Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [98]
Mohammed Atef was thirteen years older than my father. His hair was dark brown, and he wore a full beard. He was a big man, less than an inch shorter than my very tall father, but slightly more heavily built. I believe that my father loved Mohammed Atef as much as one man can love another. Due to their indestructible friendship, Mohammed became like a favored uncle to my father’s children. Despite what he became later in life, he was always kind to me and later to my brothers.
Mohammed smiled, telling me, “Call me Abu Hafs,” meaning “father of Hafs.”
I politely inquired about his son, and that is when I learned that he had no son. Unlike my father, Abu Hafs said he was content with one wife who had given him several daughters, although he had a deep longing for a son. He said, “Since I know God will bless me with a son one day, I have already selected his name. I might as well take the honored title.” He laughed and after looking to see that my father was not nearby, I laughed with him. Despite the fact I was a teenager and was expected to carry a weapon, my father was still likely to reprimand me for exposing too many teeth when smiling or laughing.
And that is why everyone called Mohammed Atef, Abu Hafs, father of Hafs, honoring him for a son that he never had.
My father was so austere that I often wondered at their friendship, for Mohammed was carefree and quick to crack jokes. My father rarely smiled, and so seldom indulged in idle chatter that I can count the times on one hand. Yet somehow the two men connected, forming the closest friendship of my father’s life.
My father said that I needed responsibilities while on the mountain so I would serve as his personal tea boy. Believe me when I say that I was happy to have responsibilities, for the boredom of life on Tora Bora Mountain evades description. Being by his side for nearly every moment of the day and night gave me a good insight into my father’s true character. For all of my childhood, he had remained a distant figure, too busy to squander time with his children, but in Afghanistan I was the only family member with him, often one of only three or four people he felt he could trust completely. His trust was not misplaced, for although I hated what he did, and what his actions brought to his family, he was still my father. As such, I would never have betrayed him.
Over time, he began to relax and share his habits. Admittedly, I found some pleasure in those times and did all I could to please him.
I remember one afternoon when I washed his feet before prayer. Little did we know that a mullah who lived nearby was on his way for a visit, arriving to observe the rite that was becoming routine. Muslims must wash before every prayer, which is five times each day. One day when he was particularly tired, my father asked me to splash the water upon his feet. From that first time, I took up the custom.
The foot washing displeased the Mullah, who made a big point of telling my father that what I was doing was wrong in the eyes of Allah. No man is below another man. No man should wash another man’s feet, or perform similar subservient acts. The mullah said, “Even if the king of Saudi Arabia comes for a visit, this boy should not wash his feet.”
My father listened quietly, his face flushed with embarrassment, for he had enormous respect for most men of religion and the last thing he wanted was to appear ignorant of God’s commands. My father turned to me, his voice sharp, “Omar, you hear the mullah. He is right.” From that time I was not allowed to wash my father’s feet. I felt angry at the mullah, for the ritual was one of the few times in my