Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [87]
Hatim continued studying his map and compass. The minutes seemed like hours until he finally announced, “We are out of Saudi Arabia.”
My father took one long breath before turning around to address me directly. “My son, I was praying that the Saudis did not know I was on this plane. Had they known I was crossing their territory, they would have ordered their jets to shoot us down. They probably thought a Sudanese diplomat was on board.”
Happy shocks went through my body. Perhaps the most dangerous moments had passed and this day would end safely after all.
The moment we left Saudi Arabia, we passed another body of water, the Arabian Gulf, or the Persian Gulf, named according to whether you are from Saudi Arabia or Iran. I was surprised that our plane began a descent into Shiraz, Iran, for I had never considered Iran as a possible new home. But I soon learned that we were only refueling and our stopover would be brief. As our wheels touched the tarmac, my father instructed, “Omar, the Iranians do not know there are bin Ladens on this plane. Do not speak a word.”
Sure enough, Iranian officials came dashing towards the plane, demanding to climb on board. Our escort, Ibrahim, jumped to his feet and rushed down the steps, meeting the men, blocking their way inside. I could see one of the officials stretching his neck, peering around Ibrahim, who was talking in his silky manner. The pilots never stepped out of their compartment.
My father’s shoulders stiffened. I peered over the seat to see that he had his weapon ready to fire. Sayf Adel and Abu Hafs were both similarly prepared. I looked toward the back of the plane, seeing that all my father’s men were tensed for battle. If those officials came on board, none would hesitate to kill anyone they felt a threat to our journey. I even eased my own weapon in a better position, telling myself there was a possibility of a shootout.
Thankfully there was no need for gunfire, for Ibrahim convinced the Iranian officials that we were merely important businessmen passing through their country. Since we were not going to place our feet on Iranian soil, he told them, a formal inspection was unnecessary. I’m sure Ibrahim pressed a large sum of money into the hands of those men, for soon I heard them chattering and laughing as though they had been friends since childhood.
After there fueling, I was uneasy to learn that Ibrahim would not be continuing on our journey. Although he exchanged no words with me, he and my father said a long farewell and off he went, just as our pilots revved the engines. My father told me that Ibrahim would board a commercial flight back to Khartoum.
I kept my silence, as always.
We were back in the air so soon that not a single member of our travel party had a chance even to stand and stretch our legs. From Iran our plane continued on its mystery course.
A range of mountains soon appeared through my porthole. My father addressed Hatim, a final time, “Do you know our destination now?”
I held my breath, knowing that I would soon know my future home.
“Well,” Hatim said, “we have crossed Iran. We are over Afghanistan.” He spoke with confidence. “I believe that our destination is Afghanistan.”
My father nodded but did not confirm with a yes.
Abu Hafs nodded, too.
Moments later we began our second descent of the day. Finally my father verified, “You are right, Hatim. Our destination is Afghanistan. We will land in Jalalabad.”
I grunted in surprise, taking a fleeting glance at the faces of my father’s fighters. All were impassive because they never questioned my father’s decisions.
I tried to absorb the idea. So! Now we were to live in Afghanistan. I didn’t know what to think, but my stomach fluttered in anticipation. Afghanistan was the country of my father’s warrior years. Since I was a boy, my youthful imagination had been fed by tales of Afghan death struggles in the historic battles of Jaji and Jalalabad. Now I would finally get the opportunity