by Jean Sasson
I gawked so openly at the people and the sights that I noticed some people stop in their tracks to stare back. Most seemed interested in my father, who attracted attention for his unusual height, for his face, deemed by many to be exceptionally handsome, and for a certain aura that he had about him. After checking out my father, their eyes would turn to Abu Hafs, who was so tall he could look my father directly in the eyes, and to Sayf Adel, who surveyed everything around us, always looking for troublemakers. I garnered the least attention, a boy too young for a beard walking in the middle of a group of stern men. I’m sure those Afghans were wondering why well-dressed Arabs were in Jalalabad, because most Arabs had left their country when the Russians had departed nearly ten years before.
My father was keen to visit some of his old friends from the Soviet conflict. One I remember most distinctly was Younis Khalis, who had once been an important sheik in Afghanistan. Younis Khalis was the oddest-looking man I had ever met. First of all, he appeared ancient to my eyes, already seventy-eight years old when I met him, though he still sported an eye-catching red beard. It was easy to see that he was slowly being defeated by old age.
His former soldiers were very loyal. Although we were visiting him in the late spring, the nights could be quite chilly. When the old man complained of cold, his men made determined efforts to keep him warm. His house was old-fashioned and had been built of mud blocks with a raised concrete floor. Under the floor there was a special open space and his men worked hard running back and forth to shovel hot coals under the concrete, keeping the room toasty warm.
I wondered if my father might agree to such a method of heating for our family. Since he was set against central heating, I was already dreading the cold of the mountain winters.
Sheik Khalis was an unusual man for tribal Afghanistan. He had been a highly regarded Afghan leader during the Russian war. But the moment a peace agreement was put into place, he threw his hands in the air and said that was it! He was finished with fighting. Ten years of bloodletting was enough for any warrior. To prove that he meant his words, he made a big point of giving away all his weapons, including a number of tanks, grandly presenting them to the Afghan central government. Afghan men feel tremendous love for their weapons, and by giving away all of his weapons, Sheik Khalis hoped to create a precedent. He thought that all warlords should donate their weapons to the government, return to their lands, and remain at peace with their tribal neighbors.
But none of the other warlords shared his good sense, so they fought on without him. Civil war seized hold of the land, bringing a time of ferocious fighting between men who had recently been allies against the Russians. My father confided that he had tried to encourage cooperation between the warlords. “But, my son,” he said, “Afghan leaders can be the most stubborn of men. Most were unwilling to compromise on anything, whether land, government, or law. Sadly, when they could not reach an agreement of the minds, they reached for their guns.”
My father was disheartened that the Afghans had not banded as one to put the broken pieces of their country back together.
There were other famous warriors known to my father, and Sheik Khalis and my father discussed their whereabouts, but I can remember little for their hearts were so full of memories that anyone who didn’t experience the war with them would have a difficult time following their conversations. After all these years I do remember the names of Ahmad Shah Massoud, Abdul Rashid Dustum, and Sheik Sayaff.
Ahmed Shah Massoud was the Afghan warrior best known throughout the world. His father was a policeman, and the young Ahmad received a good education, becoming fluent in five languages. Because of his father’s position, he developed a special interest in politics. From his school years he had opposed the communist movement’s attempt to influence his country. Yet he disagreed with resorting to terrorist acts, declaring that such violence would only destroy Afghanistan. After the Russian army invaded in full force, Massoud became a leader against the intruders, becoming the greatest resistance fighter.
After the Russians were defeated, Massoud continued his participation in Afghan politics, meeting with many former warlords in an effort to bring true peace to his country. That’s when the Taliban group won the support of Pakistan, who hated Massoud because he said the Taliban was too radical and that Pakistan should stay out of Afghanistan’s business. Instead, he called for democracy.
Massoud was an important part of the Northern Alliance, which was fighting the Taliban. But the Taliban, with its backing from the powerful Pakistanis, was conquering most of Afghanistan. By the time my father and I arrived in Afghanistan, most believed that Massoud didn’t have a chance of victory. That was when my father predicted that the Taliban would ultimately win the civil war and control all of Afghanistan. That was when he also realized he must embrace the Taliban if he wanted to live in peace in Afghanistan.
Of course, this meant that Massoud, a man he had once supported, would become my father’s enemy. Nevertheless, I believe that my father had enormous respect for Massoud, saying once, “No Russian ever walked through Massoud’s territory.”
I personally met another former leader, the striking-looking Sheik Sayaff. The sheik must have been proud of his beard, which had remained black as night, because he intentionally kept it long and dressed it bushy—the longest, fluffiest beard I have seen to this day. I wanted to ask about his beard but never found the nerve. His huge size was a second surprise. He was very tall, although not as tall as my father, but was the broadest man I’ve ever seen in my life, although his body width was not composed of fat. His form was so unusual that I find him difficult to describe and I wish I had a picture. When in his presence, I tried not to stare but found it impossible. Considering his beard and his size, I decided that he was the most majestic warrior of his day, which is saying a lot when nearly every Afghan soldier I met appeared powerful and intimidating.
Then the day came that my father said, “Enough visiting. The time has come to prepare our new home in Tora Bora.”
