by Jean Sasson
Something about the loss triggered a desire for change in my grandmother. Shortly afterward, she asked her husband for a divorce. My Grandfather Mohammed, seeing that she was unhappy, graciously and freely gave her a divorce. He was very agreeable about the matter.
In those days a divorced woman was not allowed to live on her own, so she was soon married to Muhammad al-Attas, who became my father’s stepfather, a gentle and wise man who regarded his stepson as he did his own children.
There is another rumor that when my grandmother left the bin Laden compound she did not take Osama with her. Some people have written that my father rarely saw his mother. This is not true. My father was only a toddler when his mother was divorced and remarried. When she stepped away from the bin Laden clan, her son was in her arms. Other than a few return visits to the bin Laden compound, my father never left his mother’s home. Although Muhammad al-Attas worked in the bin Laden business, his personal life remained separate. Never again was my Grandmother Allia part of the bin Laden inner circle, and in reality, neither was my father until he was a teenager and came back into the family on a more routine basis.
“Omar, I have a few stories about your Grandfather bin Laden that you might like to hear,” my father promised as he sat cross-legged on the floor, holding his teacup.
Eagerly I joined him, listening to every word.
“Omar, your grandfather was a genius who helped build the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, bringing the country out of the sand. While your grandfather was working, some members, mainly Saud, one of the eldest sons, was foolishly squandering the early oil wealth. But my father was so loyal to the first king, Abdul Aziz, who happened to be a very fine man, that nothing could tempt him to say a word against the behavior of the king’s son.”
My father paused, a faraway look in his eyes, thinking, then said, “But of course that is not my story.
“Omar, your grandfather was a very tough man, because the times called for it. He was most inflexible when it came to his children. He had rules for everything.
“I remember once when your grandfather called his sons home for one reason or another. He had a strict rule that when he met with his sons, we must stand in a very straight line, organized according to height, rather than age. We would nervously gather, from the tallest to the shortest. The half-siblings saw each other infrequently, so we spent a lot of time measuring ourselves against each other, taking care not to get in the wrong position, because it was easy enough for your grandfather to spot the one delinquent. Before I became a teenager, I was not the tallest, although I overtook my brothers later in life. On that day two of my older brothers, both taller than me, locked me between them. I really didn’t know what to do. Being a shy boy, I stood silently, hoping against hope that your grandfather would not notice I had gotten captured between two taller brothers.
“Your grandfather noticed. Furious, he marched to stand in front of me and, without one word of warning, struck me as hard as he could across my face. I nearly fell backwards. I’ve never forgotten the pain of that blow, both physically and mentally.
“But you can be sure I never broke that rule again, but would dash back and forth until I found my proper place in the lineup.
“While your grandfather was too rough with his own children, he was the most generous man when it came to strangers. I remember once when he stuffed a canvas bag with money and made his way to a small village known for its poverty. He knocked on every door, distributing cash to surprised but happy villagers. It was the sort of effort the king himself often made. Most people who knew them both reported that King Abdul Aziz and your grandfather were like-minded.
“I remember my mother telling me one of the reasons she grew unhappy married to your grandfather. She recalled that his servants were usually young boys and men, and that he had a shocking habit of asking his wives to take off their veils and stand in a line, sending for his male servants to look upon their faces and point out his most beautiful wife. Of course, the male servants were terrified that their answer might anger their employer, or even rile the wives, who held some power within the confines of the household. Not surprisingly, your grandfather’s wives were devastated to be treated thus, for in those days women wanted to veil, finding it humiliating to be lined up like harlots on view. But your grandfather was king in his household and everyone did as he told them to do. This might explain that a few years before he died, he made a rare confession that the one thing he regretted in life was the injustice he showed when it came to females. He was sad about that aspect of his behavior and said that he hoped his God would forgive him.”
My father stopped speaking for a few minutes, quiet, with his eyes looking past me, reliving a memory that had occurred long before I had been born.
“Omar, I only had one personal one-on-one experience with your grandfather. This happened a year or so before he was killed.
“When I was only nine years old, I was struck by the strongest desire to have my own car. I had an early love of cars. I talked incessantly about them, goading my dear mother and stepfather, Muhammad Attas, to desperation. As you know, Muhammad was never a man of wealth, and he could not afford to indulge me. But after months of my pestering my dear mother, Muhammad announced that he was going to ask for an audience with my biological father, so that I could express my wish to the only man who had the power to make it happen.
“When I heard the strategy, I was nervous but excited. I had never stood alone in front of your grandfather, as I only saw him when he summoned all his sons. Therefore, I didn’t have the sort of relationship that would make the situation easy. But I was determined to carry out the plan.
“Finally the big day came. Muhammad Attas led me into your grandfather’s office in Jeddah. There he was, sitting behind the largest desk I’ve ever seen. Unsmiling, he looked at me and then said, ‘What is it you want, my son?’
