The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  I actually enjoy my talks with Jamal; they take my mind off things; we speak about football, surfing, driving cars and Australia. He seems like a kid caught up in a bad crowd. When he explains that the occupying forces have killed his entire family, I feel sorry for him, and ask him what he wants to do with his life. His aspirations are like those of anyone his age: he wants to go abroad – to India – to study IT then come back and start his own business, to get married and have children.

  He says to me at one point, ‘I don’t want to be a soldier, I don’t like being a soldier; I want to go to university.’

  Abdullah, on the other hand, seems past the point of no return. He’s filled with anger and hatred, constantly talking about slaying infidels and fighting Jihad. His parents have also lost their lives in the war, and he seems driven by revenge. Abdullah tells us in great detail how he has killed Ethiopian soldiers – he’s like a schoolboy boasting about getting laid. Sure, he’s probably all talk but he still scares me.

  Jamal is a good ally; one of his duties is going to the market to buy our food, and we ask him to buy us cigarettes. While telling us that they are bad for our health, he sneaks them in, our little secret. In the first week the two of us bond. Even though we are captor and hostage, he shows me some respect.

  The stress is starting to wear. But Amanda and I are sure there’s a mountain of people working behind the scenes back in our countries, trying to do everything they can to get us out of here alive.

  2006–AUGUST 2008

  Into Africa

  Nigel

  The Filthy House

  In our first week of being held captive I spend a lot of time thinking about how I ended up in such a mess. The idea of going to a conflict zone to take photographs had been kicking around for a while, and Amanda and I talked about Somalia when we first met in 2006 in Ethiopia. Amanda was backpacking her way through East Africa and I was on a photography assignment for the International Rescue Committee. We hit it off from the moment we met and ended up having an affair. I guess I was running away from responsibilities at the time, having had a major meltdown with my then-wife before I left England for Ethiopia.

  We kept in contact over the next six months and Amanda eventually came to Australia for a short visit in early 2007. The relationship fizzled out when she moved to Afghanistan to kickstart her career in journalism – she wanted me to join her but I was helping to build a retirement house for my parents. I was also working as a photojournalist for the local newspaper and didn’t want to leave.

  We kept in touch sporadically over the year, and just before Christmas 2007 she called to say she was moving to Baghdad to work for Press TV. I was surprised as she had no formal training, but I knew she was passionate about getting into the industry and loved a challenge.

  By the start of 2008 I was living in Scotland with my new girlfriend, AJ, an executive chef on a shooting estate on the west coast near Dunoon. It was a beautiful part of the world but I began to feel very isolated. Cracks started appearing in the relationship. It felt like I was just treading water, not doing what I truly wanted.

  I had been drawn to war photography when I was studying photojournalism at Griffith University in Brisbane, and I’d always been a devotee of Four Corners, Foreign Correspondent and Time magazine. For me, it wasn’t the adrenaline rush; I wanted to capture the futility of war and what happens to the innocents who are caught in the crossfire.

  I was planning to come home in September 2008 because I’d been asked to photograph the weddings of two very close friends, and I was looking forward to catching up with the family. I already knew I wouldn’t be going back to Scotland after this visit home. I was planning to base myself in either India or China, where I’d start the hard graft of trying to make it as a freelance journalist.

  Amanda contacted me again in July, wondering what I was up to. We talked about what she was doing in Iraq and it sounded like she had fallen on her feet – she was now working for France 24 as their freelance Baghdad correspondent. Of course I was happy for her, but I had a slight twinge of jealously. When Amanda suggested I come to Iraq to cover some stories with her, I began to think about it seriously.

  Over the next week we talked several times about the prospect of me going to Baghdad, but in the end I couldn’t afford the huge cost. Paying for security was going to be the killer; I knew this was essential when working in a war-ravaged country. I decided to drop the idea, to Amanda’s disappointment.

  It was no longer than a week after this that Amanda contacted me again, suggesting a trip into Africa, and that piqued my interest. She was thinking of going to Kenya, Ethiopia and Somalia. I knew the first two countries were relatively safe but the third was a different story.

  Somalia is one of the most dangerous countries in the world. Anarchy has basically reigned there unchecked since January 1991, when Mohamed Siad Barre’s government fell. After that, Somalia imploded with civil war as clans fought to gain control and usurp what little government there was left.

  The Islam Courts Union is made up of the heads of the major clans, and they formed a government. This was a time of relative peace under Sharia law. Western countries didn’t like the situation, however, and the American government destabilised the Shariaruled government. With the downfall of the ruling Islam Courts Union in 1996, the power of a group known as Al-Shabaab (‘the youth’) rose, creating havoc for the African Union troops trying to support the Transitional Federal Government of Somalia, which was backed heavily from Ethiopia.

  Amanda and I discussed at length the cost of going for three or four weeks and exactly what would be required to get in and out of Somalia safely. I started researching all three countries.

  Kenya was still recovering after the election riots in early 2008, and I wanted to not only focus on this but also to photograph the slums in Nairobi, the capital. Ethiopia was by far the safest option; the drought in the southern part of the country was causing massive problems for aid organisations dealing with children suffering from malnutrition.