I had been hoping that the gift of land in Jalalabad would cause my father to forget about Tora Bora, which had the unpromising meaning of “black dust.” I wanted us to remain at the old palace until he could build a compound for us in the city. But for some strange reason my father seemed in undue haste to return to the mountains. After only a month in Jalalabad, he announced that we were traveling to Tora Bora, to check out our very own personal bin Laden Mountain.
By this time I was suffering from asthma, but much to my despair, there were no medicines or inhalers in Jalalabad. I was foolish not to have sneaked my medicine past my father, for my breathing difficulties were becoming worse with each passing day. My father noticed my ragged breathing and ordered one of his men to raid some hardworking bees of their honeycomb. My father watched carefully as I breathed through the comb, but his home remedies had never relieved my asthma. Once he had his mind set on a thing, my father was not one to give up. After he saw that the honey had no effect, he had one of his men boil some onions and squeeze the juice into a pan, telling me to breathe in the onion juice. That had no more effect than the honeycomb. Finally he instructed me to pour olive oil onto the burning embers of a fire and to drop my head over the smoke and inhale as deeply as I could. All that smoke only exacerbated my asthma, and breathing became so difficult that I feared I might die. Once when gasping, I thought I caught the scent of “grave dirt.” I was ready to trade my share of the bin Laden Mountain for a single puff from my inhaler.
Such was my condition when we started the dusty ride out of Jalalabad to the White Mountains where Tora Bora was located.
Chapter 16
Tora Bora Mountain
OMAR BIN LADEN
The roads to Tora Bora Mountain were unpaved, so the dust clouds were circling our white Toyota trucks, the vehicle of choice in Afghanistan. Since Jalalabad and its environs nestle on a flat plain, one would hope that even a dirt road would offer smooth travel, but that was not the case. I
grumbled silently that the Afghan roads must surely be the most poorly maintained on earth. Other than one or two main city streets, all were dirt roads; therefore, passengers received teeth-rattling vibrations as the tires fought to escape potholes and roll over large stones. As I was tossed around the vehicle like a rag, I gasped in misery, regretting for the first time that I had been the son chosen to accompany our father on his journey.
I really could not believe that our lives had come to this. My father was a member of one of the wealthiest families of Saudi Arabia. My cousins were relaxing in fine homes and attending the best schools. Here I was, the son of a wealthy bin Laden, living in a lawless land, wheezing for air in a small Toyota truck, surrounded by Afghan warriors carrying powerful weapons, on my way to help my father claim a mountain hut for our family home.
I looked at my father. He did not seem to mind the trying conditions, but seemed exhilarated by them. Had his risky exploits as a warrior in Afghanistan created a lifelong need for stimulation? I hoped not! No matter what, my father was a tough man.
I caught a glimpse through the window of the Tora Bora mountains looming majestically thirty-five miles away. After leaving Jalalabad behind, the road became rougher still as it wound through little villages. The sights I saw were dismal, with meager bazaars lining the village streets, adolescent boys shoveling water on the roads to beat back the dust, and small boys pulling toys made of poppy husks along the roadside. As one might expect, females past the age of puberty were locked away in their homes, concealed from any strangers’ eyes.
The vast poppy fields took my mind off my troubles, and even prompted my father to demand, “What is the meaning of this?” as he gestured at the endless green fields of poppies. We all knew they were used to make opium, which would be turned into heroin.
The driver shrugged. “Farmers here say that Taliban leader Mullah Omar has made a fatwa saying that the Afghan people should cultivate and sell the poppy plant, but only if it will be sold to the United States. The mullah said that his goal was to send as many hard drugs to the United States as possible so that America’s money would flow to Afghanistan while America’s youth will be ruined by becoming addicted to the drug heroin.”
My father grimaced, his expression puzzled. He knew from all that he had heard that Mullah Omar, like most Muslims, avoided anything to do with drugs. When he mentioned this to the driver, the man said, “Yes. The good Mullah Omar has not been in favor of the drug trade. He made this fatwa only against the Americans.”
My father said nothing else, yet I knew that this was not to his liking. Regardless of his growing hatred for everything American, he followed the Islamic belief that forbade believers from trafficking in drugs for any reason.
I wondered why the Taliban leader hated the Americans. I knew my father believed that if the Americans had kept their noses out of Saudi business, that he and his Mujahideen fighters would have saved Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, further establishing his reputation as the greatest Arab hero of all time. It was the Americans who had put him in an untenable position, causing him to flee his country—and eventually forcing his expulsion from Sudan.
I wondered if the Americans had targeted Mullah Omar as well. Certainly, Mullah Omar had lived a hard life. He was an ethnic Pashtun of the Hotak tribe. After his father’s premature death, Mullah Omar was born in 1959 in a mud hut in a small village in Kandahar Province. Born in a country where leaders come to power because of wealth, family lineage, or royalty, the peasant boy was not a likely candidate to one day rule the country.
Mullah Omar was schooled in Islamic studies at a Pakistani madrassah, or religious school, being taught the strictest interpretation of the Koran. Growing into a tall, rugged teenager, his youth was spent working to help support his struggling family.
