Growing Up bin Laden

by Jean Sasson

  “The political situation is heated,” Mullah Omar concluded. “It is best if you and your men leave Afghanistan.”

  My father’s face remained impassive, even though I knew the last thing he wanted was to be expelled from his sanctuary. He was very slow to respond, choosing his words carefully, then speaking softly at last.

  “Sheik, I have spent many years of my life in Afghanistan, from the time I was a young man, fighting for your people. Never once did I forget this country, returning to build a village, even moving my wives, children, and close friends here. Now we are a large group numbering many hundreds of people. How can I move such a large group of people easily? Where would I move them to?”

  Mullah Omar repeated, “The time has come for you and your fighters to leave Afghanistan.”

  My father paused, and after careful consideration, softly said, “The Sudanese government allowed me to live there for five years. Would you offer me the same courtesy? Will you allow me to remain in Afghanistan for another year and a half?”

  Mullah Omar remained quiet for a very long time, his face thoughtful. When he finally answered, he spoke at great length. I cannot remember his exact words, but he carefully detailed the pros and cons of my father’s continued presence in Afghanistan.

  Just as instinct whispered to us that Mullah Omar’s next words would be for my father to leave, my father ever so lightly touched a Muslim nerve, saying, “Sheik, if you give in to the pressure of infidel governments, your decision will be against Islam.”

  Mullah Omar, who was known for his total devotion to Islam, gave a little twitch. He would be hesitant to go against Islamic teachings. He paused.

  In that moment Mullah Omar chose his religion above all, above the good of his country and the well-being of the world. He nodded.

  “Sheik Osama, I will fulfill your request. I will give you the same courtesy as the Sudanese government did. You have my invitation for another year and a half. During that year and a half, make arrangements for your move. Find another country for your family.”

  My father was saved once again, because he had outwitted Mullah Omar. Once he realized that the mullah was going to expel him despite his loyalty to the Taliban, my father had ever so carefully chosen the perfect words to change his mind, at least temporarily. No good Muslim would ever bend to the infidel’s will over the good of a Muslim, even if the infidel was in the right and the Muslim was in the wrong.

  My father was a brilliant man in many ways.

  Few onlookers realized exactly what had transpired, knowing only that all was well. A celebratory mood spread through the crowd of men.

  When my father called for the food to be displayed, many men began bringing whole sheep on platters, with rice and vegetables. Although our food supplies were low, somehow my father and his men had managed to put on a huge feast. As is our Arab way, my father ordered the servers to present the choicest pieces to the Taliban leader.

  But we were in for a final shock. Mullah Omar stung my father with a parting insult, brusquely declaring that he was not hungry. With that, the leader of the Taliban marched away, without speaking a word of farewell to my father. The large number of men with their big guns jumped into their assigned vehicles. Mullah Omar’s caravan quickly left.

  Many of my father’s men exchanged baffled glances, for such an insult could bring about a tribal war in our culture. Yet there was nothing to do but to accept his disrespectful behavior. Mullah Omar was the most powerful man in all of Afghanistan. He controlled most of Afghanistan, and his men, the harsh Taliban soldiers, brought fear into nearly every heart. Despite the strength of my father’s al-Qaeda organization, he could not afford to get into a battle with the Taliban. He would lose, and he knew it.

  Although humbled by the day’s events, my father was relieved that he had some time to work out the details of his future. When he had been expelled from Sudan, he had only a few months to organize. Now he had over a year to make his plans. Anything could happen in a year. Refusing to eat, he retired to meet with his top lieutenants. My brothers and I went to our mother’s home to be certain that the women and children received a share of the feast. It was rare for us to have such delicious food on our table.

  I admit to a feeling of pride that my father had saved the day yet again, although I also thought that nothing would have been better for me personally than for the mullah to force my father’s departure within the hour. Either way, I know now that nothing would have stopped my father from his Jihad. If he could not remain in Afghanistan, he would go to Pakistan. If Pakistan removed the welcome mat, he would go to Yemen. If Yemen threw him out, he would journey to the middle of the most hostile desert where he would plot against the West. Violent Jihad was my father’s life; nothing else really mattered. Nothing.

  My only hope was that Mullah Omar’s withdrawal of support would decelerate my father’s Jihadi activities. Surely, after such a close call, he would become more cautious. But that was not the case. Following the ominous meeting with Mullah Omar, my father increased his activities. His journey down a dead-end road continued. He was still the driver and we were still the passengers. But the destination became clearer to me with each turn of the wheel. This was going to be a one-way trip.

  Chapter 24

  The Tightening Noose

  OMAR BIN LADEN

  Very shortly after Mullah Omar’s visit, my father received word from one of his contacts in Pakistan that his mother had flown from Jeddah to Dubai and that she and her husband, Muhammad al-Attas, would soon arrive. The details of her trip had been carefully coordinated by my father’s brothers, who lived in Saudi Arabia, although my father was unaware she was coming until she was in Dubai.

  My grandmother had visited once or twice when we lived in Khartoum, but that was a long time ago and much had happened since then. Everyone was pleased by the news that we would soon see a favored and lovely face in our Afghan home, but none more than my mother, who at forty years of age was pregnant with her eleventh child. She loved her Auntie Allia as a second mother, so she was more excited than I had seen her in a long time.

