Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  We could not believe our eyes. Where a camp once stood, there was nothing but ruins. It was amazing that anyone had survived.

  We piled out of the vehicles and followed my father as he surveyed the damage. By then we had heard that the Americans had fired over seventy cruise missiles into the country.

  The attack had been so violent that tough fighters were still shaken even after a month. They told us they had continued celebrating after we left. Everyone, instructors and trainees, had been abuzz with the events, on an emotional high, discussing the visit of the sheik. Then, without warning, the atmosphere changed. At first they believed that stars were springing from their place in the sky, hurling their heavenly glowing bodies to earth, falling bright and white.

  My father explained, “What you were seeing was the heat rushing from the missiles.”

  The air was suddenly full of menace, with bright flashes and crashes so loud that their eardrums were bursting. They recognized the danger too late. Men met grim deaths as they rushed in one direction and then the other. Friends were pulverized before their eyes.

  Wherever the missiles hit, life was obliterated. Buildings evaporated and large craters opened in the earth. I was told that my Saudi friend was dead, his remains splattered in a large crater. When I asked about Abu Mohammed, a good friend I had met through Abu Zubair, I was told that he, too, had received a direct hit. Led to the crater that held small pieces of his body, all my anger concentrated into a dark ball in my heart. Confused by the messages I had heard all my life, I had no reign over my emotions, one second furious with the Americans and the next second angry with my father. Another friend had been thrown about, the whirling, metallic storm tossing him from one point to another, finally leaving him after piercing his body with large chunks of shrapnel. I was surprised to discover that he survived, although with massive wounds.

  Animals had suffered, too. Abu Zubair wailed about his black and white cow and her baby calf, both of whom had been blown to bits. Witnesses had reporting seeing the cow flying through the air. Although the mother cow dissolved into nothing and not even the hide of her body was ever discovered, the upper half of the baby calf was found crumpled in the training camp.

  Life can be very perplexing. Many tough fighters discussed their sorrow at the loss of the cow and her calf for many days to come.

  After finding out more details about the American embassy bombings, I became even more agitated. I imagined that governments in the West were plotting my family’s demise even as my father planned more strikes. Any time I looked at my mother or the youngest children in our family, I worried that they too one day would simply evaporate as a result of a powerful missile.

  My father was devastated at the losses, yet he composed himself and, like the leader he was, surveyed the damage, plotting his revenge, I am sure.

  I had been ruminating on the subject of killing and death for days when I was with my father and a few men. I decided that I was going to raise the topic of killing. I had matured and didn’t launch directly into a subject that I knew would anger my father. Rather than discuss the current violence overtaking our lives, I eased into the conversation by first asking him, “My father, how many men did you kill in the Russian war?”

  My father ignored me.

  I persisted, determined not to accept silence as an appropriate response. “My father, I really want to know how many men you killed in the Russian war.”

  My father continued to take no notice, until I childishly repeated the question over and over, in a rapid, nearly comical manner. “How many men did you kill in the Russian war? How many men did you kill in the Russian war? How many men did you kill in the Russian war?”

  I sounded half mad, but was smoldering inside, for once not caring if he punished me. “You must have killed someone, my Father!”

  The leaders and fighters surrounding us were so stunned they didn’t speak, but gawked at me as though I was one of the insane, someone to be shunned. No one ever talked to the sheik in such a disrespectful tone, not even one of his own sons.

  Exasperated, my father finally turned to me and said in a firm voice, “I did. I am a leader! I gave orders to kill and I killed people myself! I killed so many that I do not know the final figure. Many died at my own hand or on my orders.”

  I was not surprised to hear his answer. Wanting more details, I continued like a wound-up toy, unable to stop myself. “My father, my father, when is this killing and war going to stop? You have been at war since before I was born! Why can’t you find another way? Why can’t you sit and talk? Why can’t there be a truce? I hate this fight! This can’t continue!” I even started to moan and groan. “I want to leave this land! I want to live in the real world. Please, can’t I just leave?”

  Tough warriors began to shuffle away, not knowing what to do, probably believing that I was in the throes of a mental breakdown, which, in truth, I probably was.

  My father kept his cool. “My son! It is your duty to stay by my side. I need my sons with me! I don’t want to discuss this subject again!”

  My father left me sitting, but I was burning with discontent and knew that I would never give up until I received permission to leave. Looking back, my actions tell me that indeed I was on the verge of a breakdown. I started lurking in various areas in the Kandahar compound, waiting for my father. If he went into an office, I waited until he came out, then I would leap from my hiding place pleading like a mantra, “I want to leave this place! I must leave this place!”

  My father never raised his voice, only repeating what he believed to be best, “No. You must stay. Who will take my place, if not you, Omar? You are my right arm. I need you. You will be my second-in-command.”

  “No! I am not a commander, my father. I want to live in a world of peace. I want to be educated. I don’t want to fight. I want to be free.” Remembering friends whose remains were so small they could not be buried, I said, “I don’t want to be killed!”

  A few days later when I was walking behind my father, feeling as though I were going to burst as surely as Abu Mohammed’s body had been ripped open by the cruise missile, I began speaking to myself, yet loud enough for him to hear every word.

