Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  I looked back once more to see my father, possibly for the last time. He was now standing at the entrance of the improvised shelter, risking his own life, beckoning with his hands for me to run to him. Finally I got the nerve to dash to the shelter, where my shaken father appeared very happy that I was still alive.

  We were not prepared for a fully fledged battle, so we had no choice but to retreat. After recovering from the initial shock, my father suddenly realized that we were not under attack from Massoud’s men, but instead it was the Taliban firing upon us! We were the victims of friendly fire.

  Never have I seen my father in such a violent rage. “Sakhr,” he ordered, “get your car. Drive around this area. Get to their launching spot. Tell them to stop it now or they will kill us all!”

  Sakhr arrived safely, thank God, and the Taliban commander was told that he was firing upon Osama bin Laden, and had nearly killed the sheik’s son. Sakhr said that the commander almost had a heart attack. When he had heard Sakhr firing his weapon, he had believed that he was under a surprise attack from behind. He thought that Massoud’s men had somehow evaded his lookout.

  His explanation didn’t satisfy my father, who remained as furious as I’ve ever seen him, saying that in such a situation, a commander checks first before bombarding an area believed to be safe territory.

  I never forgot that trip to the front, but neither did it inspire me as my father had hoped.

  Chapter 21

  Real War

  OMAR BIN LADEN

  There were so many factions battling in Afghanistan that war fronts bordered most cities and villages. It was not unusual for my father to reinforce the Taliban forces, particularly when the Taliban got caught up in pitched battles with the Northern Alliance led by Massoud. I sensed that my father enjoyed putting his men up against those of a man whose military skills he so admired. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to be told that he had outwitted the brilliant commander.

  I’m happy to report that for a while my brothers and I avoided being sent to the front lines, but then one day for no good reason I can think of, my father ordered me to report to one of our al-Qaeda bases located high in the mountains of Kabul, on the outskirts of the city. My father said, “Go, my son. Go and discover the soldier’s life.”

  I believe that I had just reached my seventeenth year at the time. Fighting on the front lines was the last item on my list of things I desired. I had seen too many seriously wounded and dying men brought back from the front. Generally a war wound meant death because there were no base hospitals or even temporary medical clinics to treat the injured. Efforts were sometimes made to take the wounded to the nearest city, but that rarely happened. Although we had Dr. Zawahiri for true emergencies, his main duty was not to be a physician, but to plan attacks.

  But there was no choice but to do as ordered, as I had not yet reached the age where I could rebel against my father. In fact, once I was on the road, I felt little flickers of excitement.

  When I arrived at the base in the Kabul mountains, I could see Massoud’s men facing my father’s men. The fighters on the front line were set up with machine guns and other close-range weapons. There was an artillery line directly behind, between the front line and the base. I spotted some functioning Russian tanks left over from the last war, camouflaged by tree branches and grasses and hidden in corners on some of the flat areas. Tank battles were not too common, which was disappointing because I had a few tank operating skills and like most teenage boys would have relished a chance to drive one of those tanks.

  I saw massive supplies of weaponry, from stinger missiles to machine guns to artillery. I was amazed at the complexity of the war, for like most people I had imagined that the war in Afghanistan consisted of guerrilla warfare. But the battle lines were drawn in much the same manner that I imagined the huge forces had faced off during confrontations between world powers. Seeing the vast array of highly trained men manning mostly modern equipment, I remembered hearing that after my father and his soldiers had joined with the Taliban, the military professionalism he had learned during the ten-year war with the Soviets had completely altered the conduct of the present conflict.

  The battle had quietened upon my arrival. For the first five days I mainly observed, thinking that being on the front lines was not the worst thing that could happen to me. There were occasions when I would fiddle with my portable handheld receiver. Most of the soldiers on the front line had one. The common soldier’s receiver was not sophisticated, like the ones used by my father and the high-ranking leaders.

  I was bored, and found that if I took my time, I could generally find the band being used by Massoud’s men. I began engaging them in conversation, asking them where they were from, and other non-military chatter. Of course, I never relayed that I was the son of Osama bin Laden, or those men might have made a fully fledged attack to capture such a prestigious target, little knowing that my father would do nothing special to bring about my release.

  Once I asked a friendly soldier, “Why are you trying to kill us?”

  The Massoud soldier replied, “I have nothing against you. This is a war over land. We have orders to shoot anyone on the land. You are on the land. I will have to shoot you if I get the chance.”

  That soldier was speaking the truth. Every warlord wanted to rule the country. Although there was a shortage of homes, hospitals, schools, food, clothes, and other necessities, there was no shortage of warlords, each striving to assume the top position. Yet another bitter war was the result of a group of stubborn and uncompromising men.

  The front line around Kabul linked to a village area. Modest huts dotted the mountainside. Since many of the houses had been deserted due to the close combat, my father’s soldiers opted to sleep in the huts rather than hunker down on the stony ground. During the sleeping hours, my father’s soldiers stationed lookouts along the mountain trail. The night came when it was my turn to serve as a lookout, for my father had sent word that I should be treated no differently from any other soldier. “No better, no worse,” was his order.

