He leaves Amanda and me alone. In a wave of panic we discuss what the hell’s going on. She is calm, believing that we are going to be all right – she points out that the room is pink, a good omen as it’s her safe colour. We both have an almost-drunk hysterical moment, laughing as we confirm what’s just happened: Holy shit, we’ve just been kidnapped.
Everything feels warped. The room is dirty and littered with pieces of electrical wire – I wonder if they have been making some sort of bomb in here. Through the open door I can see guys walking around with their guns. We don’t get long to talk before Ali comes back in, demanding to know where Amanda’s mobile phone is. She replies that they took it from her in the car. My phone’s still in my pocket, and for whatever reason he hasn’t asked me about it. I’m too terrified to tell him that I have it and I don’t want to let it go – I might get the chance to use it.
I ask about my camera bag, having not seen it since we were first taken. He brings it back moments later, tossing it at my feet. I open it; they have been rifling through it, but to my surprise the cameras are still there.
Ali then snaps, ‘Passports! Money!’ Amanda opens her bag and hands over $211 in US currency. He then looks at me. ‘You!’
I reply, ‘I don’t have any money on me, only these coins.’
‘Passports!’ he barks again. We explain that they’re at the hotel, along with the rest of our money. I’m quietly thankful that mine isn’t here; its Ethiopian stamp wouldn’t have gone down well in this situation. Ali seems agitated, and zeros in on me.
‘You have phone?’ he asks. I weigh up the odds of getting away with lying before I picture his mate’s AK47. I nod as I pull my mobile from my jeans pocket, kicking myself for not using it sooner to notify someone. Remembering a US$100 bill folded up tightly in my coin pocket, I also hand this over. I’m certain they’ll search us sooner rather than later. He places it in Amanda’s wallet which he throws back into her bag, along with our phones. He keeps these items but strangely leaves us the camera bag.
He then orders Amanda to stand up. He motions for me to close my eyes, before frisking her. She is visibly shaken by having his hands all over her body.
Ali pulls Amanda out of the room and takes her next door. I believe she is about to be raped and I can do nothing to help her. My skin shrinks tight when I hear her scream.
She is brought back into the room several minutes later, shaking. I ask, ‘Are you okay?’
‘He’s just put his hands all over my breasts and down my pants.’ Wiping the tears from her face, she says that he accused her of trying to hide something when she went to the toilet.
Ahmed and Ali come into the room, both carrying weapons. They begin interrogating us: Who are you? What are you doing in Somalia? Are you religious? I stupidly almost tell them that I lean towards Buddhism if anything, but instead we both say that we’re Christian. Ahmed tells us they are not going to hurt us. They are waiting for the arrival of their commanders, who will question us further.
They leave the room and we both start smoking cigarettes like fiends. Ah comes in on a regular basis to survey the room. At one point I see Abdi and our drivers being marched across the dirt courtyard, looking very timid. Soon after, we hear them being shepherded into the room beside ours. I’m so relieved they haven’t been executed, but I don’t really understand why they’ve been abducted as well.
In the afternoon Amanda and I are let outside for about fifteen minutes. We sit under a tree in the middle of the yard, playing noughts and crosses in the dirt, but frankly our thoughts are elsewhere. We reassure ourselves that Ajoos and the Geographic team will certainly know we are missing and contact the appropriate people.
Back in our room, the heat from the tin roof makes it stifling. They won’t open the window in here and when they close the door, it’s like a pressure-cooker.
That evening we’re again granted time outside. We sit on a rattan mat up against the wall, eavesdropping as our guards listen to the BBC Somali service. We hear Amanda’s name mentioned. The realisation dawns on me: my family will soon know about this. Their world is about to be turned upside down.