  In Somalia the drought and food crisis was just part of the story – the war that was ravaging Mogadishu was by far the bigger one. Most NGOs had pulled out of the country due to serious threats to the safety of their staff. I was well aware that being a western journalist would put me in an extremely vulnerable position and that there was the threat of kidnapping – and being killed. We were going to need good security and a fixer we could trust.

  Amanda and I decided to spend up to ten days in Somalia. Any longer than that and we would be pushing our luck. It was going to cost a pretty penny just for this leg of the trip and I questioned whether the money would be worth it, but sometimes in life you have to overcome your fear and let go of the rope. I had always landed on my feet and I didn’t think this time would be any different.

  I rang Mum, telling her I was thinking about going to Kenya, leaving out the Somalia bit because I knew she’d freak out. I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. It was exciting to finally book my plane tickets: I would be flying out of London on 16 August and into Nairobi the same day to meet Amanda.

  In retrospect it was unsurprising that AJ didn’t share my enthusiasm, and we had a massive argument as she dropped me at the airport. She accused me of not going for work purposes but for a fling. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was curious to see if there was still something between Amanda and me, but I also thought I was doing the right thing in terms of my career.

  Nairobi

  Saturday, 16 August

  Amanda met me at the airport in Nairobi. It was great to see her after so long. At twenty-seven, she was as beautiful as I remembered, and we were both excited about the possibilities ahead of us. We drove to a hotel in town where I dumped my stuff, and headed straight back out to celebrate with a few drinks. It felt amazing to be back in Africa – to experience the vibrancy, colour, sounds and smells that all developing nations seem to have; life at its rawest. The place felt so alive. We found a seedy lit
tle bar and sat out on the balcony, just watching people go about their day.

  We got quite drunk, catching up on what the other had been doing. We met a guy called Rich from South Carolina, with the quintessential southern accent, who was working as a doctor for Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF).

  My ears pricked up as he explained that he was working in one of the smaller slums in Nairobi. I asked if I could come to photograph the work he was doing at his clinic. He seemed genuinely happy to help me and thought that it wouldn’t be a problem with his organisation. I couldn’t believe my luck – everything seemed to be falling into place.

  We kicked on till 1 a.m., drinking beer and slamming tequila shots before making our way back to the hotel. The karaoke bar across the road made it impossible to sleep, the music blaring and the singing atrocious.

  Amanda and I decided to slip across the road for a few nightcaps, and, pretty smashed by this point, we did a rendition of George Michael’s ‘Faith’.

  We were both still in stitches when we finally fell into our beds.

  Sunday, 17 August

  I woke up feeling like I’d been kicked by a mule.

  We spent the day wandering around the city. It being a Sunday, the place was a ghost town. We ended up at the beautiful old Sarova Stanley Hotel in the city centre, where we bumped into Rich again and organised to go to dinner that night at a well-known Italian restaurant, Trattoria, just around the corner.

  That night Rich told me he had spoken with MSF to arrange everything for when I got back from Mogadishu. We were all in good spirits and again ended the night on the balcony of a bar in the downtown area.

  Monday, 18 August

  I spent the morning organising my visa to get into Somalia. I needed a letter of support from a media organisation and I ended up knocking one off. I used a logo from a website and typed up a letter saying that I was an employee on assignment covering a story in Somalia. I got Amanda to forge the signature, not wanting to do it myself in case it looked too much like my writing.

  We headed off to the Somali consulate, nervous about how long it would take them to process the visa application – we were due to fly to Mogadishu in two days’ time. Amanda and I persuaded the woman processing it to push it through by the next day.

  I ran into a major problem later that afternoon; I couldn’t change any of my Scottish pounds. Every money changer I went to treated it like Monopoly money. I had close to a thousand pounds of the stuff and I realised I was going to have to call the old girl. I had to do a cash advance on my credit card to cover the costs for Somalia.

  I called Mum, told her the situation and she was happy to help. I didn’t mention Somalia to her then either.

  Tuesday, 19 August

  I returned to the consulate. My lucky streak continued: they had processed my visa, so all that was left to do was purchase the plane tickets to Mogadishu. Amanda had booked seats for both of us on Daallo Airlines.

  We arrived at the airline office to be informed that the booking had been cancelled as the tickets were due to be paid for the day before. Amanda tried to argue the point but the guy politely informed her that the flight was now completely booked. Maybe the universe was trying to tell us something. I was beginning to feel nervous about the trip: I had told virtually no one what I had planned and suddenly the whole thing seemed a little rushed.

  Amanda threw around some ideas. Maybe we could go to Ethiopia, head down south to cover the drought then enter Somalia via Hargeisa in Somaliland. I didn’t like that plan; it’d blow my budget. I was more than happy to wait for next week’s flight and spend the extra time in Nairobi photographing Rich’s clinic. But Amanda went back to the airline office to ask them to double-check if there were seats available. After several minutes, the assistant said that now there were in fact two seats free.

  We took the tickets and later that afternoon Amanda contacted our fixer, Ajoos, in Mogadishu to confirm that everything was set for our arrival. That night we celebrated, going to Trattoria again because we knew the food in Somalia would be pretty basic. My worries vanished and both of us were excited that we would be in Mogadishu by noon the next day.

