Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [120]
They were taught how to take prisoners and what to do with those prisoners once they were under control. Special interrogation methods were taught to the soldiers who showed higher than average intelligence.
After the morning training session, they would break for a two-hour rest, and then resume training until six in the evening, when they took their evening meal. Rice and vegetables was common fare for dinner, although on occasion the soldiers might receive a gift of a can of tuna. After the training day ended, there were further requirements, because trainees had to attend lectures on why Jihad was important, which basically consisted of verbal attacks upon the United States.
After the last lecture, the soldiers were free to talk to others, or read the Koran. On rare occasions the men would play soccer, sparking my guilt with the memory of the time in Peshawar when I had ended up with the fighter’s ball in my hands.
Generally, the solders were so physically shattered at the end of the day that they fell asleep the moment their bodies stretched out on their thin mattresses. I comforted myself with the thought that few were dreaming of playing soccer, or any sport.
Personal hygiene was not a priority, as none of the soldiers changed clothes while I was there, but instead trained and slept in the same garments. When the weather cooperated, soldiers might trek to a spring or river to wash their bodies with a cheap piece of soap, and try to wash their clothes still on their bodies. I noticed that all the soldiers were thin, yet their muscles rippled.
Weapons training was a big part of their program. There were so many weapons around the camps that it boggled the mind. There were stinger missiles, previously given to the Mujahideen fighters by the Americans. Trainees were taught how to make explosives and how to plant bombs. Most astonishing for me was that trainees were taught to drive tanks. From our time in Sudan, I had learned to operate some of the equipment owned by my father, so I was familiar with heavy machinery. For the fun of it, I volunteered to learn that skill, although I have never had the occasion to fight in a tank battle. When I wearied of the harsh camp, I returned on my own to Tora Bora, thankful that my father was too busy to ask questions. I’m sure he assumed that because I was his son I had inherited his love of fighting.
There were other stories about my father’s fighters that I will reveal, although for the life of me I cannot recall the exact dates I witnessed the events. Our lives were chaotic and no one kept a diary, or even referred to calendars. It is virtually impossible to look back and accurately date specific events.
While many fighters bore an authentic desire to uphold Islam by fighting against the West, there were other very bizarre characters who appeared in my father’s army. I remember one particular Pakistani man who came to join the Jihad. He was so religious that he made a name for himself by doing nothing but training, eating, and reading the Koran in a loud voice. One day he started a hugging campaign and made it his business to hug every tough fighter, which I admit was not met with a lot of cooperation. He refused to sleep until he had hugged each fighter.
The fighters tried to work out what was going on with the Pakistani. In our culture it is not unusual for men to hold hands or to offer a kiss at a greeting, but it is not customary to be a chronic hugger. The barracks were unheated and became so frigid during the winter months that, out of necessity, the fighters slept side by side, sometimes wrapping their legs around their nearest bedmate in order to generate