  On the day of their arrival, my father announced that he would drive to the airport himself and I would accompany him in his vehicle. Other brothers and fighters would follow in a caravan. Since we left Saudi Arabia, my father had rarely driven himself. So I knew he was displaying the highest honor for his mother.

  As usual, we were fully armed with our Kalashnikovs and grenade belts, thinking nothing of how that might appear to our visiting relatives who were unaccustomed to our militant world. In Saudi Arabia, civilians can end up in prison for carrying weapons, although during his years of fighting the Russians, the Saudi royal family had allowed my father flexibility for his personal security.

  My father and I stood together and watched as the plane landed. While I emulated my father’s quiet, serious demeanor, in my heart I could barely contain my excitement. Just then, my grandmother and her husband appeared at the open door of the plane and gave a little wave before starting their descent down the roller-style stairs.

  My grandmother was a woman of normal height and build. My father had inherited his height from his biological father. Grandmother was attractive, very smart, and spoke with confidence. My father’s stepfather, Muhammad alAttas, was a short man, about five feet eight with a medium build, gray hair, and a mustache but no beard. He had a very pleasing appearance and a quiet, kindly nature.

  My father and I walked rapidly to meet them. Once Grandmother was halfway down the stairs, my father apparently noticed for the first time that she was unveiled, her face revealed for any stranger to see. He quickly motioned with his hands for her to cover her face. She seemed surprised, but took the edge of her head scarf and looped it over her face and eyes. Of course, that made it difficult for her to maneuver down the steps, causing her to stumble, nearly toppling down. We made an instinctive jump to save her from a fall, but she managed to catch her footing at the last minute.

>   His mother glided gracefully to her son, locking her hand into his and the two of them were in a world of their own. Never had I seen perfect happiness before, but on that day I knew that my father was as happy as a man could be.

  My father escorted his mother and Muhammad to the cab of the newest truck in his fleet, telling me to ride in the back, in the open air, as there was not enough room for four to be comfortable. The other automobiles would follow. I leaned over the side of the truck, feeling so good that I wanted to celebrate. By this time I had acquired some of the habits of the fighters in the camps, and thought nothing of discharging my gun in celebratory firing, shooting many times into the air.

  My father was not pleased, banging on the back window of the truck, motioning for me to stop. When we arrived at our compound, he told me that poor Muhammad had thought we were under attack and was noticeably shaken, even after my father assured him that it was only my foolishness creating the noise.

  My grandmother and her husband were settled in the nicest of the guest houses, then escorted to my mother’s house. My grandmother had brought gifts of chocolates. My siblings and I were thrilled; we had not seen chocolates since we lived in Khartoum. Some of the smallest children did not even know what candy was, so it was fun to watch their little faces when they ate the sweet treats.

  My father was proud to present his mother and stepfather with good-quality provisions that he had somehow managed to acquire. Usually the food available to us in Afghanistan was repugnant. He even relented when it came to cooling fans, for there was still no electricity in the Kandahar compound and most guests sweltered in the summer heat. After a few high-ranking guests had nearly fainted, my father had ordered a few battery-powered fans for his most honored guests.

  Although my grandmother and her husband did not make use of the fans, I had witnessed a number of guests struggling to hold the spinning blades close to their faces while trying to have a conversation or enjoy a meal, reminding me of those wealthy guests in Khartoum using woven hand fans.

  The first evening was the only night that our family was all together, and was so enjoyable that my father began to recall some delightful tales from his youth. Looking sweetly at my grandmother, he asked, “My Mother, do you remember when I was very young, long before my school days, when my only goal in life was to have a pet goat?”

  Grandmother Allia nodded with pleasure. “Yes, my son,” she replied, “I remember everything of that incident.”

  “Your husband would not allow your son to have a goat. I asked him again and again, and every time he would say no, there would definitely be no goats at his home in Jeddah. After the third or fourth time, your husband became weary of your son, and said, if you want a goat, Osama, you will need to grow one for yourself. I was truly confused, asking your husband how I might go about such a task as growing a goat.”

  Muhammad laughed heartily, calling to mind the long-ago incident.

  “My mother, your husband told me that the next time my mother served goat for our evening meal, I was to take the cooked leg bone of the goat, and then plant it three inches in the ground. He cautioned me that if I did not give the goat leg a daily watering, I would not grow a goat.

  “Sure enough, the next time you served goat, I saved the leg bone and very earnestly carried it into the garden to dig a hole and plant it, diligently watering the goat bone daily. After a few weeks, I began to wonder what I might have done wrong, for nothing resembling a goat broke through the garden soil. After weeks of tending that goat bone, your husband finally told me the truth, that it was only a joke, and that the bone would never grow into my very much desired goat!”

  My father glanced at my brothers and me. “And, that, my sons, is why I have always granted your every wish when it came to your desire for animals.”

  I suddenly remembered all the goats my father had bought us when we were small in Saudi Arabia. I understood for the first time that in presenting his sons with those goats, he was fulfilling his own childhood desires.

