by Jean Sasson
I held my breath, knowing that I would soon know my future home.
“Well,” Hatim said, “we have crossed Iran. We are over Afghanistan.” He spoke with confidence. “I believe that our destination is Afghanistan.”
My father nodded but did not confirm with a yes.
Abu Hafs nodded, too.
Moments later we began our second descent of the day. Finally my father verified, “You are right, Hatim. Our destination is Afghanistan. We will land in Jalalabad.”
I grunted in surprise, taking a fleeting glance at the faces of my father’s fighters. All were impassive because they never questioned my father’s decisions.
I tried to absorb the idea. So! Now we were to live in Afghanistan. I didn’t know what to think, but my stomach fluttered in anticipation. Afghanistan was the country of my father’s warrior years. Since I was a boy, my youthful imagination had been fed by tales of Afghan death struggles in the historic battles of Jaji and Jalalabad. Now I would finally get the opportunity to see those battlefields myself.
Being young and uninformed, I could not imagine the implications of living in a country that had so recently passed through a debilitating ten-year war with a superpower, followed by a fierce civil war that would reduce the few surviving remnants of the old Afghanistan to shreds. Never having even been in a war zone, I was unaware of the daily challenges of surviving in a country made primitive by incessant war. I stupidly believed that my life would continue much as it had in Khartoum.
A Note Regarding Osama bin Laden’s Political and Militant Activities
JEAN SASSON
While Najwa was raising her children in Sudan, and Omar and his brothers passed into their teenage years, Osama’s militant activities greatly increased. Enraged at having to leave Saudi Arabia for good, he blamed both the Americans and the Saudi royal family. This fury increased his determination to strike terrorist blows at the United States, and at Saudi Arabia.
Grateful to the country that had offered him refuge, he developed plans to improve the economic situation in Sudan. Soon he was constructing factories, opening businesses, and building roads.
So, angry with the Americans and the Saudis at his exile, he was also in a rush to activate the military arm of his al-Qaeda organization. With the approval of his Sudanese hosts, he set up the first of his military training camps in various parts of the country, and began recruiting for holy warriors. His famous name was a popular draw for fighters and before long the training camps were filled to capacity.
After Osama transferred the base of his operations to Sudan, the Egyptians followed. Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri and his al-Jihad group along with Omar Abdel Rahman’s al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya Group reestablished their relationships with Osama when they brought their fighting men to Khartoum. The combination of the three groups made for a hotbed of radicalism.
Osama had only been in Sudan for a short period before signs were clear that assaults upon America had begun. First there was an attack in Aden, Yemen. The American military was using the city as a base on their way to Somalia, where they were involved in a humanitarian mission. On December 29, 1992, bombs exploded at two hotels in Aden. While American soldiers were the target, none was killed; but two innocent Austrian tourists died.
Less than a year later, on October 4, 1993, there was coordination with Somali militia, who shot down two American Black Hawk helicopters, killing eighteen U.S. servicemen, the tragic event that was the basis for the book and the movie Black Hawk Down.
In 1994 the Saudi government not only rescinded Osama’s citizenship and that of his family, but froze his assets, confiscating his children’s inheritance. While the exact figure is not known, it is believed that Osama lost many millions of dollars in one swoop.
His desire to attack Saudi Arabia and America increased with every personal blow.
While some plans organized from Osama’s al-Qaeda bases were prevented by western security forces, others succeeded. But it was a terrorist plan gone awry on June 26, 1995, that caused Osama and al-Qaeda to be expelled from Sudan. Ironically, Osama bin Laden was not involved in that particular attack.
When Abdel Rahman’s al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya Group attempted to assassinate Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak, governments from the area, along with the United States, increased the pressure on the Sudanese government to expel the three notorious radical groups.
At first the Sudanese officials offered to turn Osama bin Laden over to the Saudi government. But the rulers of the kingdom knew that Osama was still highly celebrated as a war hero in their country. They were not keen to put a war hero on trial.
The Sudanese then offered Osama to the United States. Since there was no indictment against Osama bin Laden at that time, the American government had no legal basis to arrest Osama.
At that point, the Sudanese officials informed Osama that he must leave their country. Unsure where he might be welcome, Osama sought and received an invitation from certain powerful parties in Afghanistan.
And so in May 1996, Osama, his son Omar, and other trusted advisers left Khartoum to fly to the most lawless land in the world: Afghanistan, a place where he would not be bound by national or international laws. Osama bin Laden would be free to do as he pleased.
PART III
Afghanistan
Chapter 15
Retreat to Afghanistan
OMAR BIN LADEN
An old friend was awaiting my father’s arrival as we filed out of the plane, stretching our stiff limbs. Mullah Nourallah, meaning “Light of God,” rushed to my father’s side, welcoming him as enthusiastically as if my father was a long-lost son. I recalled my father telling us that the Pashtun are some of the most hospitable people on earth. If Mullah Nourallah was any example of routine Pashtun hospitality, then I felt better already.
With his powerful body and confident stride, Mullah Nourallah looked like a warrior. He wore his black beard long, although it was tinged with a streak of gray. As always, I remained unnoticed, standing to the side, observing. My father never introduced me as I trailed along behind.