“Muhammad Attas squeezed my shoulder in encouragement, both of us relieved that I had been so easily acknowledged, because it was known that your grandfather never recognized his own sons. Always, he would ask the son before him to identify himself by naming his mother. But on that day my father knew that I was his son. I realize now that it was only because Muhammad Attas was accompanying me, and your grandfather knew who my mother had married. But I didn’t think about the logical explanation at the time, and felt so very pleased that your grandfather knew exactly who I was.
“Your grandfather was looking me sternly in the eye. I dropped my own gaze because I would never lock eyes with him, careful not to show disrespect. I fixed my eyes to the floor, listening as he asked me to tell him why I was there. He asked the same question three times before I finally found my voice. I surprised myself with my steady tone. ‘I want a car, Father.’
“He kept asking the same question and I kept replying with the same answer.
“Finally he asked me: ‘Osama, why do you need a car?’
“I answered: ‘I need a car so that I can drive to school.’
“He asked: ‘Why do you think you deserve a car?’
“I replied: ‘I like cars. I will be good at driving.’
“He asked: ‘Are you good at school?’
“I replied: ‘I am.’
“He asked: ‘Are you an obedient child?’
“I replied: ‘I am very good.’
“He sat silent for a moment, making his decision.
“I stood quietly, just holding my breath.
“He broke the silence. ‘I will not give you a car. I will give you a bicycle.’
“I was devastated, but knew I would be beaten if I challenged his decision. He returned his gaze to the documents laid out on his desk. I thanked him and walked away. He did not say goodbye, and neither did I. I believe that was the last time I ever saw your grandfather, although of course I did not know that was our final meeting at the time. Only God knew our future, that your grandfather would be dead within the year.
“My heart was so heavy that I co
uld not speak. Muhammad Attas was the kindest stepfather, making every effort to cheer me up during the drive home, trying to excite me over the idea that I would soon get a new bicycle.
“A red bicycle was duly delivered but failed to spark joy in my heart. I think I rode it a few times and then gave it to one of my younger brothers. Then one day several weeks later I received the biggest shock of my life. A shiny new car was delivered to our home in Jeddah! For me!
“That was the happiest day of my young life. Although my mother and Muhammad Attas would not allow me to drive it alone for a few more years, our driver or Muhammad would take me out for a spin, to my immense joy.
“Of course, your grandfather was killed when I was ten years old, so I never had a second occasion to privately meet with him.”
After hearing such childhood tales, I felt sorry for my father, yet I was puzzled. If after so many years he could recall how pained he was when his father struck him or ignored him, I could not understand how he could so easily, even eagerly, beat or ignore his own sons. I never got the courage to ask my father that question, although I am sorry now that my nerve failed me.
Although being on Tora Bora gave me the opportunity to spend time with my elusive father, it was far too challenging a place for human life. If any of us were struck by illness, we were far from any medical help. As fate would have it, one morning I was stricken with a high fever. Believing I had contracted a cold virus, I slept late, but sleeping failed to bring a cure. Restless, I became more ill with a splitting headache and body cramps. All I wanted was my mother, for she was always so reassuring when one of her children grew ill, petting us with kind words and preparing hot soups. But my mother was thousands of miles away in Khartoum, unaware that her son Omar was too sick to even cry out for help.
I became so unwell that my father’s men grew alarmed, calling in one of the drivers, a man by the name of Shear. My writhing torment goaded Shear into action. He shouted out that he would transport me to Jalalabad.
I have no recollection of my father’s whereabouts on that morning, but knowing him, he had probably taken a long hike. No man on earth enjoys a hike in the high mountains quite as much as my father.
So, without my father’s knowledge, I was loaded into a car to be taken to Jalalabad. The drive there was the most miserable of my life. My fever worsened and I continued vomiting. I twisted and turned. Poor Shear, the driver, drove far too fast for the narrow winding roads. I’m surprised we didn’t plunge off the mountain. In record time, he arrived at the hospital in Jalalabad, where a student learning to draw blood tested his poor medical skills on me. Eventually I was diagnosed with typhoid fever and malaria. Indeed, the doctor warned the men with me that I might die.
The doctor in charge ordered a number of injections and medications. My father’s men refused to leave me unattended in the hospital, so I was discharged to be taken to the old palace. I was surprised to be told that there was no room for me at the palace, for by that time my father’s war veterans from Pakistan, Yemen, and other countries were converging on Afghanistan, bringing their wives and daughters with them. Females had taken over the old palace. Due to our restrictive culture, men were no longer allowed inside with the women. I ended up convalescing from two very serious diseases on a cotton mattress under a shady tree in the garden.
There I lay, slipping in and out of consciousness for three days. Youth was on my side and although greatly weakened, I slowly recovered. Before I was fully well, my father sent orders that I should return to Tora Bora to recuperate. Once there, I collapsed on the floor mattress. Within twenty-four hours my illness flared up with a vengeance. The frantic run to the Jalalabad hospital was repeated.
