Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [149]
My father continued to take no notice, until I childishly repeated the question over and over, in a rapid, nearly comical manner. “How many men did you kill in the Russian war? How many men did you kill in the Russian war? How many men did you kill in the Russian war?”
I sounded half mad, but was smoldering inside, for once not caring if he punished me. “You must have killed someone, my Father!”
The leaders and fighters surrounding us were so stunned they didn’t speak, but gawked at me as though I was one of the insane, someone to be shunned. No one ever talked to the sheik in such a disrespectful tone, not even one of his own sons.
Exasperated, my father finally turned to me and said in a firm voice, “I did. I am a leader! I gave orders to kill and I killed people myself! I killed so many that I do not know the final figure. Many died at my own hand or on my orders.”
I was not surprised to hear his answer. Wanting more details, I continued like a wound-up toy, unable to stop myself. “My father, my father, when is this killing and war going to stop? You have been at war since before I was born! Why can’t you find another way? Why can’t you sit and talk? Why can’t there be a truce? I hate this fight! This can’t continue!” I even started to moan and groan. “I want to leave this land! I want to live in the real world. Please, can’t I just leave?”
Tough warriors began to shuffle away, not knowing what to do, probably believing that I was in the throes of a mental breakdown, which, in truth, I probably was.
My father kept his cool. “My son! It is your duty to stay by my side. I need my sons with me! I don’t want to discuss this subject again!”
My father left me sitting, but I was burning with discontent and knew that I would never give up until I received permission to leave. Looking back, my actions tell me that indeed I was on the verge of a breakdown. I started lurking in various areas in the Kandahar compound, waiting for my father. If he went into an office, I waited until he came out, then I would leap from my hiding place pleading like a mantra, “I want to leave this place! I must leave this place!”
My father never raised his voice, only repeating what he believed to be best, “No. You must stay. Who will take my place, if not you, Omar? You are my right arm. I need you. You will be my second-in-command.”
“No! I am not a commander, my father. I want to live in a world of peace. I want to be educated. I don’t want to fight. I want to be free.” Remembering friends whose remains were so small they could not be buried, I said, “I don’t want to be killed!”
A few days later when I was walking behind my father, feeling as though I were going to burst as surely as Abu Mohammed’s body had been ripped open by the cruise missile, I began speaking to myself, yet loud enough for him to hear every word.
“I wonder when my father is going to stop this fight? My father! When are you going to stop this war?”
Finally my father had had enough. He whirled around angrily, glowering at me. “Omar! How can you keep asking me this question? Would you ask a Muslim when he was going to stop praying to his God? I will fight until my dying day! I will fight until I breathe my last breath! I will never stop my fight for justice! I will never stop this Jihad!” He turned and walked away as rapidly as he could, saying more loudly than before, “This subject is now closed!”
I had pushed my father to his limit. He would never turn his back on Jihad, even if it meant that everyone he loved, including every wife and every child, was killed because of his actions. To extricate myself from his Jihadi life would require boldness and careful planning.
After causing my father much grief and shame with my unruly behavior, I felt guilty when he was seriously hurt in a riding accident. One day not long after our final heated exchange, my brothers and I, along with a few of my father’s men, including Sakhr, were riding our horses within the Kandahar compound. Our father