Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [96]
I often smile when I read journalists reporting that my father is left-handed, showing their lack of personal knowledge about Osama bin Laden. For the first time I will reveal a truth that my father and his family have carefully guarded for most of his life, for in our culture it is believed that any physical disability weakens a man. My father is right-handed, but he has to make use of his left eye for any task that requires perfect vision. The explanation is simple. When my father was only a young boy, he was happily hammering on some metal when a piece of the metal flew into his right eye. The injury was serious, resulting in a hushed-up trip to London to seek the care of a specialist.
The diagnosis upset everyone. My father’s right eye would never again see clearly. Over the years my father taught himself to conceal the problem, thinking it better for people to believe him to be left-handed rather than allow them to know that his right eye barely functioned. The only reason my father aims his weapon from his left side is because he is virtually blind in his right eye. Perhaps my father will be angry that I have exposed this carefully guarded secret, but it is nothing more than a truth that should hold no shame.
And so it came to be that, unlike my father, I was able to look upon Tora Bora with both eyes. The sheer size and complexity of the vista was more than I could have ever imagined. The dramatic view stretched endlessly, the flamboyant panorama spoiled only by the sight of some ancient mountain houses, fit for nothing more than sheltering livestock. I was hoping to hear my father say that those homes would be dismantled in order to build more suitable accommodation, a lavish mountain home perhaps.
Instead, my father motioned to the primitive dwellings and said, “We will live here, at least until the civil war concludes.”
I sighed, thinking that the war in Afghanistan might last for years. Perhaps I would grow a gray beard on this mountaintop.
My father was suddenly struck with nostalgia about the huts now meant to house women and little children. “Omar, these structures served a great purpose for the brave fighters during the war.”
I said nothing, yet I was wondering how my mother would abide living in such a wild and barren place. Not only was it primitive, but it was a treacherous environment for young children. Directly opposite the homes was a dangerous drop of over three thousand feet. In my mind’s eye I was already envisioning the toddlers in the family tumbling off the mountain.
In shock, I followed my father into the first building, which had a total of six very small rooms. My father announced, “Your mother and your aunties will have two rooms each.”
I grunted, afraid that if I spoke I would be unable to control my growing anger. My father could not always restrain his legendary temper, although he was generally placated by hitting his sons with his cane. Perhaps if I offended him while we were standing so close to a precipice, he might toss me off.
So I kept quiet and feigned interest in the huts. All six rooms were constructed of blocks that had been cut, carved, and rudely shaped from the mountain granite. The flat roofs were made of wood and straw. Most surprising, the windows and doors were empty openings.
My father was attuned to my thinking, pointing with his cane and saying, “We will hang animal hides over the doors and windows.”
Was he serious?
The abandoned structures were littered with the debris of war. There was rotten bedding, empty shell casings, bare tins, yellowed newspapers, cast-off clothing, and plastic containers. Not surprisingly, there was no electricity on the mountain, so we could forget even the convenience of a few