I recall nothing of that second trip down the mountain, but I do have a dim memory of being treated by the same young doctor. He was small and slim with a thin beard, but I was doing so poorly that an older doctor was called to consult on my case. But all he did was prescribe additional medications. Once more I was returned to the palace to sleep under the same tree.
I think everyone was astonished that I didn’t end up wrapped in a shroud and buried in the sands of Afghanistan.
My father’s health was another story. There has been much speculation about my father suffering from severe kidney disorders, including claims that his kidneys were so diseased that it was necessary for him to transport a dialysis machine on the back of a mule. Nothing could be further from the truth. The only explanation for the rumor is that my father, along with others in his extended family, had a tendency to suffer from kidney stones. Those stones caused immense pain until they had passed out of his body, but his kidneys were strong otherwise.
Although the Russians had deployed chemical gas against my father and his soldiers, the lingering effects were nothing more serious than occasional bouts of coughing. Later he had contracted malaria in Sudan, and like most malaria victims, he suffered some recurrences, but he made quick recoveries. Despite the chemicals and the malaria, he was physically healthy. He even out-hiked vigorous young men half his age.
In fact, while we were living in Tora Bora, my father thought nothing of hiking over the border and into Pakistan. Much to my dismay, he decided that I should accompany him, telling me, “Omar, we never know when war will strike. We must know our way out of these mountains.” Discontented unless he knew every inch of the path, he insisted, “We must memorize every rock. Nothing is more important than knowing secret escape routes.”
Without warning, he might wake me from a deep sleep to tell me that we were hiking to Pakistan. Although the border was not terribly far away, there was no set time limit for the trip and no set route. I’ve been with my father when the hike took seven hours, and other times when it took fourteen. Once I walked ahead, exploring new territory on a ledge higher than my father’s path. Being unfamiliar with the lay of the land, I lost my footing, crashing into the dry ground, nearly toppling off a high mountain. My father, as always, was calm at the sight of my desperate struggle, waiting patiently until I clambered back onto the path to resume the march.
When I asked him what he would have done had I fallen to my death, he calmly replied, “I would have buried you, my son.”
After arriving in Pakistan, we would sleep on the hard ground. There were times I risked his ire by carrying along a single blanket for cover. He had not changed from the times in Sudan when he ordered us to cover our cold bodies with twigs or dirt.
I made those hiking trips to Pakistan more times than I care to recall. When my brothers arrived a few months later, they, too, were subjected to these grueling treks. My brothers and I all loathed what seemed the most pleasant of outings to our father.
In late June or early July in 1996, approximately two months after arriving in Afghanistan, a messenger came running with unwelcome news. Bowing his head humbly, he said, “Dear prince Osama, there is bad news. Will you allow me to speak and to share this news with you?”
My father’s face had whitened, but he gestured for the man to continue.
“Dear prince Osama, Mullah Nourallah has been killed.”
My father’s lips tightened, but he did not say a word, for any lament would be the same as criticizing God Himself, who had decided that Mullah Nourallah was ready for paradise.
We were all in shock as the messenger provided details of the unexpected death. “I was with him, dear prince. We were traveling from Jalalabad to Pakistan for some business there. We were midway on our journey when our enemies jumped from a hiding place, armed with Kalashnikov weapons. They began to shoot at everyone in the convoy. Mullah Nourallah, who was easily recognized in his red truck, was killed instantly. I would be in paradise with him, but God was with me. Just as bullets ripped over my head, I tripped and fell over a large stone. Without a weapon at hand, I lay there like the dead until the attackers ran away. I then jumped to assist those still living.
“We have since discovered that the killers were the bandit’s brother and other members of the famil
y. This was the bandit put to death last year by Mullah Nourallah.” He shook his head. “Mullah Nourallah is already in his grave, dear prince.”
I remembered the many times I had heard my father and others warn Mullah Nourallah to guard his precious life, but he was not a man to worry about what he could not control. He probably assumed that his destiny was to leave his earthly life in a hail of bullets, for that was the fate of most Afghan warriors. Killing was a revolving door in Afghanistan, where the most minor insult would not go unchallenged, even if it meant an act of revenge would reverberate on every man in the tribe.
My father sat down, too shaken to speak.
I had overheard enough conversations to know his worries. Mullah Nourallah had been our powerful protector in a country that grew more lawless by the day. His protection discouraged those who might take offense at an Arab living in Afghanistan. Now, without Mullah Nourallah’s strong personality shielding us, anything could happen.
My father’s men gathered, silent and sad, waiting for my father to speak. For the first time in his life he didn’t have a word left to say or a plan of action in his head. He sat strangely mute, paying no heed to anyone around him, staring into space.
But during this life on earth, good news often follows bad. Within a few hours, the silence was disrupted when my father’s portable two-way radio receiver blared with an alert from our security men who were watching the mountain pass. “A vehicle has arrived carrying three men. They are wearing the costume of the Taliban. What shall we do?”
