Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [128]
Our vehicles turned in to an immense complex that had been built by the Russians during their time in Afghanistan. The compound was enclosed by a high wall with sentry posts at each corner. There were around eighty medium-sized pink-shaded concrete homes inside the confines of the wall, buildings that my father’s men had been repairing for some weeks. After the Soviets had left in 1988, the buildings had been ransacked. Even after the houses were patched up, I saw missile damage and bullet holes.
My father finally had his own military base. Of course, there was no electricity or running water; my father refused to modernize the compounds, reiterating his belief that his family and fighters should live the simple life. With the memory of the stone huts of Tora Bora still fresh in our minds, no one complained.
My mother and aunties were all moved into their own homes inside the compound. Their homes were side by side, which was convenient, as they had no other companions. Soon my father’s men would construct walls around each house, providing the necessary privacy for my father’s wives.
There were twenty large villas outside the wall that I heard had once been used by the Russian generals. There was also one huge building that had housed the lowest-grade military men. Fighters who were married with children lived in the large building outside the compound walls. Villas for the unattached fighters were outside the walls as well. There was a huge military building outside the walls where special ground-to-air missiles were placed on the roof.
Of course, there was a small mosque inside the walls, as well as various offices for my father and his high-ranking soldiers. Stables for our horses were constructed beside the bachelor quarters.
Kandahar was far from a perfect haven. We were still living in a country at war. There were times we could hear bombing and fighting, although the war never entered the compound. There was also the danger of dying from disease in a land where the citizens had dealt with war and death for so long that many former habits regarding health and hygiene had lapsed.
Although we generally remained at our compound, some months after moving to Kandahar my brothers and I, along with a few friends, grew bold enough to venture into the city. It was in Kandahar that we witnessed the various problems disturbing the well-being of many Afghans.
I remember a time when my friends and I pooled our funds so that we might go to a popular restaurant in Kandahar. Accustomed to food so bland that even the stray dogs ate it reluctantly, we were filled with anticipation. After ordering, one of my companions noticed some jugs sitting near the table area. Being the curious sort, he lifted the container to peer inside. After a sniff, he gagged. The waiter explained that prior to starting a meal Afghanis were partial to clearing their throats of expectorant. To discourage customers from spitting on the floor, the restaurants provided spit jugs.
Such an unappetizing image ruined our meal.
The city itself was polluted, with open sewers in the city streets. Most of the sewage came directly from the homes along the sidewalks and streets. Although most homes had indoor toilets, there was no running water. In order to dispose of the waste, toilets were built with exposed seats that opened out to the street below where the human waste was emptied. Better on the street than in the house, was the common answer to our question.
Although we did not live in such housing, my father had rented a number of buildings in the city to use as guest houses. There were times my brothers and I, or our friends, utilized the houses, so we saw for ourselves the unsanitary method of waste disposal. Most troubling for us, pedestrians could easily look upward to see the toilet user’s bare bottom.
There were times when we found this funny, as when we had a visitor from Saudi Arabia who was accustomed to the finer things of life, for the Saudi government had used oil money to modernize