Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [170]
But the trip would be brief. Quickly in, and quickly out.
The journey was so fraught with difficulties that I nearly turned around at the Afghan border. As I waited three weeks to make travel arrangements, I almost convinced myself to forgo the journey. Why should my father have any influence over me? Our emotional ties had been cut long before. Nevertheless, I felt myself pulled against my will.
Perhaps our final goodbye was not final enough.
After the most grueling trip, my eyes once more saw our Kandahar compound.
My mother and siblings leapt with pure joy at my return, wrongly believing that I was back for good. I pulled my mother aside and told her, “My Mother, Grandmother told me that my father had ordered me to return. Do you know anything of this?”
She shook her head. “I have not heard of this command.”
After a pleasant visit, I went to look for my father. Because of my grandmother’s words, I dreaded a dramatic scene.
I searched for a day or two and could not locate him.
Finally, I spotted him going in to wash for prayer. I walked rapidly, not wanting to miss him. “Father,” I said, “I have returned. Grandmother told me that you must see me.”
“My Son,” he replied with an unexpected smile, “there was no need for you to return. You took a dangerous risk for nothing.”
My father turned away and washed his face, hands, and feet, before entering the mosque to say his prayers.
I stood in shock. What had just happened? I had traveled a long distance, over the most dangerous roads, for nothing? Surely my grandmother would not have relayed such a message unless my father had given it to her.
I shook my head, puzzled. I walked away, looking for my friend Abu Haadi.
He was not overjoyed to see me. “Omar! What are you doing in Kandahar?”
I told my friend about my grandmother’s message and my father’s reaction.
Abu Haadi thought for a few minutes, looked around to make certain we were alone, then whispered, “You know your father, Omar. When your grandmother was here for the wedding, your father probably missed you, thinking that he was losing too many of his sons. He most likely had a moment of anger, and expressed his annoyance. By the time you got the message and returned, many other things had come to his mind and his anger was long forgotten.”
Abu Haadi’s explanation was as good as any other, I supposed.
That’s when Abu Haadi reiterated his original warning. “Omar, don’t think of staying here. Go back to your new life. The big plan is still ongoing. It will happen. You need to be far, far away. It is my belief that many of us will die.”
Once again my friend used gestures to explain. “Remember, Omar, past missions were this size,” and he held his hand low to the ground. “The new mission is this size,” and he held his hand as high as he could, over his head.
I was convinced. “But my mother?” I reminded him.
“Try again to convince her to leave. I do not know when the big event will occur, but I believe the time is drawing near.”
I believed Abu Haadi: I must leave, and this time for good.
I did remain for a few weeks, speaking seriously to my mother. This time we did not have a pregnancy on which to hang our appeal. Yet I told her, “My Mother, if you cannot leave with me, you must leave soon. Please ask my father for permission. Perhaps he will give it to you.”
For the first time my mother’s eyes reflected concern. I hoped my warning had penetrated her naive perspective that everything in life would turn out well.
I wanted to see my father one last time, to have a final word with him, to plead with him to send my mother and her children away, but my father was always on the move. There was no opportunity to get close, to have a private conversation. I had never seen my father so occupied, both with visitors and with his own men, even during that very busy summer in 1998 leading up to the bombings in Africa.
I wondered if my father was so industrious because he was in the process of planning the big event Abu Haadi feared.
I said a final goodbye