  “I wonder when my father is going to stop this fight? My father! When are you going to stop this war?”

  Finally my father had had enough. He whirled around angrily, glowering at me. “Omar! How can you keep asking me this question? Would you ask a Muslim when he was going to stop praying to his God? I will fight until my dying day! I will fight until I breathe my last breath! I will never stop my fight for justice! I will never stop this Jihad!” He turned and walked away as rapidly as he could, saying more loudly than before, “This subject is now closed!”

  I had pushed my father to his limit. He would never turn his back on Jihad, even if it meant that everyone he loved, including every wife and every child, was killed because of his actions. To extricate myself from his Jihadi life would require boldness and careful planning.

  After causing my father much grief and shame with my unruly behavior, I felt guilty when he was seriously hurt in a riding accident. One day not long after our final heated exchange, my brothers and I, along with a few of my father’s men, including Sakhr, were riding our horses within the Kandahar compound. Our father had taken my brother Osman’s horse, a gray called Sekub, out for a gallop when he saw us. After our father joined us, we started racing in an area only about half a mile long. His unseeing right eye made him miss a ditch about a yard deep located adjacent to the perimeter wall, a hollow used for rubbish disposal. Aiming to catch up with us, our father raced Sekub at a high speed, running straight into that ditch, pitching headfirst off the horse.

  A good friend of my father cried out a warning, “Abu Abdullah has gone down!” A few of my father’s closest called my father Abu Abdullah, meaning father of Abdullah.

  Everyone reacted quickly, making our horses sprint to get back to him and quickly dismounting. I passed everyone, arriv
ing by his side first, lifting his head, fearing that he had broken his neck. My father did not speak. From his pale, grimacing face, I knew that he was in great pain, but as is his way, he refused to acknowledge any discomfort. Sakhr ran back to his horse, shouting, “I will get a truck,” then disappeared in a flash of hooves.

  By this time my father was struggling to stand, refusing to allow anyone to lift or support him. He stood quietly, refusing to answer our questions, until Sakhr rushed back in a red truck and said, “Dr. Zawahiri will meet us at Um Hamza’s home,” meaning Auntie Khairiah’s home, which was nearest to us.

  Still refusing assistance, Father eased himself into the truck while Sakhr raced away, zooming off the moment our father was seated. Without wasting a second, we riders mounted our horses and pushed them to gallop at their highest possible speed. Someone thought to grab the reins of Osman’s horse, Sekub, who had escaped unharmed.

  We arrived as our father was walking into Auntie Khairiah’s home. Dr. Zawahiri was impatiently urging us to get our father to the nearest bed. Once Father was in Dr. Zawahiri’s care we could do nothing but stand around in shock.

  Zawahiri finally reported that in his medical opinion our father had escaped life-threatening injuries, yet he noted, “There is acute pain in the rib cage area,” and recommended X-rays and further investigation. It was decided that one of the drivers most familiar with Pakistan would drive across the border to find the best doctor and bring him back with his medical equipment so that our father could be treated without leaving Kandahar.

  The following day a renowned Pakistani surgeon was brought to my father’s side. As Dr. Zawahiri suggested, arrangements had been made to bring the latest medical equipment with him. Soon tests confirmed that my father had broken ribs, as Zawahiri had suspected. As everyone knows, the only treatment for broken ribs is to wait for them to heal. My restless father stayed in bed for one month, with my mother and two aunties caring for his needs, the longest any of my father’s wives had been with him since the early days of their marriages.

  My father reacted to the incident with disbelief, having been a skilled horseman since childhood. I remember sitting by his side as he chuckled ironically. “My son, America has been trying to kill me for years now, using the most accurate and deadly weapons available. The mighty United States cannot harm me, while one little horse nearly killed me. Life is very mysterious, my son, very mysterious.”

  When he emerged from his recuperation, he looked gaunt and drawn. The injuries and inactivity had depleted his once powerful energy. Many months passed before he fully recovered.

  While Sekub was unharmed, none of us wanted to see that horse’s face again. He was presented as a gift to some Afghan whom I did not know personally.

  There were many complicated aspects to my father’s life, including his association with the head of the Taliban, Mullah Omar. Afghanistan was such a dangerous place that my father had concerns that Mullah Omar would meet with the same fate as Mullah Nourallah, once again leaving my father without any strong support. No Afghan ever forgot that my father was an Arab not of any Afghan tribe. This fact weakened his position.

  While my father kept his enemies guessing by moving constantly, rarely sleeping in the same bed more than one night, Mullah Omar was a solitary man who seldom left his home in Kandahar. Any determined assassin could easily find him.

  After his near assassination in Khartoum, my father often reminded us that the price of Jihad was eternal vigilance. In fact, he tried to convince Mullah Omar of the importance of remaining a moving target. But the Taliban leader shrugged off my father’s advice. Mullah Omar was an admitted fatalist, believing whatever God decreed would happen, and declaring that he slept peacefully, never spending a moment worrying about potential assassins.

