Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [162]
“And the children? Can my mother take her youngest children with her?”
My father sat silently, then gave a limited permission. “She can take Rukhaiya. And Abdul Rahman.”
Rukhaiya was only two years old, so that was not a surprise. And Abdul Rahman needed to be with his mother. But there were others who required our mother too.
“Iman? Ladin?” Iman was still a young girl, only nine years old, and Ladin was only five, although soon to turn six. Both children were timid, afraid to be without their mother. I did not want to leave them, because once I had my mother out of Afghanistan, I had hopes of convincing her not to return.
My father was too cunning, for he knew that my mother could not bear to part permanently from Iman and Ladin. “No. Iman and Bakr [as my father called Ladin] must stay with me. Only Rukhaiya and Abdul Rahman. No more.”
I started to speak again, to plead for those little children, but he held up one hand. “No. You know better than to question me. Do not ask me again. Only Rukhaiya and Abdul Rahman.”
I nodded. I had done what I could. I would worry about the other children later. For now, I would get my mother to safety.
After gaining his approval, I moved rapidly, rushing home to tell my mother that we were leaving soon. Although she had never expressed a desire to leave, I saw the relief wash over her face, though she became sad when I told her that Iman and Ladin would have to stay behind.
But I couldn’t think about that at the moment.
We were leaving Afghanistan.
Bitterness accompanied the pleasure. When my mother and I told Iman and Ladin that she must go away for a while, both became nervous and frightened. After some explaining, little Iman accepted her fate passively, for she was accustomed to doing what others told her, but Ladin was a different story. He wept pitifully, inconsolable that his mother was going away without him. Even the thought of a new baby sister or brother did nothing to ease his anguish.
I was plagued by the idea of the big plan Abu Haadi had warned me about. I prayed that the plan would be canceled, or at least postponed until I could arrange to retrieve Iman and Ladin.
The day we departed was nerve-racking. Ladin was continuing his campaign to go with us. Finally he broke down altogether, crying noisily, following my every step, tugging on my trousers, pleading, “Brother, take me. Brother, take me.”
It crossed my mind to grab Ladin when no one was looking, to whisper for him to be very quiet, to hide him under the bedding in the back of the vehicle, but I never had the chance. My father and his men were watching, their eyes as keen as hawks, missing nothing. Besides, my father had decided that my sister Fatima and her new husband Mohammed were going with us to the border of Pakistan.
Truthfully, I was pleased. The road was dangerous; Afghanistan had more than its share of bandits, but they might think twice before attacking three armed men.
I called out to my mother that the time had come to leave. She slowly walked toward me, with Fatima by her side. My sister was holding little Rukhaiya in her arms. I would be the first to drive, so I settled in behind the wheel. Mohammed and Abdul Rahman sat in the front, while my mother and the girls got into the back.
That’s when I saw my father walking up to the vehicle. My heart skipped a few beats, worried that he had changed his mind. But he was only there to say goodbye to my mother. They exchanged some quiet words that I did not hear.
I felt no sadness at leaving my father, for I had begun to defy him years before. The tragedy for me was leaving Ladin and Iman behind. Abandoning my small siblings to an unknown fate was the most difficult thing I have done in my life.
As I drove away from my father and the violence of his life, I took one final look at his tall figure, disappearing into the distance. That’s when I knew that I was not leaving Afghanistan