Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [137]
I said nothing.
My father said nothing.
Finally the older man asked me openly, “Omar, did you write this letter?”
I met his eyes, without admitting to anything. I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no.
My father continued to sit quietly. He didn’t look at the older man. He didn’t look at me. I think he was looking at his hands.
The old man finally said, “Why did you write this letter, Omar?”
Knowing that he would never go away if I didn’t respond, I replied, “Even if I didn’t write it, I agree with it. All the young men are fed up.”
Not sure what my father’s reaction might be, the old man nodded and walked off without further comment.
My father didn’t move. I dreaded what he might say, for I had never lied to my father. I felt that his heart told him that, indeed, his son Omar was the perpetrator, but oddly, he left the topic closed. For a while the speeches diminished, but most men like nothing better than the sound of their own voices, so it was not long before they were once again thrusting themselves onto the podium to preach their personal brand of Islam.
A week later I came to see that my father had more serious problems than boredom in the mosque. He was without any money for the first time in his life.
Although we had been poor since 1994 when the Saudi government froze my father’s assets, there were new problems. Once my father lost access to his personal funds, his huge organization began to exist on charity. Sympathetic royals, ordinary Saudi citizens, or even members of my father’s immediate family had been generously donating to the cause of Jihad. Up until that time, there were no rules against such giving. But the government had recently forbidden Saudi charities from donating to my father’s cause. Everyone was being watched to make sure they did not contribute.
We were truly desperate for the first time, in such a low state that there was no money for food for our family, or for the enormous band of people who had gathered around my father.
My memories about that day are vivid, because I was famished, as were all the men. I had personally given the last of the food, consisting of eggs and potatoes, to the women and children. Hunger pangs were pricking our bellies.
My father was discussing the problem with Abu Hafs and a few other men he trusted as I sat and listened. My father spoke in a sad, disappointed manner, “If only I had five million dollars, I could win this war today.” We all knew that he was speaking of the all-consuming civil war that was continuing to plague every man, woman, and child living in Afghanistan, a conflict that was delaying him from what he thought of as his real mission in life, which was to make war with the West.
I felt a surge of anger. My father did not possess one Saudi riyal, or one Afghan afghani. If we didn’t get funds soon, we might all die of starvation. Now, I was hearing my father fret because he had no money to make war. I kept my mouth closed, however, for it was not the time to start a disagreement with my father. He was surrounded by men who loved him to the point they would happily plunge a dagger into my heart for criticizing my father.
After a few moments, his attention returned to the problem at hand. He looked at his men, instructing them, “Go to every locked box, look in every hiding place, search for some forgotten funds that we might have tucked away during our time of plenty.”
His men did as instructed, with one after the other returning with the unwelcome message that the boxes once crammed with money were now empty. One man said, “There’s not even dust.”
Suddenly, one of the men rushed into the room, beaming. He presented my father with a bundle of American dollars, telling him, “Sheik, I discovered this money in a long-forgotten strongbox.”
My father quickly counted it, announcing, “There’s five thousand dollars here!”
Reprieve! Such a sum would go a long way in the