Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [152]
Despite his mutilation, Mullah Omar looked youthful. The knowledge that he had lost his right eye brought thoughts of my own father, whose right eye, although intact, was basically useless, other than to maintain an attractive appearance. I felt certain that the two men had never discussed their common affliction.
I was surprised that when my father walked towards Mullah Omar, the Taliban leader rudely walked away, not giving my father a chance to greet him in the usual Islamic manner by saying Salam Alaikum, followed by a handshake and the customary kisses on the cheek and embraces. Such greetings are a sign of great respect in my culture.
Some of my father’s men led Mullah Omar and his entourage to the garden next to my mother’s home, the nicest garden in our Kandahar compound. My father and his followers walked behind. Of course, there were no women present.
My brothers and I followed the crowd of men, for as the sons of Osama bin Laden, we had the right. Much to everyone’s surprise, Mullah Omar called out for a western-style chair to be found for him to sit on. A chair left behind by the Russians was found in one of the houses. That is where Mullah Omar sat, indicating that although he would sit high in that chair, everyone else should sit on the ground, including my father. Additionally, Mullah Omar had the chair placed at the opposite side of the garden, ordering his men to sit between him and my father. My father calmly settled himself on a Persian carpet that had been placed on the ground, sitting cross-legged in the Arab style.
This is not a good sign, I thought to myself. The display was surreal, with Mullah Omar perched high on his chair, while my father was a good distance away, sitting low on the ground. The rebuke could not be missed. Mullah Omar was letting my father know that he was nothing to him. His actions also indicated that he was furious.
The insults continued when Mullah Omar failed to address my father directly, instead speaking in the language of his Pashtun tribe, Pashto, using his personal translator to interpret his message into Arabic. My father spoke Pashto fluently, so I did not understand the reason for the disengagement during such an important conversation.
Despite the social snubs, my father sat quietly, respectful and patient, waiting to hear what Mullah Omar had to say. It was a strain to listen to the translated conversation because both men spoke in low voices, Mullah Omar’s voice even softer than my father’s. The similarities between them struck me more and more.
Mullah Omar did not waste words or time, but launched into explaining why he had come out of his habitual seclusion. The Taliban leader was displeased at my father’s militant activities. Concerned only with the internal affairs of Afghanistan, Mullah Omar had no desire to attract interference from the outside world. Already there were rumblings from human rights organizations about the treatment of women under the Taliban.
“The political situation is heated,” Mullah Omar concluded. “It is best if you and your men leave Afghanistan.”
My father’s face remained impassive, even though I knew the last thing he wanted was to be expelled from his sanctuary. He was very slow to respond, choosing his words carefully, then speaking softly at last.
“Sheik, I have spent many years of my life in Afghanistan, from the time I was a young man, fighting for your people. Never once did I forget this country, returning to build a village, even moving my wives, children, and close friends here. Now we are a large group numbering many hundreds of people. How can I move such a large group of people easily? Where would I move them to?”
Mullah Omar repeated, “The time has come for you and your fighters to leave Afghanistan.”
My father paused, and after careful consideration, softly said, “The Sudanese government allowed me to live there for five years. Would you offer me the