Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [134]
I sat crouched with Sakhr. I was too startled to move and Sakhr was too cautious. He was plotting how to move out without running into a missile.
Our minds were racing, neither of us understanding how Massoud’s men had gotten so close. We were behind the front line, for God’s sake! How had Massoud’s men slipped in between the Taliban line and us without being seen?
Squatting there, expecting to die any moment, I looked back to see that my father and his friends had taken cover in a concrete building, where they looked helplessly at Osama bin Laden’s son, so openly vulnerable. With missiles whistling past my head, dirt and small stones peppering my face, and deep craters appearing all around me, I truly believed I was living my last moments on earth. My big regret was the sorrow I knew my death would cause my mother. Strangely enough, I did not feel a sense of true fear. I suppose that an adrenaline rush was creating a deceptive sense of courage.
I looked back once more to see my father, possibly for the last time. He was now standing at the entrance of the improvised shelter, risking his own life, beckoning with his hands for me to run to him. Finally I got the nerve to dash to the shelter, where my shaken father appeared very happy that I was still alive.
We were not prepared for a fully fledged battle, so we had no choice but to retreat. After recovering from the initial shock, my father suddenly realized that we were not under attack from Massoud’s men, but instead it was the Taliban firing upon us! We were the victims of friendly fire.
Never have I seen my father in such a violent rage. “Sakhr,” he ordered, “get your car. Drive around this area. Get to their launching spot. Tell them to stop it now or they will kill us all!”
Sakhr arrived safely, thank God, and the Taliban commander was told that he was firing upon Osama bin Laden, and had nearly killed the sheik’s son. Sakhr said that the commander almost had a heart attack. When he had heard Sakhr firing his weapon, he had believed that he was under a surprise attack from behind. He thought that Massoud’s men had somehow evaded his lookout.
His explanation didn’t satisfy my father, who remained as furious as I’ve ever seen him, saying that in such a situation, a commander checks first before bombarding an area believed to be safe territory.
I never forgot that trip to the front, but neither did it inspire me as my father had hoped.
Chapter 21
Real War
OMAR BIN LADEN
There were so many factions battling in Afghanistan that war fronts bordered most cities and villages. It was not unusual for my father to reinforce the Taliban forces, particularly when the Taliban got caught up in pitched battles with the Northern Alliance led by Massoud. I sensed that my father enjoyed putting his men up against those of a man whose military skills he so admired. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to be told that he had outwitted the brilliant commander.
I’m happy to report that for a while my brothers and I avoided being sent to the front lines, but then one day for no good reason I can think of, my father ordered me to report to one of our al-Qaeda bases located high in the mountains of Kabul, on the outskirts of the city. My father said, “Go, my son. Go and discover the soldier’s life.”
I believe that I had just reached my seventeenth year at the time. Fighting on the front lines was the last item on my list of things I desired. I had seen too many seriously wounded and dying men brought back from the front. Generally a war wound meant death because there were no base hospitals or even temporary medical clinics to treat the injured. Efforts were sometimes made to take the wounded to the nearest city, but that rarely happened. Although we had Dr. Zawahiri for true emergencies, his main duty was not to be a physician, but to plan attacks.
But there was no choice but to do as ordered, as I