I soon learned that Mullah Nourallah was one of my father’s oldest and best friends from the days of the Russian war, the two often fighting side by side. After the war, he had become one of the main leaders of Jalalabad, the capital and most important city of the Nangahar Province, the home of the Pashtun tribe. Nangahar Province was a significant area of Afghanistan, edging up to the Khyber Pass, which is the all-important gateway to Pakistan.
The Pashtun are the world’s largest tribal society, with approximately sixty major Pashtun tribes. While Pakistan has the world’s largest number of Pashtun people, 28 million, Afghanistan is home to the second largest population, of thirteen million. The Pashtun speak the Pashto language, and follow a long-established code of conduct and honor, called the Pashtunwali.
The previous year, Mullah Nourallah had been responsible for bringing a brutal bandit to justice, putting the criminal to death. Since that time he had risen to a high rank, yet his life was in constant danger from the bandit’s brother, who had sworn vengeance. The old adage of an eye for an eye and a life for a life was a common response in a tribal land. Mullah Nourallah brushed aside any warnings to be watchful, accepting as a true believer that his life was solely in God’s hands. If God determined that Mullah Nourallah was to die at the hands of the bandit’s brother, then so be it.
With Mullah Nourallah confidently pushing through the crowds, we slipped easily past all airport officials, walking rapidly to a group of double-cabin trucks with drivers waiting to take us from the airport. Mullah Nourallah’s vehicle was a bright red and to my mind a shining beacon for the bandits stalking him.
No one seemed to have considered the danger of being so visible, for Mullah Nourallah sat openly in the front seat, his driver so relaxed that he was humming a tune and smoking a cigarette. My father sat behind Mullah Nourallah while I settled in the middle between my father and Abu Hafs.
Once properly
settled, Mullah Nourallah appeared to notice me for the first time, peering at me closely while asking my father, “Who is this boy? Is he your son?”
“Yes. This is my son Omar, the fourth boy.”
Mullah Nourallah nodded and smiled, reaching out to touch the bridge of my nose approvingly. “It is a good nose, long and prominent.” With a big smile, he announced, “You, Omar, have the nose of a strong man.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. Truthfully, I had never thought of my nose as being long and was unsure whether or not I liked the idea.
With one ear on the conversation, I turned my eyes to my new surroundings. The Safed Koh Mountains hovered over the plain of Jalalabad. I had expected the city to be brown, but to my delight, the Pashtun city was a green oasis, watered by the Kabul River.
Everything else was disappointing. The people and the buildings appeared old and weary. As we drove through the city, I was stunned by the signs of poverty all around me. Instead of cars, many people were reduced to riding in horse-drawn or donkey-drawn plain, flat carriages. I saw young men dressed in shabby clothing riding bareback on emaciated horses and sad-eyed mules. I felt like a time traveler, thinking that within the course of a few hours, I had gone back a hundred years.
Through the haze, I overheard Mullah Nourallah tell my father, “Of course, you will stay in one of my homes. After you have settled in, you are welcome to the palace.” He explained, “The government owns the old palace in Jalalabad, once the home of the former royal family.”
A palace sounded promising.
After observing other homes and businesses in Jalalabad, I was happily surprised when our driver pulled our car into the drive of the villa belonging to Mullah Nourallah. It was beautiful. Who would have expected such luxury in the midst of worn-out Jalalabad? The villa was painted a bright white and much larger than I had expected. We piled out of the truck for Mullah Nourallah to escort us inside.
The interior was spacious, with twenty-five rooms, and every room clean and attractive. I was hoping for a bedroom of my own, for I have always been a loner and, with so many brothers, rarely had the opportunity for privacy. Those hopes were dashed when my father agreed with Mullah Nourallah that until they learned of any possible dangers to my father, we would all be sleeping in the basement, which was cold and dark.
Mullah Nourallah’s men arranged for two single beds to be set up in the basement room that I was to share with my father, along with a small bathroom. My father’s men slept in nearby rooms in the same dark area. A cook was arranged to prepare our meals. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to hear my father give instructions for the simplest, blandest meals.
Although I was eager to explore the city, security concerns required my father and me, along with his men, to remain voluntary prisoners in the villa or walled garden for two weeks. Despite our isolation, Mullah Nourallah extended that famous Afghan hospitality, checking on us daily and trying to convince my father to accept lavish meals. But my father never did, of course.
In word and deed Mullah Nourallah never ceased showing his great affection for my father. Their days of war had created bonds impossible to break. Their conversations also created a better understanding of my father’s former life.
My father obviously felt exceptionally close to Mullah Nourallah, opening up more completely than I had ever seen. He spoke briefly about his obligatory departure from Sudan, confiding in a disheartened tone that he had poured all his resources and energy into projects that benefited the country and the Sudanese people. For the first time I heard him confess his worries. “My friend, I am apprehensive about my future. I have lost much. I have a large family. I have many followers, with wives and children also. All depend upon me.”
It didn’t take a genius to know that with three wives and many children, combined with his religious and political activities, my father required vast sums of money. Yet I had never given much thought to my father’s problems, mainly because I found it difficult to get past my personal struggles.
