by Jean Sasson
I sat on the edge of the river to remove my shoes, thrusting them between the waist of my pants and my flesh, then waded into the cold, dark water. I could see the palm trees swaying on the opposite shore, reminding me that I had only a short distance to swim.
Within minutes I was in trouble. The current was deceptively strong, pulling me away from the shore, pushing my body down the river. Rather than float to conserve my energy, I kept fighting the current, thinking that if I only tried harder I would make it to the shore. My futile efforts were exhausting. Soon I grew so tired that every muscle in my body pulsated with pain.
Hours passed as I bobbed in the Nile, my thoughts drifting incoherently. I cursed myself. I should have brought Sa’ad with me to the factory. I had not even told him where I was going. In fact, no one knew where I was, not even the fine family who had offered me a place to stay. No one had a clue that I was floundering in the Nile. I would most likely be eaten by a crocodile, disappearing without my family knowing my fate.
I prayed to Allah, begging him to send me a single piece of driftwood, something to hold on to until I could reach the shore. Allah answered my prayer; at that moment I caught a glimpse of an object floating past, and when I surged forward to grab it, my feet touched the bottom. I was at a spot where the river runs shallow. I had been flailing when I could have stood and walked out of the water.
Feeling rather foolish, I scrambled to the sandy bank thankful to be alive, yet not knowing where I was, for I had drifted a very long way. I would have to wait for sunrise to find my way back into Khartoum. The night air was freezing. I searched the edges of the Nile until I found a big stick, probing the sand until I found a good place, not too soft and not too hard, plunging the stick into the dirt until it was firmly planted. I then removed my wet clothes and hung them from the stick. My shoes had been lost.
I had never been so cold, not even in the deep snows of Tora Bora Mountain. I remembered my father saying that when in such a dilemma, go down, down into the earth. I scooped sand with my hands until I had dug a hollow large enough for my body. I crawled into the crater, using my hands to pull the excavated sand onto my body. Within minutes I felt the heavy sand creating warmth. Exhausted from my near drowning, I slept soundly.
Before the sun appeared in the sky, I was awakened by voices. Startled, I looked up to see a large group of angry men bombarding me with questions, “Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you here?”
I told them my story, which they didn’t seem to believe. I was becoming afraid, for I was only a teenager, lying naked in a hole, and the men had a roughness about them that alerted me to danger.
For what reason I will never know one of the older men began shouting, “He is a ghost! He is a ghost!” Several of the men flinched and pulled away from me. Another one gasped. Ghosts obviously frightened them, for they turned and fled up the shoreline.
I lay still for a few moments, thinking about what had just happened. Realizing that a calmer mind might think better of the ghost idea and convince his comrades to return to beat and rob me, I cautiously crept out of my hole, dressed, and searched for a better place to hide. After a few miles of walking, I dug another hole and tried once again to capture some much needed sleep. As fate would have it, a different group of men soon arrived, as suspicious as the others. They, too, demanded to know who I was and what I was doing in their territory.
Remembering the reaction to the mention of a ghost by the other gang, and knowing that most rural people are often superstitious, I shouted loudly, “I am a ghost! I am a ghost!”
Those men froze, and then, taking me at my word, the whole group ran like the wind. From such reactions, I sensed that I must be in a very dangerous, lawless region, and decided to look for a village where I would find a cleric.
Luckily I soon found a village with a mosque where a kindly man of God gave me food and a place to rest. Afterwards, he guided me to the best place to find a way back into Khartoum. I managed to catch a ride on the back of a wagon, which was sheer misery, for the dirt road was so dry that grit blew into our faces.
When I reached the outskirts of Khartoum I took a taxi to the home of the family where I was staying. My host was waiting for me, frantic for my safety. Surprisingly, when I told him my story, he became furious, shouting accusations, saying that I was a bad Muslim! Then he accused me of spending the night with a woman. My true story of swimming the Nile, nearly drowning, spending the night in a hole, being accosted by ghost-fearing natives, and finding sanctuary in a village mosque, was so implausible to his ears that he never believed the truth he was hearing, remaining annoyed up until the day I left Khartoum.
His reaction disheartened me.
After such unhappy experiences, I settled down and tried to find a bride. Everywhere I turned, I met with rejection. Perhaps my host had warned his friends that I was prone to wild nights. I’ll never know. But no one wanted their daughter to marry me.
Imagine my surprise when I learned that Sa’ad had accomplished the impossible. With single-minded purpose, the same as when he looks for food or describes a delicious meal, my brother had focused and found himself a pretty bride. Knowing Sa’ad, he probably harassed everyone he knew until they grasped that the only way to shut my brother up was to find him a bride. The girl was sixteen years old, old enough for marriage with her family’s permission.
Sa’ad was elated that his wedding was set. The wedding was not a big affair, but decidedly joyful because the groom was so excited. The wedding was held at the girl’s home, with the women inside and the men outside. Afterwards, her papers were prepared and arrangements were made for her to accompany her new husband back to Afghanistan.