Later that evening we are confronted by four of them. Ahmed and Ali are joined by a much older man called Yahya, who doesn’t speak much English. He was the guy driving our vehicle when we were first picked up. From his age and bearing, he seems like the elder of the group. The other guy is introduced to us as Adam. He wasn’t part of the team this morning. He’s over six foot tall, speaks with an American accent and is missing a front tooth. I have a sudden flash of the scene from the movie Harlem Nights where Eddie Murphy says to the guy shooting craps, ‘Throw the dice, you snaggle-toothed motherfucker,’ and the thought almost makes me laugh hysterically. Mostly I’m relieved that the commanders have finally turned up so we can explain ourselves and get out of here.
Adam asks the usual questions: our names, where we’re from and what we are doing in Somalia. We explain that we’re journalists and that we were on our way to the IDP camps this morning. He accuses us of being spies and working with the government – he doesn’t identify which one. I suggest they do a simple internet search to see that we’re telling the truth, and then they get up and leave.
Ten minutes later they all file in again, and Adam punches a hole in life as we knew it.
‘Okay, we believe that you are not spies but we are going to hold you for ransom.’
We tell them our governments have treaties that mean they won’t pay ransoms. It’s as though Adam doesn’t even hear. He says, ‘What do you think is a fair ransom for you?’ We plead with them not to go down this path, telling them we are good people. Then the old guy finally says something in Somali.
Adam translates his words: ‘No money, no life.’
There’s a sick, hollow feeling now at the bottom of my stomach. I’ve heard of cases like this in Iraq and Afghanistan. The price on people’s heads is around a million dollars US.
Even so, Amanda and I try to remain optimistic. I have to hand it to her: she is fantastic, teaching me how to light up my chakras, with both of us thinking positively and comforting each other. Amanda suggests we delete our camera memory cards as they have pictures of the Ugandan troops from yesterday’s trip – she’s worried we’ll be seen as collaborators.
Ali has been keeping a watchful eye on us; he’s constantly walking in and out of the room. As I’m unzipping my bag in the dark, he bursts in, demanding to know what I’m doing. Blood pumping, I tell him I’m just making sure everything is in my bag, and he shines his torch around suspiciously before leaving. I manage to get rid of all my image files, but I’m terrified the whole time.
Soon after, sleep rips me away from this nightmare and I don’t care about the filthy mattress or pillow.
Sunday, 24 August
Amanda and I are woken early, surrounded by four of the gang.
Adam is there, demanding our parents’ names and phone numbers. As we scribble them down, he informs us in a businesslike way that there will be a deadline for the ransom payment.
He makes himself very clear: ‘If they do not pay within twenty-four hours, we will kill you.’
I tell him that it’s against the law for our governments to pay a ransom but Adam argues back – governments do it all the time for their citizens. It will fall to our families, and I know they won’t be able to do anything in the time frame. I ask him why they are doing this.
‘Because your governments are at war with Islam; they fight in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan.’ Adam reiterates: ‘If there is no money in twenty-four hours, you will be killed.’ Then they leave.
We have no idea who they are or what price they’ve put on our heads.
Yesterday I’d hoped they might be bluffing, boys playing at being men, but things have escalated beyond that now. It’s difficult to stay positive when someone puts a time limit on your life. To make matters worse Ali starts taunting us.
‘How do you feel? Are you ready to die? If
there is no money, then we will kill you.’ He does this every few hours, counting down: ‘In twenty hours we will kill you.’
Finally Amanda snaps back at him. ‘You may as well kill me now because there’s no money for me. My family don’t have anything and the Canadian government won’t pay a ransom.’
His eyes narrow, a viper about to strike, and he says coldly, Are you prepared to die now? I will kill you now; do you want to die?’
Amanda realises her mistake in being outspoken and quickly back-pedals.
‘I don’t want to die, but this is ridiculous. How do you expect my family to have money here in twenty-four hours? It’s impossible.’
‘If they have no money, you will be killed.’ His grin is callous.
The day drags on. We smoke fags like there’s no tomorrow. Which there may well not be. The deadline draws nearer with nightfall, and the darkness brings with it fear. We both jump when we are again confronted by Adam and his entourage.
