Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [119]
At meetings held in Kandahar, warriors were driven into a great fury by videotapes showing Israeli soldiers gleefully stomping on Palestinian women; Israeli tanks purposely destroying Palestinian homes; Israeli soldiers viciously kicking young Palestinian boys; and Israeli soldiers hatefully shooting to kill young stone-throwing Palestinian children.
At the end of such viewings, young men would burst from meetings, their hearts exploding in rage. My father’s Jihadi warriors were ready for war, whatever form war might take. And who could blame them? That view was their only reality. Muslims must act before being attacked!
As a young and malleable boy, I came away from such meetings accepting as true that all Muslims were in dire danger, and it was only a matter of time before we would be forced to fight for our very lives. I began to understand why my father trained his family to sleep in dirt holes in the desert. Perhaps one day we might find ourselves in such a situation, and it was best to be prepared.
I had no idea that, in fact, the majority of the American people gave Muslims little thought one way or another. The American people have always lived in protective isolation, their oceans for the most part keeping the problems of the world at bay. The Israelis were another matter because they were a part of our Muslim neighborhood. It was clear that the Israelis thought of us more frequently and in more dangerous terms.
Very soon, my brothers and I became a more intricate part of my father’s world vision. Soon after my mother and siblings arrived in Afghanistan, my father gave the order for us to be trained with weapons. Although we had been hunting for years, and had been presented with our own Kalashnikov guns after the assassination attempt in Khartoum, my father said that the time had come for serious training.
First of all, our father selected some of his most experienced soldiers to teach us everything about the Kalashnikov, telling us that we were forbidden to be without it, even when at ease in our home. Certainly, I could not recall ever seeing my father so much as an arm’s length from his weapon, even when he was visiting with my mother.
I was not unhappy to learn more about weapons, for we lived in a dangerous world. Unfortunately, despite our familiarity with the weapon, my brothers and I were irresponsible. Due to our age, our gun etiquette was appalling. I remember an occasion when my brothers and I fired our weapons at each other’s feet, commanding, “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
Because we were our father’s sons, we were never corrected, although I’m sure that the fighters itched to give us a beating.
It was during this same time that our father suggested that my brothers and I visit some of his al-Qaeda training camps. My father’s suggestions were in reality orders, so off we went. I was surprised to see that the living quarters provided for the fighters were even worse than our own spartan accommodation. The buildings were small mud-block buildings with few of life’s necessities. Of course, my father made sure there was no method of heating in the winter or cooling in the summer.
The trainees were tough men, some old, but most were young, all unshaven, with most wearing long beards. There was no specific camp uniform, so some trainees were dressed as Taliban, others as Pashtun, and to my surprise there were some soldiers strutting about in the uniforms of American or Russian soldiers. I was told that when the Russians left, they had not bothered taking their military supplies. Warehouses were discovered with uniforms, weapons, and food. Those supplies had been put to good use by my father. I never discovered where my father’s fighters procured the American military uniforms.
Before the men could even begin their training, they were required to take an oath of loyalty to my father. Their training routine was strict. The men rose early for the first prayers of the day before being served a meager breakfast of a boiled egg, bread,