Wifeless, I returned to the comfort of my mother and siblings in Afghanistan. Although my family was most interested in Sa’ad and his new wife, I was welcomed back with the greatest happiness, too. It seemed that everyone had missed me, which was unexpected. Still, I had so liked being out of Afghanistan that I began thinking of excuses to make another trip as soon as possible.
Over time I had become closer to some of my father’s Russian war veteran friends than to my own brothers. When I returned from Khartoum, my good friend Sakhr seemed particularly pleased to see me. He even agreed to let me practice my driving, which was not something I got to do every day. I climbed into the driver’s seat and Sakhr sat beside me, advising me to be careful; the last time he had driven, the bad roads had damaged the steering. Sakhr was very patient, doing all the things most fathers do for their sons, guiding me, allowing me to drive all the way into Kandahar, teaching me the tricks of maneuvering along single-lane roads, watching out for all the donkey carts and horse-drawn carriages. In many ways the scenes of Kandahar were enchanting, even though we both knew that war and terrible poverty had reduced the Afghan people to substandard living conditions.
Such lighthearted occasions were about to end, for an event was on the horizon that would take us one step closer to hell on earth.
Chapter 23
True Terror
OMAR BIN LADEN
During the summer of 1998, the Kandahar compound reminded me of a disturbed beehive. Leaders were coming and going without explanation. Whatever they were doing, it excited the fighters, who set about testing their weapons, monitoring the roads, and peering at the skies, all with equal intensity. I searched the skies, too, but for what I did not know. I sensed a great conspiracy, but no one would tell me anything. I approached my father gingerly, asking if something big was at hand.
He replied, “My son, it is not for you to know. It is the family business.” That was his code for al-Qaeda business, his usual barbed response when his sons became too inquisitive for his liking.
The secret was well kept. Even my friend Sakhr was unaware of the exact nature of affairs, although he agreed with me that my father and his commanders were as prickly as porcupines.
Time passed slowly until August 7, 1998, when those of us who were out of the loop finally disc
overed the reason behind the energized activity. I had risen early as usual, gone to the mosque to say my prayers, and then walked over to my father’s main office within the Kandahar compound.
My father did not speak; he was listening intently to the world news on the radio. Soon afterwards, he announced, “All men of fighting age must prepare to leave Kandahar.” We rushed to do his bidding, discovering that we were going to a nearby training camp to await some important news.
The camp was only an hour away, and once there, all the leaders tuned their radios to the news. I did the same, eager to discover what it was my father was waiting for. Around 12:30 P.M. local time in Afghanistan, and 10:30 A.M. local time in Africa, the news reported that there had been simultaneous car bomb explosions at the United States embassies in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and Nairobi, Kenya. According to the report, there was massive loss of life.
The breath left my body. I studied my father’s face; in my life, I had never seen him so excited and happy. His euphoria spread quickly to his commanders and throughout the ranks, with everyone laughing and congratulating each other. I soon heard someone shout that a successful strike had been made against the enemy: America!
After a few moments of shock, I expressed gladness as well, mirroring the reactions I was seeing, especially since I had been taught since childhood that Americans were determined to murder me because I was a Muslim.
With reports coming in about the terrific damage and loss of life, the fighters celebrated by firing their weapons into the air. I heard some of the fighters boast about how the explosives for the bombing had been prepared in one of the homes of the ammunition experts and then hidden in the gardens where al-Qaeda children played.
One proud fighter claimed, “My own children’s footprints could be seen in the sand covering the boxes of dynamite and TNT. Other explosives were hidden under a jungle gym climbing set. My little ones played happily, and I was at ease as well, knowing that God would not let anything happen to our children.”
Those men had risked the lives of tiny children to hide their explosives. Nothing much shocked me after that.
I can’t remember exactly how long we remained at the training camp near Kandahar, but it was long enough to hear that 213 people had been killed in Nairobi and at least a dozen in Dar es Salaam. I listened carefully, and learned that most of the bloodied and dead were African civilians who had been passing by when the bombs exploded. Looking back, I wonder why some of the men didn’t raise a question about all the Muslims killed in Africa.
My father had no regrets about this action, not even about the death of Muslims. If any of his fighters had raised such concerns in the past, he had answered, “We are in a war. If the enemy mounts a wall of civilians in front of government or military offices, they must be killed first. How else will you get to the enemy? Besides, their civilians would be safe if their governments would leave us alone.”
Any facility bearing the American flag was a viable target. If Muslims were killed, then so be it. Besides, my father was of the belief that God decides all things and had it not been the time for those African Muslims to die, they would not have been there when the bombs exploded.
Within a few days my father began to hear news reports that President Clinton might retaliate. He received a few secretive communications over his two-way radios, then met with his head commanders before announcing we would go north, to an area near Kabul.
I worried about the women being left behind at the Kandahar compound, but my father said, “No. They will be safe. Clinton will never strike where there are women and children.”
I was less comfortable about leaving my mother and younger siblings un-protected, but there was nothing I could do. We left the area, driving many hours north through a country that was still in the throes of civil war. Shortly before arriving near Khost and the Farouk training camp, we ran into a street battle between the Taliban and members of the Forse tribe. The fracas had closed the road, so my father stopped the convoy to ask what was going on.