Adam informs us that he has spoken with our families and that it is going to take some time to organise the ransom. They are not going to kill us. It’s a relief to hear this but I’m unsure whether I can believe him.
He tells me he has spoken to my sister, Nicky. I can’t imagine how my family is dealing with this – I hadn’t told any of them what my plans were, so to have some complete stranger call them and say, ‘We have kidnapped Nigel in Somalia’ would be a complete headfuck. Guilt chews away at me.
Adam tells us that we’re being taken to another house tonight. I ask where we are going and what they are planning to do with our three colleagues. Adam tells us not worry about them: they’re next door and will be taken care of. He says they want to move us to a place where it will be ‘more comfortable’. His hospitable gesture is beyond me, as I know that what they’re doing is all part of some plan but I have no idea what that plan actually is.
We’re ushered out of the house and into the back of an old station wagon. Amanda is beside me, and we’re hanging onto each other’s hand for dear life; both Adam and Ahmed join us for the ride. We travel through the small streets, the car struggling at times with the sand under its tyres. Eventually we stop in a built-up area. There are tall compound walls that tower over the car. We are ordered out into the middle of the street. My nerves are raw as we are quickly pushed through a small metal gate, across a courtyard and marched into the deserted house.
We’re placed in a small room at the back, and I note with relief that this place has electricity. I survey our new digs. There is a small window on the side wall that looks onto another house; I can see a narrow alleyway running between the two buildings. Off to the side of our room is a tiny bathroom with a toilet and shower. It’s filthy, with cockroaches congregating in the dark corners. In our room two dirty mattresses lean against the wall and there are some mosquito nets lying on the ground. A crystallised fungus is growing 3 feet up the back wall. We position ourselves as far away from it as possible: Amanda against the side wall opposite the window and me next to the wall adjoining the bathroom. We are only a few metres apart.
Adam and Ahmed come in; they seem quite solicitous. This makes me think this new abode will be our jail for the foreseeable future. Adam tells us he will come to talk with us in the morning, then we’re left alone. I feel like I have cheated death.
Later that night I’m relieved to hear Adbi and our drivers being moved into the room next door to ours. They are okay for now. And I’m hoping there’s safety in numbers.
The Filthy House
Sunday, 25 August
In the morning Adam, Ahmed and Ali come to talk with us, and it seems awkwardly civilised. I watch Adam peeling a grapefruit.
‘Everything is okay,’ he says. ‘It will take some time for the ransom. Maybe you will stay here for one or two months.’ This is crushing. I think of the financial ruin and stress my family will face. We go around in the same old circles, with Amanda and I reiterating our governments’ policies on ransoms. I feel like banging my head against the wall; it’d feel more productive.
They talk to us about our religious beliefs and ask for more background about what we do. Amanda explains she has been living in Iraq, working for Press TV and that she was held captive in Sadr City in 2008 but was released after a few hours. Jon, her father, is terminally ill and her mum, Lorinda, has a low-paid job. I tell them I’m self-employed and have no insurance, and that I’ve been living in Scotland with my girlfriend. That my folks are old retired farmers, and are not wealthy; and Nicky and Simon, my sister and brother-in-law, are horticulturists.
After what seems like hours, they ask us if we need anything. We request some basics: bottled water, so we don’t get sick, cigarettes, soap and shampoo – things that will make life more comfortable. We haven’t showered since we were captured, but they’ve been bringing us cans of tuna and some cold pasta.
We’re allowed outside a few times. We sit in the courtyard, checking out our new surrounds. It’s a proper house, with four rooms and a rustic old kitchen leading off the hallway. There’s a small verandah, where the guards all sit. An outside toilet that they use is in the corner of the courtyard. The high perimeter wall is hedged with razor wire.
