Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [150]
A good friend of my father cried out a warning, “Abu Abdullah has gone down!” A few of my father’s closest called my father Abu Abdullah, meaning father of Abdullah.
Everyone reacted quickly, making our horses sprint to get back to him and quickly dismounting. I passed everyone, arriving by his side first, lifting his head, fearing that he had broken his neck. My father did not speak. From his pale, grimacing face, I knew that he was in great pain, but as is his way, he refused to acknowledge any discomfort. Sakhr ran back to his horse, shouting, “I will get a truck,” then disappeared in a flash of hooves.
By this time my father was struggling to stand, refusing to allow anyone to lift or support him. He stood quietly, refusing to answer our questions, until Sakhr rushed back in a red truck and said, “Dr. Zawahiri will meet us at Um Hamza’s home,” meaning Auntie Khairiah’s home, which was nearest to us.
Still refusing assistance, Father eased himself into the truck while Sakhr raced away, zooming off the moment our father was seated. Without wasting a second, we riders mounted our horses and pushed them to gallop at their highest possible speed. Someone thought to grab the reins of Osman’s horse, Sekub, who had escaped unharmed.
We arrived as our father was walking into Auntie Khairiah’s home. Dr. Zawahiri was impatiently urging us to get our father to the nearest bed. Once Father was in Dr. Zawahiri’s care we could do nothing but stand around in shock.
Zawahiri finally reported that in his medical opinion our father had escaped life-threatening injuries, yet he noted, “There is acute pain in the rib cage area,” and recommended X-rays and further investigation. It was decided that one of the drivers most familiar with Pakistan would drive across the border to find the best doctor and bring him back with his medical equipment so that our father could be treated without leaving Kandahar.
The following day a renowned Pakistani surgeon was brought to my father’s side. As Dr. Zawahiri suggested, arrangements had been made to bring the latest medical equipment with him. Soon tests confirmed that my father had broken ribs, as Zawahiri had suspected. As everyone knows, the only treatment for broken ribs is to wait for them to heal. My restless father stayed in bed for one month, with my mother and two aunties caring for his needs, the longest any of my father’s wives had been with him since the early days of their marriages.
My father reacted to the incident with disbelief, having been a skilled horseman since childhood. I remember sitting by his side as he chuckled ironically. “My son, America has been trying to kill me for years now, using the most accurate and deadly weapons available. The mighty United States cannot harm me, while one little horse nearly killed me. Life is very mysterious, my son, very mysterious.”
When he emerged from his recuperation, he looked gaunt and drawn. The injuries and inactivity had depleted his once powerful energy. Many months passed before he fully recovered.
While Sekub was unharmed, none of us wanted to see that horse’s face again. He was presented as a gift to some Afghan whom I did not know personally.
There were many complicated aspects to my father’s life, including his association with the head of the Taliban, Mullah Omar. Afghanistan was such a dangerous place that my father had concerns that Mullah Omar would meet with the same fate as Mullah Nourallah, once again leaving my father without any strong support. No Afghan ever forgot that my father was an Arab not of any Afghan tribe. This fact weakened his position.
While my father