attend lectures on why Jihad was important, which basically consisted of verbal attacks upon the United States.