"Now, Jihad Has Begun"

"Ub jihad shur-u hoe-ah." Now, jihad had begun.

"All Muslims will be all out for jihad," he says. "Inshallah." God willing.

These words don't come from a fringe bearded man with a turban and AK-47 next him, speaking on a video from a cave somewhere in Afghanistan. They come from a man, Khalid Khawaja, who is a friend and longtime advisor to Osama bin Laden. A retired Pakistani Air Force squadron leader, Khawaja fought with the mujahedin beside bin Laden to drive the Soviets from Afghanistan. In July, CBS News quoted him as saying, "America is a very vulnerable country," and that "Your White House is the most vulnerable target. It is very simple to just get it." To the world, he surely looked like just another scary dhari walla, bearded man.

But sitting here in his sweeping Greco-Roman style home with Corinthian columns, gold-gilded bedroom furniture and a poster of a grinning Garfield in his teenage daughter's room, Khawaja and his family can be sure that there are many others in Pakistan who might not take the street in protest Monday but feel the same way. For if you think there is universal support for what appeared to the entire world as harmless-looking green flickers of light on CNN, then peek into the homes of this city. Walk through these streets where the sweet scent of a flower called rath ke rahni, queen of the night, seeps deep into you.

No matter what qualifications come from President Bush or the caveats put on the attacks by Defense Secretary Rumsfeld. And no matter that, as British Prime Minister Tony Blair instructed us Sunday, "Islam is a peaceful and tolerant religion, and the acts of these people are contrary to the teachings of the Koran." The bombings will inevitably seen as an attack by the West against Muslims by many who feel deeply that the Quran teaches that all Muslims are brothers and sisters.

In Khawaja's living room, they sit around the television tucked into a large wooden wall unit, growing quiet as the Al Jazeera videotape of a frail-looking Osama bin Laden is broadcast.

"Allah ap koh muhdath dho," whispers Khawaja's wife Shamama to the screen. May Allah give you help.

The Pakistan government is the first -- and at this point, only -- Muslim country to voice support for the attacks, and reportedly opened its airspace to allow fighter jets to storm overhead. But that's the government. After two weeks of conversations with many from here and neighboring towns, from nokars (servants) washing dishes, to retired military officers, housewives and professionals, it's clear the minority in the streets protesting against any U.S. operation against Afghanistan very much represents a larger constituency. Among them, there is great empathy for the Taliban and Osama bin Laden, and anger and frustration over issues of Western foreign policy -- Israel, Iraq, Palestinians, Kashmir and Bosnia. Most of them aren't going to do anything about it except share their bitterness with their family and friends.

But inside Khawaja's home, there is a sense of faith, anger and mourning, and a need for action. Though the Taliban says that Osama bin Laden is still alive, the sense is that many uncles may very well have died.

"Assalamalaikum," the greetings come gently. Peace be upon you.

"Walaikumsalam," comes my reply. And peace be upon you.

Khawaja's wife glides forward to offer an embrace. Once an aspiring lawyer, she is tall, graceful and eloquent in Urdu and English, as is her husband. She is grim but optimistic about those that died in the first wave of attacks.

"They have become 'shadeeth,'" -- martyrs, she says, pulling her dupatta over the gray hair that gently frames her face. During another rebroadcast of Osama bin Laden's statement, Khawaja slips to the ground in his chilwar kameez. He leans forward on a squat table, with a tissue box lined with red tulips resting on top. His 10-year-old son comes out from the kitchen with a plate of "dhal chawal," lentils and rice, to eat with two spoons. He is a fan of Disney's "The Lion King," he says (the first one, he makes clear, not the sequel). Khawaja's elderly mother, who once taught in a girls' school, sits beside the TV, draped in a white cotton flowered dupatta, a necklace of brown prayer beads, a thuzbi, hanging from her right hand.