The Filthy House
Amanda and Nigel’s room
Bathroom
Abdi and the drivers’ room
Kitchen
Verandah
Captain Yahya’s room and weapons hold
Courtyard
There are ten guards hanging around and I recognise some of them from the day before. All of them now have their faces uncovered, apart from Ali. Constantly being watched by a bunch of boys with AK47s strapped to them squashes any pleasure I’d otherwise get from sitting in the sun under the green trees.
We get the first of a series of phone calls. Surrounded by Ahmed, Ali and Yahya, Amanda is handed the phone. She answers some questions before passing it over to me. I press the receiver to my ear, saying, ‘Hello, Nigel Brennan speaking.’ The guy on the other end identifies himself as Gary from the AFP; he’s calling from South Africa but his accent is clearly Australian. Amanda says to Ahmed that he’s from the Associated French Press, assuming that’s what ‘AFP’ stands for. I ask Gary which organisation he is from and he’s replies, ‘the Australian Federal Police’. I’m so relieved that he’s a cop rather than a journalist – it means my government is on the case.
Gary asks if we are all right.
‘Yeah, we’re okay,’ I say. ‘They’re giving us food and water and we have a mosquito net.’
He wraps things up by telling me my family loves me and the government is doing everything they can. Gary then gives Adam his phone number. I tell Ahmed they will have to call Gary back so that the negotiations can begin. I feel calmer after the call, knowing that the wheels have started to turn back in Australia, but most importantly that my family will soon know that I am alive.
Over the coming days they bring us a few things: underpants, toothbrushes and toothpaste and bottles of aftershave and perfume, which seems strange. Amanda and I discuss asking for two English-language Qur’ans. She thinks we might have to convert to get out of this mess. She’s got a point. I tell Ali we want to understand Islam better. At first he seems suspicious. I ask him a few questions about religion to loosen him up. Ali says they believe the Bible and Torah were books of God, but that they had been corrupted by priests and rabbis. After we talk for a while, he gets excited that we’re keen and tells us he will look for English Qur’ans at Bakaara market.
I know I’m in for a religious re-education. I’ll be a complete non-believer pretending to be interested in the faith. This is dangerous territory.
Wednesday, 27 August
Amanda speaks to her mother for the first time, and it feels like a breakthrough. I’m sure that soon I’ll get to speak to one of my family members as well. Amanda assures her mum that we are okay before asking how much the group wants.
Her face drops when she hears the reply. Amanda
turns to Ahmed, stammering, ‘The Canadian government doesn’t pay ransoms and my family are trying to raise the money.’ Before she gets the chance to say anything else to Lorinda, the phone is disconnected.
Amanda tells me the price for our release is US$1.5 million each.
Numb with disbelief, I can’t get my head around how enormous this is. It’s as if they’ve just plucked a figure from the air. Amanda’s family doesn’t have a chance in hell of ever being able to come up with that sort of coin.
I think of my parents’ retirement, how hard they’ve worked all their lives to get to where they are – it’s meant to be a joyous time. They could never scrape together that sum, but I know in my heart they’ll be selling off everything to get me out.
Amanda is a powerhouse in that first week. She does most of the talking when the head guys come to speak with us. She has the greater knowledge of Islam and they seem more accommodating to her than me. I’m happy to let her be our mouthpiece; I’m still struggling to come to terms with what’s happening.
The curiosity of some of the boys works to our advantage. Jamal and Abdullah, two of our younger guys, start asking us questions when they bring in our food and water. They look no older than twenty. Jamal is six foot tall and slender; he’s got a huge bright smile. Abdullah is shorter and stockier, and, like Ali, scared the bejesus out of me from the moment I set eyes on him. He comes in with his face covered but his eyes are intense.
Jamal always speaks with me and Abdullah with Amanda. In fact he seems fixated on her. But both Amanda and I know we have to jump at the chance to build rapport with them, not only so they will see us as human beings, but to better get a handle on what’s going on.
The Price of Life Page 4