Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [83]
But my father was wrong. There were limits to the pressure that even a legitimate government could withstand. In fact, it was an event that had occurred the previous year that would eventually lead to the end of those previously carefree days in Sudan. On June 26, 1995, Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak had been in a motorcade en route to an African summit. They were driving from the airport to the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa when gunmen blocked the motorcade and opened fire on the Egyptian president’s limousine. Two of Mubarak’s bodyguards were killed, but Mubarak’s driver was so skilled that he was able to spin in a circle and speed to the safety of the airport, saving his most famous passenger.
Two of the six assassins were killed in the gun battle. The subsequent investigation took some time, but eventually the investigators traced the assassins directly to the door of Omar Abdel Rahman’s al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya group, the same men who were now living in Sudan and closely associated with my father’s al-Qaeda group. This group had been working to overthrow the Egyptian government for years. They were even responsible for the assassination of Egyptian President Sadat in 1981. In fact, Showqi Islambouli, who was one of the assassins in the Mubarak hit team, was also the brother of Khalid Islambouli, the man who murdered Sadat. Khalid was later tried and executed by firing squad. Showqi, on the other hand, was not captured.
After this assassination attempt, nearly every government in the area joined in the chorus to “do something about Osama bin Laden.” Although it took a year, the pressure mounted until the Sudanese government was standing alone against all its neighbors.
We felt the pressure ourselves, although we were not privy to every detail. For some months before the end of our time in Sudan, our father was noticeably subdued. While he didn’t speak to his sons about his troubles, we witnessed grim-faced Sudanese government officials coming and going. It didn’t take a genius to realize that something big was afoot.
My brothers and I concluded that we would probably be leaving Sudan. A few months previously, our father had startled his older sons by presenting legal documents stating that Abdullah, Abdul Rahman, and Sa’ad would be his signatories, or the sons given the authority to act on his behalf should he be incapacitated.
I was furious not to be included, asking my father, “Why am I not a signatory?” He gave me a hard look but didn’t answer. So there was something else to stew about.
The end came on a miserable late spring day in 1996 when we were all sitting dejectedly in our mother’s apartment. I remember that day as being particularly boring. I felt the prison chains wrapped so tightly that taking an easy breath was difficult. I was becoming increasingly angry about every facet of my life. Our security guards had turned into hawks, their big eyes following our every move as though we were small birds to be devoured. During such times I felt our lives would have been less miserable had we never tasted liberty. I can vouch for the fact that freedom lost is acutely missed.
We were sitting there simmering with despair when our father came in. His face was so glum that for the first time in my life I felt sorry for him. He motioned for us to make a space for him to sit between us. There we sat with our eyes on the floor, for it is a sign of respect in my culture not to stare directly into an elder’s eyes.
He hesitated, then said in his soft voice, “I have something to tell you. I am going away tomorrow.” I glanced up temporarily, to see him looking in my direction. I quickly averted my eyes. He announced, “I am taking my son Omar with me.”
All of us looked at him in bewildered shock, the same questions racing through our minds: Going away? Where? Why? Taking Omar?
My brothers protested, “But why is Omar going?