Mullah Nourallah swore his loyalty to my father. “Osama, you are the only non-Afghan who has remained loyal to Afghanistan for all the long years of troubles.” He paused to smile, “Let your worries fly away with the wind, Osama. You have a home in Afghanistan for the rest of your life. After you go to paradise, all the members of your family can count Afghanistan as their home. I guarantee your safety, and the safety of your family and followers. You are free to remain in the palace as long as needed.”
To show his respect and affection, Mullah Nourallah then presented my father with a very large tract of land in the city of Jalalabad, suggesting, “Here is land that I want you to have. Build yourself a compound. Bring your family and friends to this place. You are an honorary Pashtun!”
As a final grand gesture, he even gave my father an entire mountain in Tora Bora!
My father was very pleased and grateful to the man who had never forgotten his contributions to the cause of freedom for the Afghan people.
Once Mullah Nourallah felt more confident about our safety, we were moved to the old palace. By that time, I was sick of the beautiful villa because we had been restricted within its walls. I was glad to try something new and found the palace most agreeable. It had been built in an ideal location next to the Kabul River, surrounded by grand old trees. There were ample grounds, with the palace circled by numerous delightful gardens. A riot of vividly colored flowers nestled in every available spot.
Although the old palace was in good condition, it was not a mansion that one would expect to be associated with royalty. Yet I was pleased, for if one compared the palace with other Jalalabad homes, we were living in the greatest luxury.
The palace was a rectangular building two storeys high that hinted at a time long past when workers had painted it a bright white, the color of choice for most expensive villas in Jalalabad. The roof was flat, similar to homes in Saudi Arabia and in Sudan, which was useful, for my father liked to survey his surroundings from rooftops.
At the entrance there was a wide corridor, covered with a red carpet. The hallway was filled with fancy chairs. There were ten rooms along the corridor, nine of them decorated with classic and elegant furniture that looked expensive, but ancient. I assumed it had once been used by the royal family. The tenth room had been turned into a kitchen. Interestingly, each of the ten rooms had its own bathroom, which was unusual for the time when the palace had been built.
After taking a systematic look at the first floor, we climbed the indoor staircase to the second—a duplicate of the first, but without a kitchen. All the interior rooms were whitewashed, all the floors covered with the same pattern of red as the corridors. Most handy to my mind, the electricity and water were in working order, although I knew my father would have preferred for us to haul water from the Kabul River and stumble around with flickering gas lanterns. He had become increasingly obsessed with the notion that anything convenient or modern was bad for a Muslim. Although I had known from the time we left Sudan that one day my mother and siblings and the other wives and children of my father would join us in Afghanistan, and I was eager for that day to come, I still cringed at the idea that they would live on Tora Bora Mountain in substandard housing.
Just as I was imagining the enjoyment my brothers and I would have playing in the gardens and swimming in the river, that bubble was burst by my father. “Omar, our stay here is to be temporary. We will soon travel to Tora Bora to claim our mountain. That is where we will live.”
I was speechless. While Jalalabad was reasonably safe at the moment, most of Afghanistan was still embroiled in a civil war, with every tribal warlord scrambling to rule the entire country. I had no idea whether the Tora Bora mountain area was gripped by war or enjoying peace.
Even if the area was peaceful, from what I had heard, Tora Bora was little more than mountains with caves. How could my father consider taking his family to such a place? While we older boys could live rough if necessary, what about my
mother and aunties and the younger kids? Mountain life was not suitable for women and children.
Looking at my father, I knew that no one could dissuade him from moving us all into the desolate mountain ranges of Afghanistan. That was the precise moment that I realized that our bin Laden lives had dropped yet another level.
Despite my despair over my father’s news, the following two weeks in Jalalabad proved fascinating once Mullah Nourallah and my father decided it was safe to explore the city. Much to my excitement, off we went. Almost immediately I realized that the street scenes of Jalalabad were comparable to what I could remember from summer visits to Peshawar, Pakistan.
In those long-ago days, Peshawar had been heavily populated with Afghan Pashtun, the dominant ethnic tribe from the east of Afghanistan, where we were now. Once more, I observed similar vendors selling similar street food, smelled familiar odors, saw the same antiquated transportation, and admired the handsome Pashtun. For me, Peshawar and Jalalabad were alike in more ways than they were different.
I paid close attention to my father, who kept me by his side wherever he went. My father has a habit of averting his eyes whenever he is out in public. Whether this comes from a basic shyness or the fact that he takes extreme care not to look upon a woman not of his family, I do not know. I considered telling him that he could look as he pleased, for it would have been impossible to see a woman’s face in Jalalabad even had he tried. Afghan females were cloaked in pale-colored burqas, the tentlike costume that billows over every part of a woman’s face and body. I was glad to see that the heavy fabric of the costume was fitted with a tiny barlike screen over the woman’s upper face so she wouldn’t trip and fall. Some of the wrinkled old women were not dressed in the burqa but instead were wearing long-sleeved, ankle-length embroidered billowy dresses with long-tailed scarves over their hair. When those ancient women saw a strange man, they would yank the tail of the scarf over their face.