The Taliban commander recognized my father and came to attention. He answered that one of the Forse men had made a crude gesture, sticking his middle finger up at the Taliban group. The insult was so great that the Taliban arrested the gesturing man and beat him with big sticks and the butts of guns, then threw him into an open truck. I knew that the man was being taken away to be executed. The Taliban were experts in executing civilians. Besides, such a thing as execution or violent death had become so common in Afghanistan that few seemed to care. We waited for a short time for the Taliban commander to clear the area, then continued on to the Farouk training camp, one of the more famous camps my father had organized.
Our journey felt like a victory lap. When we arrived, the men at Farouk, who were already thrilled about the bombings in Africa, began celebrating in earnest. Revenge against America was on every tongue. All the years of hearing lectures and watching videos about American brutalities against Muslims had incited such hatred that even one American death was cause for jubilation. This was why the men had joined al-Qaeda in the first place, why they didn’t complain at the long days and nights of training, and why they were willing to risk their lives.
After a few days at Farouk, my father received a highly secret communication, then declared, “Quickly, we must change our location. We will go to Kabul, to a guest house there.” My father rented a number of guest houses in every major city, using them as plush accommodation for special guests from Saudi Arabia or Dubai or other oil-wealthy nations.
And so it was that on August 20, 1998, we said our goodbyes to the fighters at Farouk and went to Kabul.
The guest house was a detached, three-storey white villa surrounded by a beautiful green garden with lots of trees. I was hoping that we would remain there, but soon after we arrived, the head of security came rushing to my father, saying that he had received the most dreadful news over his handheld transmitter. Farouk, the camp we had left only two hours before, had just been hit. In a massive attack, U.S. cruise missiles had rained down on the camp, killing or wounding many of the men we had so recently left behind.
My father soon discovered that the missiles had been launched from U.S. warships in the Red Sea. Khartoum had been hit as well, although we couldn’t imagine why.
I had left several good friends in Farouk. I silently prayed they had survived the attack.
My father usually accepted bad news with a calm countenance, but upon hearing about the damage and death at Farouk, he was struck with the most violent, uncontrollable rage. His face turned red and his eyes flashed as he began rushing about, repeatedly quoting the same verse from the Koran, “The God kills the ones who attacked! The God kills the ones who attacked!” Punching the air wildly with his fists, he shouted, “May God kill the ones who attacked! How could anyone attack Muslims? How could anyone attack Muslims? Why would anyone attack Muslims?”
At that moment I agreed with him, but then later in life I recalled the many times he had proclaimed that Americans were on a mission to kill Muslims, which made me ponder his genuine astonishment that Muslims had been killed. Curiously, none of us considered that it was my father who had caused the bombing of his camp by first bombing the American embassies. An eye for an eye.
We soon learned that there had been strikes on numerous training camps throughout Afghanistan. I felt physically ill until we learned that the Kandahar compound escaped attack. My mother, aunties, and younger siblings were safe, at least from what we heard.
Once my father composed himself, he thanked God that the Americans had failed to kill him. Certainly, we would have lost many more men had the Americans fired their missiles only two hours earlier.
One idea after another flew through my father’s mind until he finally decided that the guest house was no longer safe. We would go underground in the way that American Mafia bosses drop out of sight during their turf wars. You might say that my father, his top leaders, and his sons “went to the mattresses” whe
n we rushed from the guest house in Kabul to a safe house in the same city.
Even his sons did not know the location of the safe houses my father maintained in all the major cities of Afghanistan, but we were quickly transported to one nearby. The safe house was more ordinary than the guest villa, but more secure because it was set in the middle of a large, populated area. We were concealed among the innocent because my father had often noted that the Americans were keen to avoid killing civilians.
We hid there for over thirty days. Knowing the Americans were desperate to find my father and his leaders, everyone stayed out of sight, even from our neighbors, who had no idea that the top-ranking al-Qaeda commanders were dangerously close. The only freedom my father would allow his sons was an occasional peek out the front windows. Opening the curtains no more than a tiny bit, my brothers and I would study the nearby houses and watch the Afghans walking past. Meanwhile, my father and his top men were learning which fighters had died and calculating the damage to the organization, yet taking time on occasion to savor the death tally from the bombings at the American embassies.
Our Muslim deaths were lamented, African deaths ignored, and American deaths celebrated. I was too young to understand the full madness of such thinking.
That dreary month passed too slowly. We were all eager to return to Farouk and the other bombed training camps, to look for our friends, to mourn the dead, and then to return to Kandahar to reassure ourselves that our families were indeed safe.
On September 19, 1998, my father finally gave the order for us to leave the guest house in Kabul. We were going to Khost, to see the damage for ourselves.
The passengers in our vehicle were quiet as we drew close. The last time we had seen the camp, it was bustling with activity. Classrooms were filled, men were sleeping in bunkers, and others were praying in the prayer halls. There were numerous training and storage facilities.