  Muhammad enjoyed the little story, finally saying, “Osama, I had no idea that you would take me seriously. I am sorry if I caused you any grief.”

  My father smiled. “No. It was a good and funny joke for a small boy.”

  The goat story led Muhammad to remember yet another family tale. “Osama, do you remember when you rode the bull?”

  My father smiled. “I do.” He seemed very happy at the memory. “My dear family, you know my love for horses. From the time I was very young, I wanted a horse more than I wanted anything, even a home-grown goat! I pestered my mother and Muhammad endlessly, but no one took me seriously. Once when we were holidaying in Syria, at the home of your mother’s parents, I was hiking with your mother’s brothers when I noticed a big breeding bull in a field. Something nudged me to slip through the fence and approach the bull.

  “It was a magnificent specimen, the most powerful animal I had ever seen. I had a plan to ride the bull, thinking to myself that it couldn’t be much different from riding a horse. If my family would not allow me to have a horse, perhaps I could have a bull! I slowly approached, but the bull didn’t react to my presence. I assumed that he was accustomed to human hands. The bull remained indifferent, chomping on green grasses, content in his own world.

  “I quietly approached from the side, then, in a flash, I leaped from the ground and onto the back of the bull. The bull was instantly determined to throw me from his back. I wrapped my arms around his neck, making him even more defiant. He bolted, first one way, and then another, running as fast as a bull can run. He twisted. He turned. It was the wildest ride of my life. I hung on, but realized that I was going to be seriously harmed. I braced myself, then jumped off, tumbling over and over, smelling the new grass as my face and body skidded helplessly across the field.

  “Najwa’s brothers were watching. Other people had walked past to witness my attempt at bull riding. Your mother’s brothers made it their business to dash to your mother’s family home, shouting that Osama had been tossed from a bull’s back.

  “Of course, my mother and Muhammad were terrified by my caper. They decided then that I needed something to ride and that a horse would be much less dangerous.”

  Muhammad al-Attas nodded. “You know your father, once he sets his mind to a thing, never thinks about turning back. He will not stop until he gets what he wants.”

  Yes, we knew that aspect of our father’s character. Such a trait can be good, or it can be bad. From what I knew of my father’s life, his stubbornness had brought him many problems. Once he wished for something, he never gave up, even when his wish had a twin, and that twin was called ruin.

  But that evening was a rare opportunity for us to be a real family, and I was not complaining. It did me good to see my mother’s serene, happy face, and to watch my serious father enjoying himself for a change. While he was usually so stern about everything, in his mother’s presence, he seemed an ordinary son, father, and husband. My mother and grandmother exchanged many affectionate glances, and I could tell that my grandmother was very worried about my mother.

  Although that first night was perfection, the remainder of my grandmother’s visit did not go as well. We learned later that for her this was not simply a family visit. She had been sent to my father by King Fahd, who hoped that my father’s great affection for his mother would work a charm. Grandmother Allia had come to Afghanistan to plead with my father to give up his Jihadi path, to come home, to make amends. It was not too late, Grandmother Allia said. King Fahd was making one last effort, promising my father that he would not be imprisoned or turned over to the Americans, but would be guaranteed a quiet life if only he returned to Saudi Arabia.

  Although he understood that his mother truly believed the king’s promises, my father did not. He was convinced that if his feet touched Saudi sand, he would be imprisoned for the rest of his life, or given to the Americans so that they could have a show trial, the way they did for Omar Abdel Rahman, the blind Egy
ptian cleric who had been convicted of seditious conspiracy and sentenced to life imprisonment. Over the years, my father had repeatedly declared that he preferred death to the filthy grasp of the hated Americans.

  He so loved his mother that he felt no anger at her words, but merely replied that he could never return to the kingdom. His eyes would never again see Saudi Arabia. His feet would never again walk on the streets of Jeddah. He was finished with the country he loved.

  Thus that joyful evening ended on a somber note. My grandmother and Muhammad al-Attas left Afghanistan two days later.

  My grandmother’s visit increased my desire to leave my father and the life he had chosen for me. Such ideas grew more urgent after my closest friend, Abu Haadi, took me aside and warned me earnestly, “Omar, you need to leave Afghanistan. I have heard talk that there is something very big in the works. You need to leave, Omar. You are a young man. You have never harmed anyone. You need to leave, seek out a normal life. Do not stay here any longer.”

  So, even after the attack from America, even after Mullah Omar’s warnings, my father and his men were still planning violence. And, from Abu Haadi’s words, they were intending something even larger than the deadly attacks upon the American embassies. More innocent people would be killed, as they had been in Africa and Afghanistan, for some of the men killed in the camps were not training to be fighters, but had come to visit friends, or out of simple curiosity.

  Abu Haadi was not a man who would lie. If he thought I should leave, I should leave. Later that day, I gathered my father’s sons around me. “Listen, my brothers, I have heard confidential information. Something big is in the works. Here is the simple truth. If we leave, we live. If we stay, we die.”

  They were quick to agree, with one saying, “If our father makes other attacks, all of Afghanistan will be destroyed.”

  “We must escape,” I said.