Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [138]
The incident had taken my father back in time, to the days when he believed that all his dreams would come true. After defeating the Russians, he had settled into a time of arrogance, convinced that the remainder of his life would be filled with victories. That had not happened. In fact, his dreams had evaporated.
My father first looked at Abu Hafs, his dear friend for many years, and then glanced to some of the older men in the circle, the Russian veterans, before gesturing at me and saying, “Look at my young son! When we first arrived in Afghanistan so many years ago we were fresh-faced young men, too. We were vibrant warriors, tall, muscular, fit, and healthy. Our beards were black and our heads were covered with bushy hair, without a white hair to be seen!”
His voice became wistful. “Who could have dreamed that our lives would have taken this path? We lost so many friends in the Jihad. They are in paradise, while we are still struggling on earth, fighting for justice for Islam. Although we know that life on God’s earth is nothing more than a stepping-stone to heaven, the journey is often too hard to bear. When we so eagerly came to Afghanistan we arrived as young men. We felt sorry for the old warriors, barely able to get about. Now look at us! We are the old men! Now it is our sons whose feet are planted in our footsteps.”
I squirmed, knowing that if my father was counting on me to carry out his dreams, he would be sorely disappointed. At my first opportunity, I would lift my feet from my father’s footprints and make my own.
I knew for certain that my father was thinking of me as the chosen one when he announced that a British journalist, Robert Fisk, was coming to Afghanistan to interview him and that I would be in attendance. Fisk had interviewed my father once or twice before, but this was the first time I would meet him.
Although Abdul Rahman did not attend the interview, Sa’ad went along. I only hoped that Sa’ad would not start talking about the tasty eggs and bread he had just eaten. Although I was proud to be one of the two sons chosen to be with my father at such an important interview, I am sorry to say that I remember little of the actual discussion. Those interested can find Fisk’s work and read it for themselves. Mainly I recall that Fisk was a very pleasant man who even gave me a little attention, turning to me with a genial expression to ask me if I was happy.
I was stunned by his question. During my entire life few people had ever really cared about my feelings, and certainly no one had ever asked whether or not I was happy. For a split second I wondered if Fisk was simply being polite, but he seemed so sincere that I wanted to please him with my response. I finally replied, “Yes, I am happy.”
Fisk didn’t question me further, but my tongue ached to take back those words—to confide the truth, that I was the most miserable boy alive, and that I detested the hatred and violence my father was promoting. I wanted to pull Fisk aside and tell him that one day I would find the courage to speak out against my father and work for the cause of peace. I was bursting, but too cowardly to speak out yet.
Fisk pleasantly asked my father if we would like a photograph taken with me. I was excited when my father agreed, because he was not a fan of photography, and his agreement to be in a picture with me meant more than the photo itself.
After Fisk left us I found the nerve to ask, “Father, are you nervous about what this reporter might say?”
My father shrugged and said, “No. He will be fair.”
Later I was able to get a copy of Fisk’s interview and felt strangely disappointed that I was not mentioned in any way, even though I knew that my father was the only person that mattered in our family. The world had no reason to be interested in me,