Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [146]
One proud fighter claimed, “My own children’s footprints could be seen in the sand covering the boxes of dynamite and TNT. Other explosives were hidden under a jungle gym climbing set. My little ones played happily, and I was at ease as well, knowing that God would not let anything happen to our children.”
Those men had risked the lives of tiny children to hide their explosives. Nothing much shocked me after that.
I can’t remember exactly how long we remained at the training camp near Kandahar, but it was long enough to hear that 213 people had been killed in Nairobi and at least a dozen in Dar es Salaam. I listened carefully, and learned that most of the bloodied and dead were African civilians who had been passing by when the bombs exploded. Looking back, I wonder why some of the men didn’t raise a question about all the Muslims killed in Africa.
My father had no regrets about this action, not even about the death of Muslims. If any of his fighters had raised such concerns in the past, he had answered, “We are in a war. If the enemy mounts a wall of civilians in front of government or military offices, they must be killed first. How else will you get to the enemy? Besides, their civilians would be safe if their governments would leave us alone.”
Any facility bearing the American flag was a viable target. If Muslims were killed, then so be it. Besides, my father was of the belief that God decides all things and had it not been the time for those African Muslims to die, they would not have been there when the bombs exploded.
Within a few days my father began to hear news reports that President Clinton might retaliate. He received a few secretive communications over his two-way radios, then met with his head commanders before announcing we would go north, to an area near Kabul.
I worried about the women being left behind at the Kandahar compound, but my father said, “No. They will be safe. Clinton will never strike where there are women and children.”
I was less comfortable about leaving my mother and younger siblings un-protected, but there was nothing I could do. We left the area, driving many hours north through a country that was still in the throes of civil war. Shortly before arriving near Khost and the Farouk training camp, we ran into a street battle between the Taliban and members of the Forse tribe. The fracas had closed the road, so my father stopped the convoy to ask what was going on.
The Taliban commander recognized my father and came to attention. He answered that one of the Forse men had made a crude gesture, sticking his middle finger up at the Taliban group. The insult was so great that the Taliban arrested the gesturing man and beat him with big sticks and the butts of guns, then threw him into an open truck. I knew that the man was being taken away to be executed. The Taliban were experts in executing civilians. Besides, such a thing as execution or violent death had become so common in Afghanistan that few seemed to care. We waited for a short time for the Taliban commander to clear the area, then continued on to the Farouk training camp, one of the more famous camps my father had organized.
Our journey felt like a victory lap. When we arrived, the men at Farouk, who were already thrilled about the bombings in Africa, began celebrating in earnest. Revenge against America was on every tongue. All the years of hearing lectures and watching videos about American brutalities against Muslims had incited such hatred that even one American death was cause for jubilation. This was why the men had joined al-Qaeda in the first place, why they didn’t complain at the long days and nights of training, and why they were willing to risk their lives.
After a few days at Farouk, my father received a highly secret communication, then declared, “Quickly, we must change our location. We will go to Kabul, to a guest house there.” My father rented a number of guest houses in every major city, using them as plush accommodation for special guests