Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [99]
There had been a number of unpleasant incidents involving the ritual of washing. One day in Tora Bora, when I was serving tea to my father and some of his friends, he reminded me of one of the most mortifying moments in my young life.
“Omar, do you remember the time when we were with that Egyptian general from the Russian war? I had fought with him here in Afghanistan.”
My face turned red with the humiliating memory. We had been living in Khartoum at the time, and my father had ordered me to bring water for washing. Since the general was his honored guest, my father instructed, “First you must wash the hands of our visitor, Omar.”
I bent down on one knee to do as my father ordered, but the general had other ideas, refusing the courtesy. He pulled away, saying, “I only want the jug. I will wash myself.” I was young and didn’t know what to do but to obey any adult giving orders, so I passed him the jug.
At the precise moment of the handover my father saw the general take the container in his hands, completely misinterpreting what was happening. Without asking what was going on, my father began to scream threats and insults, “Do you want me to beat you with my stick? Why do you embarrass me? How dare you expect the general to wash your hands! Why should he wash your hands? You are nobody!”
My father was so angry that spit spewed from his mouth. He seized the jug and personally washed the hands of the general, who had grown very quiet.
I had anticipated a severe beating when the general departed, but for once my father did not turn to violence. I assumed that my father had become so busy with his affairs that he had forgotten about the incident.
Now, several years later, I squirmed with disgrace as he recounted the story to his friends in every detail, shaming me in front of men I had come to know. At the end, he looked at me with approval, “You have learned much since then, my son.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. My father was still unaware of what had actually occurred on that day, that the general had been the one to take the jug out of my hands. But I didn’t bother explaining, for I had learned long ago that once my father made up his mind, facts would not change it. If one disagreed, his anger could spark in only a second. Who wanted to incur his wrath?
I did my best to make his life easier. I prepared his tea in the way he liked it, boiling hot but weak, with two spoons of sugar, always poured in a small glass. I don’t remember my father ever requesting coffee; his favored drink was tea, or at times honey in hot water, which he claimed had healing properties for the mind and body. My father scorned all soft drinks and would not allow ice to be put in any drink. He actually detested cold liquids and if some unknowing person presented him with a cold drink, he would let it sit until it naturally warmed.
He confessed that he was missing his favorite drink, which he had often prepared while living in Sudan. Dried sultanas would be placed in a large jug, which would then be filled to the top with water. Left overnight, the sultanas and water would mix, leaving a very healthy grape juice that he would drink during the following day.
His food of choice was fruit and he looked forward to the mango season. He was a bread eater, but only ate enough to fill his stomach. He was not particularly fond of meat dishes, but preferred lamb above chicken and beef, all served over a plate of rice. Truthfully, my father cared little what was put before him, and often said he only ate enough to sustain strength. I can say that he spoke the truth.
My father kept two items with him at all times, his walking cane and his Kalashnikov. He demanded that other favored items be within easy reach: his prayer beads, a small copy of the holy Koran, a radio that picked up stations from Europe, including his preferred station, the BBC, and lastly, a small Dictaphone. Back in Khartoum my father had begun a habit of recording many of his thoughts and plans.