  Almost instantly after positioning myself at an advantageous lookout point, I felt the whistle of a bullet fly past my right ear. Then a second bullet soared past my left ear. Soon many bullets were flying. Enemy soldiers had spotted my position. With bullets zipping past on both sides, I couldn’t settle on which way to jump.

  I’m still not certain how I avoided being shot. Conceivably the moonless night skewed the enemy’s marksmanship, or perhaps my figure was so fixed in place that the enemy shooter concluded that his target was a mountain rock. My soldier comrades finally heard the racket and crept out to join the battle at the precise moment the firing ended. When the light of dawn appeared, they were amazed to see many bullet shells surrounding my position. God was with me on that night.

  On the sixth day the battle commenced, and I instantly gained a new respect for the soldiers. I was sent to the artillery line where the clatter of war damaged my eardrums. Of course, I slowly grew accustomed to the noise of war, but never to the sight of war. The carnage of useless death was hideous, with wounded and dying men all around, most of them no older than me.

  I was sorry to continually disappoint my father, but I came away with renewed conviction that war was the most useless exercise imaginable. While perched on that mountaintop, I had pledged to spend the rest of my life speaking out against the very thing my father so loved.

  The only thing my father loved more than war was Islam. While a Muslim can pray anywhere, on the street, in his home, in his office, in the desert, or even in an airport, it is best if a Muslim—at least a Muslim man—has the opportunity to pray in a mosque. But there were times when my brothers and I wearied of going to the mosque. This was not due to lack of faith, because we were believers, but because the mosque was utilized for so many things that my brothers and I spent more time there than in our homes. There were too many tedious gatherings that persisted for many hours. Often the most uninspiring Islami
c speakers lectured until our eyelids drooped and our heads swayed with boredom. Our father had no pity on our situation, expecting his young sons to sit still and appear enthusiastic during countless variations on the same theme.

  Over time, word got around that anyone who felt the urge to lecture was allowed to do so. Those enthusiastic lecturers detained reluctant spectators, keeping them captive for hours. Nearly every adult clamored to address the audience, to convince the others of his special understanding of Islam. Most were not Islamic scholars, but ignorant men who felt themselves elevated by the ceremony of endless talk.

  Already my brothers and I spent more hours than most in the mosque, where we were taught verses of the Koran, the history of Islam, the reasons for Jihad, the facts we needed to know about the wickedness of the non-Muslim world, along with my father’s future plans to destroy the West. It was in the mosque that we received the message that the United States feared that Islam was closing in on the Christian faith. We were told that it was God’s holy plan for all religions, including those practiced by Christians, Jews, Hindus, and others, to yield to Islamic rule. All the people of the world would come together under an Islamic caliphate.

  After two years of being subjected to lengthy haranguing from the mouths of uneducated bores, I wrote an anonymous letter, cautious to alter my personal handwriting.

  Here is what I remember of that letter:

  “No one should be allowed to stand up and speak in the mosque without the permission of Sheik bin Laden. It is unfair that the congregation should be subjected to a continuous barrage of lectures. There are many things in life worthwhile for men to do rather than sit for hours in the mosque to listen to unlearned speakers.

  “The mosque should not be used in such a careless manner. Such boring lectures, which are generally the opinion of a single individual, do nothing to further Islam. Islamic lecturers should be inspiring for believers, but the majority of the lecturers who have hijacked our mosque are creating discord and dissatisfaction. Believers should not be put in a position of total boredom, as this will discourage believers from attending many worthwhile events at the mosque.”

  Not wishing to be discovered, for I had no desire to incite my father’s anger, I slipped into the mosque during a quiet time to nail my letter to the wall.

  When the next prayer time arrived, I was there with my father. One of the older men came to us to speak frankly. He said, “The men have been talking. They say that only a son of the prince [meaning my father] could be brave enough to post such a message. We thought about this and discussed the sons of Sheik Osama, and all agreed that this letter had to come from one hand, the hand of your son Omar.”

  I said nothing.

  My father said nothing.

  Finally the older man asked me openly, “Omar, did you write this letter?”

  I met his eyes, without admitting to anything. I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no.

  My father continued to sit quietly. He didn’t look at the older man. He didn’t look at me. I think he was looking at his hands.

  The old man finally said, “Why did you write this letter, Omar?”

  Knowing that he would never go away if I didn’t respond, I replied, “Even if I didn’t write it, I agree with it. All the young men are fed up.”

  Not sure what my father’s reaction might be, the old man nodded and walked off without further comment.

  My father didn’t move. I dreaded what he might say, for I had never lied to my father. I felt that his heart told him that, indeed, his son Omar was the perpetrator, but oddly, he left the topic closed. For a while the speeches diminished, but most men like nothing better than the sound of their own voices, so it was not long before they were once again thrusting themselves onto the podium to preach their personal brand of Islam.

  A week later I came to see that my father had more serious problems than boredom in the mosque. He was without any money for the first time in his life.

