Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [111]
Suddenly a very small airport came into view and I caught a dim glimpse of the natives who lived in the land. Men dressed in what I believed to be Afghan costumes were dotted around the airport area. I recognized that native dress from the summers in Pakistan. Whether I was looking at Afghans in Pakistan or Afghans in Afghanistan remained to be seen.
My heart skipped a few beats before I calmed all uncertainties by reminding myself I should and would rejoice that our family would be together again, no matter where that might be.
Upon landing everything was a bit chaotic. Our entire party was quickly taken to a long line of minibuses and small Toyota trucks parked around the airport grounds. I remember little else about that exhausting day. I do recall that we were transported to a big white house called the old palace, where someone had organized the nicest rooms for my husband’s wives and children. There were other ladies living there, women married to the men who worked for Osama.
I felt uneasy because I had not yet seen my husband or my son, whom I had expected to be in attendance to greet us. Someone said that we had arrived in Afghanistan, but I wanted to hear that from them. I rested but did not sleep, because of all of the questions swirling around in my head.
But the following morning I was in for a lovely surprise when my handsome son Omar came calling, patiently waiting for me outside the palace.
Dressed as a Pashtun Afghan, my son looked very different. Even with the loose-fitting clothes I could see that my already small son had lost weight. He was having difficulty breathing, reminding me of his troubling asthma. I would ask about those problems later, but for the moment I said nothing. The smaller children filled the silence with their teasing ways, laughing together about their brother’s funny dress.
When he smiled his sweet, hesitant smile, I knew it was my Omar. Although he was still not very tall, Omar had a new maturity on his face. I supposed that the months spent with his father had taken him into the world of men.
My most kindly son gently lifted my hand, kissed it, and said, “Hello, my mother. How are you doing?”
I replied, “I have been well, Omar. The sight of your face is best of all.”
My son kissed my veiled face more than once.
The suspense gathering, I finally asked, “Omar, where are we?”
“You are in Afghanistan, in the city of Jalalabad, not so far from the Pakistani border.”
So, it was true, Osama had brought us to Afghanistan. There was nothing to do but to thank God for our safety and our togetherness. I only asked, “Our belongings? When will they follow?”
Omar avoided looking at me, finally saying, “I do not know.”
I had a niggling worry but asked nothing more. Soon I would see my husband and hoped that he would clarify everything for me.
I did not have a desire to stay in the palace, which was filled with many women and children I did not know. So I asked Omar, “What are our personal arrangements?” I assumed that my husband was waiting for me at a nice place that would be our personal home.
My son seemed a bit hesitant as he answered, “You are all coming with me, to Tora Bora. Father is waiting there for you.”
I remembered the name Tora Bora. My husband had described it a few times when telling our sons about the battles he had once fought from that hideout. I could not imagine why we would be going there, but I had learned after many years of living with Osama not to ask questions, for all would be revealed when my husband thought it best.
I had trusted my husband from the first moment of our marriage, and he had always