Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [100]
While I was keeping him company, he would often spend hours speaking into the Dictaphone, recording many thoughts, including historical facts, current politics, and stories from Islam. When frustrated at the recent changes in his life, he would thunder over past grievances or pose new ideas that he believed would alter the course of the world.
As I scurried about tending to his needs, I heard him rail against the Saudi royal family, other rulers in the area, and the Americans and the British. He seethed over the disrespect shown to our Islamic faith, which seemed be the root of his growing discontent. My father’s thoughts and words often triggered a flurry of emotions, resulting in a loud voice and an angry face, which was not his customary manner of speaking.
After a week or so of hearing his tirades, I shut my ears to his unpleasant rants, but now I regret my inattention. Many times I wish I had those tapes in hand so that I could better understand what it was that drove my father to hate so many governments and so many innocent people.
In truth, I learned more about my father’s life during those three or four months than in all the years of my early life combined. Although my father was so serious that he rarely spoke of personal events, there were times in Afghanistan when he actually relaxed, pulling me with him into his early life.
Since I now know that I will never see my father again, for his violent path has separated us forever, I often think about those times and the stories he shared. Some of his fondest memories seemed to date back to childhood visits to Syria, to the home of his mother’s family, to the time when he was not so angry with the world.
“Omar, come,” he would say in his low, pleasant voice, patting the colorful flat cotton mat beside him. “I want to tell you a story. When I was only a teenager and we were holidaying in Syria, I often went with your mother’s brother Naji for long walks. The two of us enjoyed exploring the woods, checking out every turn in those narrow winding paths, very often leaping over bubbling streams. The trees in the hills of Syria were virgin. I believe that your Uncle Naji and I were the first ever to walk under their shady canopy. One day we were hiking in an area that had particularly dense undergrowth when we suddenly heard the noise of a snake. That snake was directly in our path, but I didn’t wish to kill it, so we stood to observe what the snake might do. Not moving, the snake watched us with equal interest. Finally it slithered a bit to the side and I quickly passed by his spot, but your Uncle Naji was too curious, saying he wanted to examine the snake’s colorful markings. I warned him, but your uncle was determined and so he inched closer to the long creature, when suddenly the snake became irritated by the human attention and coiled and hissed. Foolish Naji thought the snake’s conduct interesting and edged closer, when that snake suddenly spiraled straight out of his coil and began to slide forward, causing Naji to break into a run.” My father paused to smile and remember. “Naji was moving so fast that he quickly caught up with me and passed me. When I turned back I had a jolt of surprise. The snake had refocused his attention onto me. Off I went, your uncle and I struggling to outrun each other so that neither would be near that fast-moving snake.”
My always too serious father chuckled once more, remembering that day and concluding, “I have too many times found myself in trouble as the result of the carelessness of others.”
He enjoyed evoking memories of his mother, my Grandmother Allia, with whom he had shared the most pure and loving mother-son rapport from the time he was born. Even when I was a young child, I recognized their unique relationship. In fact, everyone in our close family circle knew that he loved his mother more than he loved his wives, his siblings, or his children. Anything she desired, he provided. If he was home, he visited his mother every other day. Any time he spoke of