  Then one day a large water tanker truck appeared outside Mullah Omar’s home in Kandahar. This sort of truck was unusual because the mullah had a piped water supply, but no one thought to mention its appearance. Soon there was a huge explosion, ripping through the mullah’s home, killing two of his three wives, two of his brothers, and many members of his staff. There were many body parts flung over a large area, but Mullah Omar was only slightly injured.

  Even after that close call, Mullah Omar retained his old habits. Staff members reported that the mullah still slept through the night like a contented baby, knowing in his heart that the deaths had been God’s will.

  Not so long after the American embassy bombings and the Clinton attack on the training camps, the United States, Saudi Arabia, and various other nations began to pressure the Taliban to expel my father from Afghanistan. Remembering the trauma of being expelled from Sudan, I believed that history was repeating itself.

  Many people wanted a chance to arrest my father and put him on trial followed by execution. I could see my father’s tension when such talk reached his ears. There were few places of refuge left. If he was kicked out of Afghanistan, he was unsure where he might end up, although secluded regions of Pakistan and Yemen were still a possibility.

  While Mullah Omar was not the sort of man to allow outside intervention in his business, the American attack upon Afghanistan had caught his full attention.

  I was loitering in my father’s Kandahar compound office one day when he received word that Mullah Omar was coming to visit later in the day. We had only a few hours to prepare. Anxious to make a good impression, my father bombarded his men with instructions to prepare a feast and set up one of the largest and nicest garden areas for the meeting area.

  My father dressed in his formal Saudi robes to wait. This was an important occasion, the first time that Mullah Omar had left his home to pay my father a visit. Picking up on the apprehension of men like Abu Hafs and Zawahiri, who were usually cool and calm, my brothers and I waited nervously with our father.

  Soon my father’s lookouts informed us that a caravan of twelve black Land Cruisers with tinted windows was coming our way. No one spoke as the cruisers pulled into the compound. When the caravan stopped, the doors opened and heavily armed Taliban soldiers stepped out. Notoriously secretive, Mullah Omar had few known photographs of him taken, so my brothers and I had no idea what he looked like. But when he stepped from the vehicle, all identified him instantly from the aura of power and invincibility that set him apart from his followers.

  I found myself looking at a man taller and slimmer than my own father, which was a big surprise. I had never met anyone who was taller than my father.

  Mullah Omar was wearing distinctive Taliban dress consisting of a black waistcoat and a white shirt, so white and shiny that we knew it was made from the finest cotton. He had a black turban twisted around his head, with only a small amount of jet black hair protruding from under the turban. He had a handsome masculine face with olive skin. Unkempt, bushy brows gave him an intense look. His healthy beard was thick and reached mid-length. A full mustache covered his upper lip.

  As we had heard, he bore facial injuries from fighting the Russians. There was a depression of his right eye socket and other scars disfiguring his right cheek and forehead. In a violent country like Afghanistan, such wounds were a man’s badge of honor.

  Despite his mutilation, Mullah Omar looked youthful. The knowledge that he had lost his right eye brought thoughts of my own father, whose right eye, although intact, was basically useless, other than to maintain an attractive appearance. I felt certain that the two men had never discussed their common affliction.

  I was surprised that when my father walked towards Mullah Omar, the Taliban leader rudely walked away, not giving my father a chance to greet him in the usual Islamic manner by saying Salam Alaikum, followed by a handshake and the customary kisses on the cheek and embraces. Such greetings are a sign of great respect in my culture.

  Some of my father’s men led Mullah Omar and his entourage to the garden next to my mother’s home, the nicest garden in our Kandahar compound. My father and his followers walked behind. Of course, there were no women present.


  My brothers and I followed the crowd of men, for as the sons of Osama bin Laden, we had the right. Much to everyone’s surprise, Mullah Omar called out for a western-style chair to be found for him to sit on. A chair left behind by the Russians was found in one of the houses. That is where Mullah Omar sat, indicating that although he would sit high in that chair, everyone else should sit on the ground, including my father. Additionally, Mullah Omar had the chair placed at the opposite side of the garden, ordering his men to sit between him and my father. My father calmly settled himself on a Persian carpet that had been placed on the ground, sitting cross-legged in the Arab style.

  This is not a good sign, I thought to myself. The display was surreal, with Mullah Omar perched high on his chair, while my father was a good distance away, sitting low on the ground. The rebuke could not be missed. Mullah Omar was letting my father know that he was nothing to him. His actions also indicated that he was furious.

  The insults continued when Mullah Omar failed to address my father directly, instead speaking in the language of his Pashtun tribe, Pashto, using his personal translator to interpret his message into Arabic. My father spoke Pashto fluently, so I did not understand the reason for the disengagement during such an important conversation.

  Despite the social snubs, my father sat quietly, respectful and patient, waiting to hear what Mullah Omar had to say. It was a strain to listen to the translated conversation because both men spoke in low voices, Mullah Omar’s voice even softer than my father’s. The similarities between them struck me more and more.

  Mullah Omar did not waste words or time, but launched into explaining why he had come out of his habitual seclusion. The Taliban leader was displeased at my father’s militant activities. Concerned only with the internal affairs of Afghanistan, Mullah Omar had no desire to attract interference from the outside world. Already there were rumblings from human rights organizations about the treatment of women under the Taliban.