  Mogadishu

  Wednesday, 20 August

  It was an early start, arriving at Nairobi International Airport around five in the morning. Fate nearly intervened again – we were daydreaming and almost missed the flight, making it to the gate just before it closed.

  From the tarmac, the plane looked like a second-hand Aeroflot rust bucket. Suddenly I was more nervous about getting on the plane than reaching our destination. The inside looked more like that of a local bus; we were certainly flying African style, with broken seats and a toilet door that could only be opened from the outside.

  I tried to get some sleep while Amanda talked to an Italian contractor en route to Hargeisa, and I heard him say that we would have to be very careful in Mogadishu. As we descended, I got my first look at the city and the beautiful coastline bordering it, the scars of the last seventeen years clearly visible. Coming through customs, I had to laugh at the entry card – it had a large space for declaring weapons. We had just walked into the Wild West.

  The arrivals lounge was absolute chaos, and I felt like an alien as I watched AMISOM (African Union Mission in Somalia) troops walking around with massive machine-guns in hand. We were met by Abdifatah Elmi, who would be Amanda’s cameraman while we were in the country. He would also work as our sub-fixer while Ajoos was working with the National Geographic team.

  Before we’d left the airport, a guy tried to bribe us for an entry visa, which we fobbed off but took as a good indication that money is the main language here. We were met at the car by the driver and our security detail, both packing AK47s, before making the short trip to our hotel.

  Hotel Shamo was a nice enough place considering we were in Mogadishu; the staff were friendly and we met the owner, who was kind enough to allow us to share a room. This would save us $125 a night, but I knew he was uncomfortable about it. He asked if we would tell the staff we were married so they wouldn’t be offended.

  We spent the afternoon at the United Nations World Food Programme, making contacts and organising our plan for the next day, then drove around the port area of Mogadishu. It was easy to see that it had once been a magnificent city. We headed back to the hotel before the 5 p.m. curfew – it wasn’t safe on the street after that. There we met with Ajoos, Robert Draper and Pascal Maître from National Geographic.

  Ajoos seemed a bit aloof and quickly pointed out it would be impossible to cover some of the things we wanted to as the fighting in Mogadishu had kicked up a notch. This seemed fair enough but it was hard work getting information out of him.

  That first night Amanda and I were unable to sleep so we went up to the top of the hotel to have a cigarette. It was beautiful up there. It is one of the most dangerous places in the world yet from the roof of the hotel it all seemed so tranquil. It was a city asleep, no sounds of war.

  Thursday, 21-Friday, 22 August

  Over the next two days we spent time in different areas of Mogadishu. I photographed Ugandan troops, as well as a number of IDP camps within the city, the Medina Hospital, around Villa Somalia and the port area. It was a struggle to get stuff done; we could only operate between the hours of nine and five, and Ajoos was being uncommunicative.

  By the evening of the twenty-second, both of us were fed up with Ajoos’ lack of information. We felt like we were getting the scraps, and that his attention was firmly focused on the National Geographic team. Amanda asked me to confront him. I was happy enough to do it if it meant getting what I came for, so I met with Ajoos. He seemed detached, as though he wasn’t even listening. I made it clear that he was getting paid well for his time, considering he wasn’t even with us during the day.

  Before returning to the room I sent some emails. The first was a chain email, one of those ones that if you send it to ten people within a certain time frame something good will happen. It’s not somethin
g I would normally do but given where I was, I thought I could do with all the help I could get. I then emailed a mate in Bundaberg, explaining what I was up to but asking him not to tell Mum and Dad. Finally, I emailed my girlfriend in Scotland. I told her that I was sorry for the way things went before I left and that everything had gone smoothly so far.

  When I got back to the room, Amanda suggested we should try to get some booze. She called the owner’s nephew and asked what was available. The choice was whisky or gin but I killed the idea – alcohol and Islam just don’t mix.

  Now, sitting in our filthy room, I wish I’d just had that fucking drink. I didn’t know it then but my luck was just about to run out.

  SEPTEMBER 2008

  Bring Blackie back

  Kellie

  Moore Park

  Monday, 1 September

  Matt meets me at Bundaberg Airport. He looks tired and he hasn’t shaved. Gayle Judd, our family liaison officer, is there too and it’s nice to finally put a face to the name. The three of us walk out to the car; it’s an AFP one, a blue Commodore or something like that, fitted out with all the police gear, lights, sirens and so on. Matt lets me sit in the front so Gayle can give me the run-down on what to expect when I get to the house.

  ‘How is everyone?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘You’ll be a better judge than I am – I’ve just met them, but on the whole they seem pretty good,’ Gayle answers.

  I ask her for all the info they have to date on Nige – what we know, what they know in Nairobi. Gayle starts on a long spiel about Nic training as the next-of-kin (NOK) negotiator, and how the phones are all hooked up to answering machines so that the conversations can be recorded when the hostage takers phone. She explains that the downstairs area has been taken over by the AFP, allowing the family a little bit of normality and privacy upstairs.