Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [90]
Through the haze, I overheard Mullah Nourallah tell my father, “Of course, you will stay in one of my homes. After you have settled in, you are welcome to the palace.” He explained, “The government owns the old palace in Jalalabad, once the home of the former royal family.”
A palace sounded promising.
After observing other homes and businesses in Jalalabad, I was happily surprised when our driver pulled our car into the drive of the villa belonging to Mullah Nourallah. It was beautiful. Who would have expected such luxury in the midst of worn-out Jalalabad? The villa was painted a bright white and much larger than I had expected. We piled out of the truck for Mullah Nourallah to escort us inside.
The interior was spacious, with twenty-five rooms, and every room clean and attractive. I was hoping for a bedroom of my own, for I have always been a loner and, with so many brothers, rarely had the opportunity for privacy. Those hopes were dashed when my father agreed with Mullah Nourallah that until they learned of any possible dangers to my father, we would all be sleeping in the basement, which was cold and dark.
Mullah Nourallah’s men arranged for two single beds to be set up in the basement room that I was to share with my father, along with a small bathroom. My father’s men slept in nearby rooms in the same dark area. A cook was arranged to prepare our meals. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to hear my father give instructions for the simplest, blandest meals.
Although I was eager to explore the city, security concerns required my father and me, along with his men, to remain voluntary prisoners in the villa or walled garden for two weeks. Despite our isolation, Mullah Nourallah extended that famous Afghan hospitality, checking on us daily and trying to convince my father to accept lavish meals. But my father never did, of course.
In word and deed Mullah Nourallah never ceased showing his great affection for my father. Their days of war had created bonds impossible to break. Their conversations also created a better understanding of my father’s former life.
My father obviously felt exceptionally close to Mullah Nourallah, opening up more completely than I had ever seen. He spoke briefly about his obligatory departure from Sudan, confiding in a disheartened tone that he had poured all his resources and energy into projects that benefited the country and the Sudanese people. For the first time I heard him confess his worries. “My friend, I am apprehensive about my future. I have lost much. I have a large family. I have many followers, with wives and children also. All depend upon me.”
It didn’t take a genius to know that with three wives and many children, combined with his religious and political activities, my father required vast sums of money. Yet I had never given much thought to my father’s problems, mainly because I found it difficult to get past my personal struggles.
Mullah Nourallah swore his loyalty to my father. “Osama, you are the only non-Afghan who has remained loyal to Afghanistan for all the long years of troubles.” He paused to smile, “Let your worries fly away with the wind, Osama. You have a home in Afghanistan for the rest of your life. After you go to paradise, all the members of your family can count Afghanistan as their home. I guarantee your safety, and the safety of your family and followers. You are free to remain in the palace as long as needed.”
To show his respect and affection, Mullah Nourallah then presented my father with a very large tract of land in the city of Jalalabad, suggesting, “Here is land that I want you to have. Build yourself a compound. Bring your family and friends to this