Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [50]
Once our home and family were ready, he turned his attention to the farm, stockpiling gas, food, and large trucks there. He had come to the conclusion that our farm would be the best military base, believing that the royal family would call upon his military skills when Saddam attacked.
He even purchased a speedboat to be used if he had to take his family to safety. The boat’s engine was removed and replaced by a more powerful one. Then it was docked at the bin Laden mooring in Jeddah’s harbor. I was taken aback when my father mentioned that he had named the boat in honor of Shafiq al-Madani, a war hero who had died in the Afghan-Russian war.
Certainly Shafiq al-Madani was a champion in my young eyes. I had met the man when my father had taken his family to Pakistan for the summer. I was only eight years old at the time, and as usual, looking for activity. Some of my father’s men were organizing the loading of two trucks with food and other essentials for the training camps in Afghanistan. My brothers and I were thrilled when the men asked us to assist in the loading. I gave a little twitch when I caught a glimpse of a soccer ball in the stack of goods. I wanted that ball for myself. I gathered my courage to ask one of the men, “Are they going to play football at the soldiers’ camp?”
The man answered, “Yes, they will play with it.”
I said, “I don’t think they will,” and then lifted the ball in my hands, hoping to make a quick getaway before he could react.
The man’s voice was stern. “Yes, they will,” he said, snatching the ball from my hands and throwing it back into the truck.
At that time, a man about twenty years old came forward and retrieved the ball, tossing it to me, saying, “Catch!”
I caught it, so excited that I couldn’t restrain my glee.
He smiled. “You keep it. It’s yours.”
I couldn’t believe my good luck. I asked his name and he said, “Shafiq al-Madani.” I never forgot his kindness, and can see his face today if I think about him. He was not very tall, but looked wiry and tough, with short black hair, a thin beard and long sideburns. Yet he had a sparkle in his eye, deriving genuine pleasure from my joy.
A few weeks later I was struck by sadness when my father told me that the man named Shafiq al-Madani had been killed in the war. During a battle, Shafiq and two other men had ventured into the dangerous area between the Russians and the Afghans, and walked directly into a line of tanks and heavy weapons. The three men quickly retreated, but the Russians followed.
Knowing they were outnumbered and escape was impossible, Shafiq volunteered to cover the men as they fled, saying all would die unless one remained behind. The two men protested, but Shafiq insisted. As the men were dashing away, they heard many shots and at the top of the ridge turned back to see Shafiq lying dead, his gun still clasped in his arms.
My father was particularly sad because he remembered a melancholy exchange with the young man only a week before he died. Shafiq said, “Oh Sheik, my one prayer to God is that He not dig a grave for me in Afghanistan. I can die all right, but I don’t want to be buried in the ground.”
My father remembered the young hero when purchasing the boat, wishing that Shafiq could have lived to ride the waves, rather than be buried in a dirt hole in Afghanistan. I admit I had visions of our family making a daring escape from invading Iraqi troops by launching the boat named Shafiq al-Madani.
Perhaps Saudi Arabia would not