Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [105]
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 family. 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