When the Russians invaded Afghanistan, Mullah Omar joined the Mujahideen, reportedly fighting under the command of Nek Mohammad, a famous Afghan warrior. Omar was a superior marksman who quickly gained the respect of the fighters around him. He was wounded many times, losing an eye and scarring his face. Becoming too disabled to fight, he began to teach in a village madrassah near Kandahar.
After the Soviets withdrew from Afghanistan, the country veered toward civil war. It was said that Mullah Omar wished to stay out of the fray, but after hearing about the crimes committed by former Afghan fighters, violence that included kidnapping and the rape of young boys and girls, the pious mullah gathered a group of students, inspiring those young men to fight the criminals.
With success came the idea to install a purely Islamic state. Due to his piety and call for strict law and order, Mullah Omar easily gained support. A Taliban army resulted. With Mullah Omar as their leader, the Taliban entered the civil war and began defeating all opposing factions, including the Northern Alliance led by Ahmad Shah Massoud.
By the time my father and I arrived in Afghanistan, anyone who wanted to live in Afghanistan had to reach an alliance with Mullah Omar. My father was cautious as to where we traveled, for he had not yet met with Mullah Omar and did not know if the Taliban leader would welcome us into the country. For the time being, we had the support of Mullah Nourallah, who was the leader of his province, but at any time Mullah Omar could order my father out of Afghanistan.
After three bone-shattering hours, the rutted road grew even more jarring, but our uncomfortable journey was coming to an end. The peaks of Tora Bora loomed over us against the sapphire sky, so numerous that they appeared to fold into one another.
Where in that towering rock pile would my ill-fated family find a home?
We left the highway to climb a steep, winding track so narrow that there was barely room for our small vehicle. Our truck tires edged the cliffs. One misplaced jolt and we would have plummeted to our deaths.
Another hour of measured climbing revealed some structures perched on a rock ledge. Was this the mountain that Mullah Nourallah had so generously given to my father? Quite obviously it was, for the driver maneuvered our vehicle up against the stony mountain and we stepped outside to walk the final distance. My father led the way, a man proud of his new mountain. As was his usual custom, he prodded the rocky earth with his cane clasped in his right hand and his Kalashnikov slung over his left shoulder.
I often smile when I read journalists reporting that my father is left-handed, showing their lack of personal knowledge about Osama bin Laden. For the first time I will reveal a truth that my father and his family have carefully guarded for most of his life, for in our culture it is believed that any physical disability weakens a man. My father is right-handed, but he has to make use of his left eye for any task that requires perfect vision. The explanation is simple. When my father was only a young boy, he was happily hammering on some metal when a piece of the metal flew into his right eye. The injury was serious, resulting in a hushed-up trip to London to seek the care of a specialist.
The diagnosis upset everyone. My father’s right eye would never again see clearly. Over the years my father taught himself to conceal the problem, thinking it better for people to believe him to be left-handed rather than allow them to know that his right eye barely functioned. The only reason my father aims his weapon from his left side is because he is virtually blind in his right eye. Perhaps my father will be angry that I have exposed this carefully guarded secret, but it is nothing more than a truth that should hold no shame.
And so it came to be that, unlike my father, I was able to look upon Tora Bora with both eyes. The sheer size and complexity of the vista was more than I could have ever imagined. The dramatic view stretched endlessly, the flamboyant panorama spoiled only by the sight of some ancient mountain houses, fit for nothing more than sheltering livestock. I was hoping to hear my father say that those homes would be dismantled in order to build more suitable accommodation, a lavish mountain home perhaps.
Instead, my father motioned to the primitive dwellings and said, “We will live here, at least until the civil war concludes.”
I sighed, thinking that the war in Afghanistan might last for years. Perhaps I would grow a gray beard on this mountaintop.
My father was suddenly struck with nostalgia about the huts now meant to house women and little children. “Omar, these structures served a great purpose for the brave fighters during the war.”
I said nothing, yet I was wondering how my mother would abide living in such a wild and barren place. Not only was it primitive, but it was a treacherous environment for young children. Directly opposite the homes was a dangerous drop of over three thousand feet. In my mind’s eye I was already envisioning the toddlers in the family tumbling off the mountain.
In shock, I followed my father into the first building, which had a total of six very small rooms. My father announced, “Your mother and your aunties will have two rooms each.”
I grunted, afraid that if I spoke I would be unable to control my growing anger. My father could not always restrain his legendary temper, although he was generally placated by hitting his sons with his cane. Perhaps if I offended him while we were standing so close to a precipice, he might toss me off.
So I kept quiet and feigned interest in the huts. All six rooms were constructed of blocks that had been cut, carved, and rudely shaped from the mountain granite. The flat roofs were made of wood and straw. Most surprising, the windows and doors were empty openings.
My father was attuned to my thinking, pointing with his cane and saying, “We will hang animal hides over the doors and windows.”
Was he serious?
The abandoned structures were littered with the debris of war. There was rotten bedding, empty shell casings, bare tins, yellowed newspapers, cast-off clothing, and plastic containers. Not surprisingly, there was no electricity on the mountain, so we could forget even the convenience of a few dim light bulbs.
