Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [106]
My father sat down, too shaken to speak.
I had overheard enough conversations to know his worries. Mullah Nourallah had been our powerful protector in a country that grew more lawless by the day. His protection discouraged those who might take offense at an Arab living in Afghanistan. Now, without Mullah Nourallah’s strong personality shielding us, anything could happen.
My father’s men gathered, silent and sad, waiting for my father to speak. For the first time in his life he didn’t have a word left to say or a plan of action in his head. He sat strangely mute, paying no heed to anyone around him, staring into space.
But during this life on earth, good news often follows bad. Within a few hours, the silence was disrupted when my father’s portable two-way radio receiver blared with an alert from our security men who were watching the mountain pass. “A vehicle has arrived carrying three men. They are wearing the costume of the Taliban. What shall we do?”
The Taliban were distinctive in a country where it paid to know the tribe or the faction of the man facing you. While al-Qaeda are conservative Sunni Muslims, the Taliban are even more strict: They did not allow music or singing, kite flying, keeping pigeons, television, movies, or education for women. Shaving was banned, and all adult men were ordered to wear a beard that protruded further than a fist could grasp from the base of the chin.
Their vehicles were usually black in color, with tinted windows.
The al-Qaeda group, started by my father, followed the beliefs of the Wahhabi sect of Sunni Muslims. Although the Wahhabi are also extremely conservative, with the Islamic faith ruling every facet of their lives, they differ in various ways from the Taliban. The Wahhabi will destroy the graves of holy men, as they accept as true that believers should honor only God rather than mourn the dead, while the Taliban will not. The al-Qaeda Muslims do not believe in dreams, whereas the Taliban often base their decisions on them.
My father did not hesitate, ordering, “Let them pass. Welcome them. Bring them to me.”
Very soon my father’s security detail escorted the men to us. They were dressed in the distinctive Taliban way, with turbans on their heads, two twined together, with one end hanging loose over their shoulders. Their Pashtun traditional clothing consisted of long-sleeved shirts made of heavy cotton coming nearly to their knees but belted at the waist. Dark-colored waistcoats topped their shirts and loose-fitting trousers and boots popular in the area which were constructed of yak hide completed their attire.
By the second month of our arrival in Afghanistan, my father and I had discarded our traditional Saudi thobes and adopted the Pashtun dress, because the traditional clothing was well suited for the terrain and my father said that our life would be easier if we did not stand out in a crowd. We rarely wore the Taliban turban because it took a lot of skill to learn to wind that long band of fabric, but we sometimes topped our heads with the small rounded cap common to the Pashtun.
The head messenger approached my father, who held out his hand in welcome.
The Taliban representative went straight to the point. “Mullah Mohammed Omar has sent us to you. He says to tell you that he has heard of the death of Mullah Nourallah. Now Mullah Mohammed Omar welcomes you and wants you to know that you and your entourage are under the protection of the Taliban. This is a special invitation for you to visit Mullah Mohammed Omar at his home in Kabul anytime.”
My father smiled the smile of the saved. Tea was served and the