Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [153]
Mullah Omar remained quiet for a very long time, his face thoughtful. When he finally answered, he spoke at great length. I cannot remember his exact words, but he carefully detailed the pros and cons of my father’s continued presence in Afghanistan.
Just as instinct whispered to us that Mullah Omar’s next words would be for my father to leave, my father ever so lightly touched a Muslim nerve, saying, “Sheik, if you give in to the pressure of infidel governments, your decision will be against Islam.”
Mullah Omar, who was known for his total devotion to Islam, gave a little twitch. He would be hesitant to go against Islamic teachings. He paused.
In that moment Mullah Omar chose his religion above all, above the good of his country and the well-being of the world. He nodded.
“Sheik Osama, I will fulfill your request. I will give you the same courtesy as the Sudanese government did. You have my invitation for another year and a half. During that year and a half, make arrangements for your move. Find another country for your family.”
My father was saved once again, because he had outwitted Mullah Omar. Once he realized that the mullah was going to expel him despite his loyalty to the Taliban, my father had ever so carefully chosen the perfect words to change his mind, at least temporarily. No good Muslim would ever bend to the infidel’s will over the good of a Muslim, even if the infidel was in the right and the Muslim was in the wrong.
My father was a brilliant man in many ways.
Few onlookers realized exactly what had transpired, knowing only that all was well. A celebratory mood spread through the crowd of men.
When my father called for the food to be displayed, many men began bringing whole sheep on platters, with rice and vegetables. Although our food supplies were low, somehow my father and his men had managed to put on a huge feast. As is our Arab way, my father ordered the servers to present the choicest pieces to the Taliban leader.
But we were in for a final shock. Mullah Omar stung my father with a parting insult, brusquely declaring that he was not hungry. With that, the leader of the Taliban marched away, without speaking a word of farewell to my father. The large number of men with their big guns jumped into their assigned vehicles. Mullah Omar’s caravan quickly left.
Many of my father’s men exchanged baffled glances, for such an insult could bring about a tribal war in our culture. Yet there was nothing to do but to accept his disrespectful behavior. Mullah Omar was the most powerful man in all of Afghanistan. He controlled most of Afghanistan, and his men, the harsh Taliban soldiers, brought fear into nearly every heart. Despite the strength of my father’s al-Qaeda organization, he could not afford to get into a battle with the Taliban. He would lose, and he knew it.
Although humbled by the day’s events, my father was relieved that he had some time to work out the details of his future. When he had been expelled from Sudan, he had only a few months to organize. Now he had over a year to make his plans. Anything could happen in a year. Refusing to eat, he retired to meet with his top lieutenants. My brothers and I went to our mother’s home to be certain that the women and children received a share of the feast. It was rare for us to have such delicious food on our table.
I admit to a feeling of pride that my father had saved the day yet again, although I also thought that nothing would have been better for me personally than for the mullah to force my father’s departure within the hour. Either way, I know now that nothing would have stopped my father from his Jihad. If he could not remain in Afghanistan, he would go to Pakistan. If Pakistan removed the welcome mat, he would go to Yemen. If Yemen threw him out, he would journey to the middle of the most hostile desert where he would plot against the West. Violent Jihad was my father’s life; nothing else really mattered. Nothing.
My only hope was that Mullah Omar