Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [161]
He looked at us with anticipation shining in his eyes.
For once we did not keep our eyes on the ground, but stared at our father, although no one spoke. As for me, I was too shocked to cry out the words that were on the tip of my tongue.
Although our father did not tell us that we must add our names to the martyr’s list, he implied by his words and his expectant face that this would make him very happy.
No one moved a muscle.
My father repeated what he had said. “My Sons, there is a paper on the wall of the mosque. This paper is for men who volunteer to be suicide bombers. Those who want to give their lives for Islam must add their names to the list.”
That’s when one of my youngest brothers, one too young to comprehend the concept of life and death, got to his feet, nodded reverently in my father’s direction, and ran off into the mosque. That small boy was going to volunteer to be a suicide bomber.
I was furious, finally finding my voice. “My Father, how can you ask this of your sons?”
Over the past few months, my father had become increasingly unhappy with me. I was turning out to be a disappointment, a son who did not want the mantle of power, who wanted peace, not war. He stared at me with evident hostility, gesturing with his hands. “Omar, this is what you need to know, my son. You hold no more of a place in my heart than any other man or boy in the entire country.” He glanced at my brothers. “This is true for all of my sons.”
My father’s proclamation had been given: His love for his sons did not sink further than the outer layer of his flesh. His heart remained untouched by a father’s love.
Such a truth caused no small pain to me. I finally knew exactly where I stood. My father hated his enemies more than he loved his sons. That’s the moment that I felt I would be a fool to waste another moment of my life.
I knew then that I was leaving, and leaving soon. When I did, I would not give my father any more thought than he gave me. My only challenge was how to get my mother and her children out with me.
My brothers and I slowly walked away, with only the smallest boy having given my father’s Jihadi pride a boost.
I waited a few more days until my father was walking from one building to another. I had been lurking in the background, trying to find a time that I could at least be near to his side without five or six men between us.
Although he refused to acknowledge me, I spoke. “My Father, I am worried about my mother’s health. She has come to a dangerous age for having children. Will you allow me to take her to her mother? Perhaps she will be safe there.”
My father did not answer, although he took a quick look at my face. I knew from that look that his father’s love for me had weakened to a dangerous point.
Nevertheless nothing would stop me. I was becoming obsessed, the same as a few years back when I had harassed my father about the unwanted violence surrounding my life.
And so the following day, I made the same appeal.
My pleas were always the same, asking to take my mother to a better place for her delivery. I made sure I spoke to him at least once a day, sometimes twice, always in the presence of his men, for I could never find an opportunity for a private session.
After ten days of stalking my father, he sent one of his men to get me. I followed the man warily, wondering if my father was so fed up with me that he might have me locked up.
When I entered his office, I was met without affection, yet my argument had touched a nerve. “Yes, Omar,” he finally said, “your mother can travel to Syria for the birth of this child.” He gave me an unpleasant look, a final chance for me to change my mind.
“Yes, my Father. I will take her.”
He threw both hands up in the air. “Remember Omar, this is between you and your God.”
In other words, my father believed that by leaving him I was not being true to my faith. I repeated, “Yes, my Father. This is between me and my God. I will take her.”
My father sighed, then called for one of his men to give him