  Although we had been poor since 1994 when the Saudi government froze my father’s assets, there were new problems. Once my father lost access to his personal funds, his huge organization began to exist on charity. Sympathetic royals, ordinary Saudi citizens, or even members of my father’s immediate family had been generously donating to the cause of Jihad. Up until that time, there were no rules against such giving. But the government had recently forbidden Saudi charities from donating to my father’s cause. Everyone was being watched to make sure they did not contribute.

  We were truly desperate for the first time, in such a low state that there was no money for food for our family, or for the enormous band of people who had gathered around my father.

  My memories about that day are vivid, because I was famished, as were all the men. I had personally given the last of the food, consisting of eggs and potatoes, to the women and children. Hunger pangs were pricking our bellies.

  My father was discussing the problem with Abu Hafs and a few other men he trusted as I sat and listened. My father spoke in a sad, disappointed manner, “If only I had five million dollars, I could win this war today.” We all knew that he was speaking of the all-consuming civil war that was continuing to plague every man, woman, and child living in Afghanistan, a conflict that was delaying him from what he thought of as his real mission in life, which was to make war with the West.

  I felt a surge of anger. My father did not possess one Saudi riyal, or one Afghan afghani. If we didn’t get funds soon, we might all die of starvation. Now, I was hearing my father fret because he had no money to make war. I kept my mouth closed, however, for it was not the time to start a disagreement with my father. He was surrounded by men who loved him to the point they would happily plunge a dagger into my heart for criticizing my father.

  After a few moments, his attention returned to the problem at hand. He looked at his men, instructing them, “Go to every locked box, look in every hiding place, search for some forgotten funds that we might have tucked away during our time of plenty.”

  His men did as instructed, with one after the other returning with the unwelcome message that the boxes once crammed with money were now empty. One man said, “There’s not even dust.”

  Suddenly, one of the men rushed into the room, beaming. He presented my father with a bundle of American dollars, telling him, “Sheik, I discovered this money in a long-forgotten strongbox.”

  My father quickly counted it, announcing, “There’s five thousand dollars here!”

  Reprieve! Such a sum would go a long way in the food bazaars of Kandahar. Now we could buy provisions to feed the hungry. Despite the happiness on my father’s face, there was enormous sorrow in his voice when he said, “Never in my life had I imagined that finding a modest five thousand dollars would bring me such joy.”

  The incident had taken my father back in time, to the days when he believed that all his dreams would come true. After defeating the Russians, he had settled into a time of arrogance, convinced that the remainder of his life would be filled with victories. That had not happened. In fact, his dreams had evaporated.

  My father first looked at Abu Hafs, his dear friend for many years, and then glanced to some of the older men in the circle, the Russian veterans, before gesturing at me and saying, “Look at my young son! When we first arrived in Afghanistan so many years ago we were fresh-faced young men, too. We were vibrant warriors, tall, muscular, fit, and healthy. Our beards were black and our heads were covered with bushy hair, without a white hair to be seen!”

  His voice became wistful. “Who could have dreamed that our lives would have taken this path? We lost so many friends in the Jihad. They are in paradise, while we are still struggling on earth, fighting for justice for Islam. Although we know that life on God’s earth is nothing more than a stepping-stone to heaven, the journey is often too hard to bear. When we so eagerly came to Afghanistan we arrived as young men. We felt sorry for the old warriors, barely able to get about. Now look at us! We are the old men! Now it is
our sons whose feet are planted in our footsteps.”

  I squirmed, knowing that if my father was counting on me to carry out his dreams, he would be sorely disappointed. At my first opportunity, I would lift my feet from my father’s footprints and make my own.

  I knew for certain that my father was thinking of me as the chosen one when he announced that a British journalist, Robert Fisk, was coming to Afghanistan to interview him and that I would be in attendance. Fisk had interviewed my father once or twice before, but this was the first time I would meet him.

  Although Abdul Rahman did not attend the interview, Sa’ad went along. I only hoped that Sa’ad would not start talking about the tasty eggs and bread he had just eaten. Although I was proud to be one of the two sons chosen to be with my father at such an important interview, I am sorry to say that I remember little of the actual discussion. Those interested can find Fisk’s work and read it for themselves. Mainly I recall that Fisk was a very pleasant man who even gave me a little attention, turning to me with a genial expression to ask me if I was happy.

  I was stunned by his question. During my entire life few people had ever really cared about my feelings, and certainly no one had ever asked whether or not I was happy. For a split second I wondered if Fisk was simply being polite, but he seemed so sincere that I wanted to please him with my response. I finally replied, “Yes, I am happy.”

  Fisk didn’t question me further, but my tongue ached to take back those words—to confide the truth, that I was the most miserable boy alive, and that I detested the hatred and violence my father was promoting. I wanted to pull Fisk aside and tell him that one day I would find the courage to speak out against my father and work for the cause of peace. I was bursting, but too cowardly to speak out yet.

  Fisk pleasantly asked my father if we would like a photograph taken with me. I was excited when my father agreed, because he was not a fan of photography, and his agreement to be in a picture with me meant more than the photo itself.