Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [140]
Since there were no public toilets, or for that matter, private toilets, available to villagers, it was necessary for the fighters to scatter to seek privacy in isolated corners in the fields. After finding relief, fighters would return to the caravan to wait under a shady tree for the other soldiers. We seldom objected to the delays because no one was particularly eager to get back onto the rough roads of Afghanistan. We liked having extra time to sit and exchange gossip.
I remember a certain soldier who had waited to the very last minute, and rushed off to be gone for so long that we began to wonder what had happened to him. We lingered under the tree, taking our time enjoying the breeze, when suddenly he came hurrying through the tall grasses, grinning widely.
When he saw his mates, his grin turned into laughter. Interested in anything amusing, we pushed for information, but he couldn’t reveal his story for laughing. Finally he choked out, “There I was doing my business when I heard footsteps. I used the signal to alert the intruder that I was occupied in a private matter. Imagine my shock when the intruder picked up speed, coming directly at me. I kept making the signal, ‘Huh, hum, huh, hum,’ but nothing stopped the approach.
“I was frantic, for I was not in a proper position to be seen!”
By this time we were all laughing.
“All of a sudden, a tall man appeared in front of me! He placed his hand on my shoulder and looked down at my squatting figure to ask, ‘Are you all right, my friend? I heard some very strange noises that so worried me that I had to come and make certain the man behind the noise was okay.’”
The soldier fell over laughing, “All I could do was grunt some more! What was I to do? There I was with my drawers around my ankles, squatting miserably, having a conversation!”
By this time a huge circle of fighters had gathered, and for some reason that story struck everyone as hilarious. No one could speak. Tears of laughter were streaming down the hardened faces of every fighter.
While my life was bleak in so many ways, I tried to console myself with the thought that I was better off than many others. At least I was not living the life of a disabled child in a country racked with civil war. Poor Afghans had no manner of properly handling a handicapped or mentally deficient child. Some of the soldiers had seen cases where the mentally challenged were shackled like dogs, with heavy chains linking them to a tree or to a chair.
In fact, there was one such boy I identified with, for we were of the same age. He lived in chains in a village near our compound in Kandahar. Over the years he had become adept at escaping. After breaking out of his restraints, he would sometimes make his way to our compound. One day a security guard saw a male figure approaching, and shouted, “Stop! Identify yourself!”
Unable to understand, the poor boy ambled along, following the sound of the human voice. Convinced that a suicide bomber was coming for the compound, the guard began firing above the boy’s head. The boy kept rambling forward, undeterred by the gunfire.
Finally the guard got a good view and saw that the visitor was the poor chained boy of the village. Other guards, who had rushed to the front gate at the sound of gunfire, hurried to collect the boy and return him to his life in chains.
As time passed, I noticed that my father had bouts of sadness, though he failed to