Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [125]
Despite his misery, Omar thought mainly of others. He could not bear to see any living thing mistreated, whether human or animal. He was the one to come to the defense of all, even snakes, a scary species that has frightened me since my childhood.
One night a terrifying storm struck my husband’s mountain. The storm was blowing with such intensity that our windows and doors lost their animal-skin covers and we were caught without any protection from the strong winds and rain. My smallest children were squealing with terror. Being on top of the mountain gave us a feeling of being tossed into the maelstrom of the storm. Never had any of us seen such natural violence. We were accustomed to little more than sandstorms, which can be frightening, but nothing matched the power of crashing thunder, lightning flashes, high winds, and torrential rain. Finally my older sons managed to hang a blanket over the door and towels over the windows. My smaller children and I huddled against the wall at the greatest distance from the doors and windows.
My older boys dashed away to check on their aunties. I suddenly heard a very strange hissing sound, which I believed to be gas leaking from one of the cylinders that held fuel for our lanterns. When I went to check on the problem, my eyes caught sight of an enormous snake coiled at the hut’s opening, acting as though it had been invited to visit, although I realize now it was simply seeking shelter from the storm. I called God’s name out loud and tried to walk backwards very slowly. My husband and sons had warned me to be alert because those mountain snakes carried poison so deadly one would not have time to rush down the mountain and drive along the highways to the hospital in Jalalabad. I did not want to die and leave my little children without their mother.
I was tottering with fright. I am a woman whose childhood fears have increased to the level that that I cannot tolerate even the image of a colorful snake on the pages of a book. Having nowhere to run in that small hut, I cried out for my boys. Omar quickly came running to me with his Kalashnikov in his hand. For the first time I was happy that my husband made my boys carry that bad weapon.
I shouted, “Omar, be careful! There is a giant snake. There, by the door! Kill it!”
Omar took a look at the snake and teased me. “Poor snake. You want to kill it? Leave her alone, let her live.”
By that time I was yelling very loudly, “Kill that snake!” There was no way I was going to allow that snake to run away to come back and perhaps crawl under my blanket while I slept.
My son kept repeating that he did not want to kill the snake.
I kept screaming, “Kill the snake!”
Finally Omar saw that his mother meant business and he used his big weapon to hit the snake on its head. I watched the snake’s body slowly deflate, to my immense relief.
Omar felt guilty about killing the snake, lifting its limp body in his arms even as I screamed in terror for him to take it away, for even a dead snake makes me quiver. Omar was sad when he said, “You should not have made me kill this snake.”
Off my son went, a big dead snake in his arms—to where I do not know, and at the time, did not care.
Omar had a way with animals. I remember once when I was watching my husband attempt to deliver a baby camel. There was trouble, but nothing helped the desperate mother. The baby was stuck half in and half out, and the mother camel was in the greatest pain.
Omar heard about the problem and came to assist. Though my husband told him to go away, Omar did not respond, but reached to lift the baby camel’s head, helping the mother. Finally Omar got the baby out alive and prayed some verses over mother and baby. My husband did not