Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [107]
After their brief visit, the messengers left with these words from my father: “Tell Mullah Mohammed Omar that I am very pleased and thankful for his welcome. I would like to visit soon, but first I must settle my family, who will soon be coming from Sudan.”
When our visitors had departed the mountain, my father’s mood lifted to pure ecstasy, his expression so joyful I thought he might embrace everyone on the mountain. He did not, saying merely, “Omar, this message was sent by God. This welcome from Mullah Omar is the answer to all my problems in this time of dire circumstances.”
My father had never met Mullah Omar, although he followed the Taliban’s progress very carefully. “Soon,” he said, “you will see, Omar. The Taliban will soon rule the entire country. It is good for us to have this invitation from their leader.”
From that day on, my father visibly relaxed and for the first time in my memory, he rarely raised his voice to anyone, even those who accidentally displeased him. He was calm, knowing that he could bring his family to Afghanistan and would be free from assault by the Taliban. Within the hour my father had issued orders that we would leave for Jalalabad as quickly as possible. There was much to do to bring our family from Sudan.
Despite my father’s inner relief, the return trip was hushed and gloomy, for our thoughts turned to Mullah Nourallah and the fact we would never see his merry face again. We had never been to Jalalabad without his welcome. All who knew Mullah Nourallah loved him. He was always so affable and accommodating. Although we mourned his passing, we knew that he was celebrating in paradise. Despite our happiness at that thought, it did not mean we would not miss him on earth. He had been one of the kindest men in all of Afghanistan, sensitive to those around him, even to someone as unimportant as a young boy. I would never forget that after a few visits to Tora Bora, he had arrived with a brown and white puppy under his arm, telling my father that a mountaintop was a lonely place for a young boy. He said, “Osama, this puppy is for Omar.”
My father did not protest, although after our puppy experiences in Khartoum, I was certain that he was not overjoyed. But that puppy, whom I named Bobby in honor of my previous dog in Khartoum, was a good companion. Through many lonely hours Bobby snuggled by my side, sharing my lonely place in the world.
I didn’t disclose my sad thoughts to my father because I feared his accusation that my sorrow meant I questioned God’s decision, but even the idea of a party in paradise failed to wipe out the horrible image of a bloodied and dying Mullah Nourallah.
Perhaps to take my mind off Mullah Nourallah, my father began speaking about his mission in life. “Omar, I know you often wonder why I do the things I do. When you grow older, you will understand. But for now, Omar, just remember this: I was put on this earth by God for a specific reason. My only reason for living is to fight the Jihad and to make sure there is justice for Muslims.” He had a stern look when he said, “Muslims are the mistreated of the world. It is my mission to make certain that other nations take Islam seriously.”
He took my silence as indicating interest and agreement, I suppose, for he launched into one of his speeches about the evil policies of America. “The American president sees himself as the king of the world, my son. The American government and people follow their king to invade Muslim countries even when the rest of the world says no. Kuwait was none of their business. The Iraqi invasion of Kuwait was a Middle Eastern problem, ours to solve. The Americans want the oil, of course, but another goal is to enslave Muslims. Americans hate Muslims because they love the Jews. In reality, America and Israel are one country, not two.”
That’s when I remembered that my father’s men sometimes lightly grumbled behind his back that he ignored