‘Nigel! Nigel, how are you?’
‘Fine.’
Relief washes over me. It’s Nige and I can hear him. His voice is nice and clear, so I assume he doesn’t have a split lip from being smacked in the mouth by a semiautomatic or even a plain old fist. I’m starting to tick off my intel points to glean info, whether Amanda and Nige are together and if they’re all right.
‘Is Amanda with you?’
‘Yep, and we’re physically okay, actually okay,’ Oh, good boy, Nige, I think, you’re giving me all the right answers.
‘I just obviously wanted to talk to you or Mum or Dad, probably better to talk to you because if I talk to Mum…’ Nigel’s voice quavers.
‘She’ll go to water,’ I finish the sentence for him. Hell, I have.
Now is the time for reassurance. ‘Nige, we’re doing everything we can to get you home.’
‘Yeah, I know that. I know they’ve asked for, I think it is … I’ve spoken to a guy in Nairobi, he works for the Australian government …’ He’s trying to give as much information as he can. I’m being trained in all these negotiation techniques and Nige is doing it all off his own bat.
‘We spoke to him too.’ Well, I haven’t directly but I am aware that there is an AFP officer over in Nairobi.
‘He sort of said to me that, that Australia’s not paying for a ransom, and I said yes, I’ve explained that to Adam. But Adam has assured us that he doesn’t want money from our families; he’s interested in money from the governments. And then they will let us go.’
‘Okay.’ I feel a wild surge of hope. Then I wonder if that really will be the case.
‘So that’s what we are being told here. Not sure what the government is telling you, and I don’t know what Mum and Dad are doing, whether they are selling whatever they’ve got to get me out of here. But from what I’m being told, they’re not interested in Mum and Dad’s money or the families’ money whatsoever …’
‘This is huge,’ I tell him. ‘Mum and Dad are doing everything they can, okay? And I do understand what you’re saying so be strong. You’ve made that really clear, Nige, what you want and what the kidnappers want.’
‘It’s fine …’ He sounds teary.
I don’t want to upset him and have him fall in a heap. I tell him, ‘Be calm, be strong.’ Then I move off script a little and tell him that AJ is here in Australia. I want to let him know she’s here with us, with the rest of his family. I know it will be important for him to know she is okay. In fact she is right beside me; she came running down the stairs when the action started.
Adam hears that Nige is distressed and he interjects, talking over both of us. ‘Let me ask you, is there a problem?’
Can Adam see if Nige is upset or just hear? Is he there with Nige or not? Adam gets distracted by this ‘girlfriend’ conversation and wants to talk to AJ, but I quickly tell him she’s asleep and get the dialogue back on track. I tell him everything is fine.
Adam continues, ‘We should be friendly after this time, sister. Understand?’
Rightio. Now’s the time to slap on the praise; he’s let me talk to Nige and I want this to keep going. ‘Thank you, Adam. Thanks for looking after Nigel and Amanda.’
Nige says, ‘Yeah.’ He doesn’t have the suck-up down pat like I do.
‘It’s time to call Amanda … this time to call her family …’ Adam is winding us up.
Nige recognises this too. ‘Can I just say… Nic? I’ve actually got plane tickets booked. One is for Swiss Air going to London. I’m not even sure if it matters; it’s Swiss Air. I have a ticket on 1 October, coming back to Australia with Qantas. I know that ticket can be changed. I don’t know what you can do or when we’ll be out of here …’
What? Oh my god, he wants me to change his flight details. He’s kidnapped in Somalia and the tight-arse is fretting about losing money on his tickets. I’m gunna kill him!
‘… just tell Mum and Dad I love them very much. I love you guys; tell Matt and Kel and Ham and Amy …’ Okay, I reassess, I’m not going to kill him.
‘They all love you too,’ I say, starting to tear up myself. We’re both trying to suck it up and not cry, reassuring each other across the massive distance between us.
Nige repeats where the money must come from: ‘I think they have to talk to the AFP because they’re only interested in money from the government. I’m not going to take Mum and Dad’s money away from them; they’ve worked so hard for it,’ he blurts out.
I scramble to think how to keep the conversation going.
‘Nige, is Amanda with you right now? Can we speak to her?’
‘Yeah, I’ll put her on.’
‘Hi, Nicky.’ Nige has passed the phone straight to her.
‘We’re doing everything we can over here to get you home, okay?’
‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ Her voice is starting to waver. ‘Have you been talking to my parents?’
‘We’ve been speaking to your mum and dad.’ This isn’t strictly true, but we need to emphasise that we’re working as a team.
‘Yes, I think it’s better if both families keep in touch with each other about what’s going on,’ Amanda says.
I think she’s got it but go on to tell her, ‘Both the Australians and the Canadians are working on this together.’ The only word I’ve omitted is ‘government’ but I’m sure she can read between the lines. ‘As far as your family and our family are concerned, we’re in this together.’
‘Thank you so much, thank you.’
‘That’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘Chin up.’
‘Thank you, Adam,’ I say, meaning for letting me speak to Amanda, but just as I say it the line is disconnected. And with that, it’s over.
I’m in a pair of boxers and a T-shirt and although I have somehow, somewhere acquired a jumper, I’m still cold. The massive dump of adrenaline is long gone and I’m left feeling fatigued and quivery. I look down at the strategies, the priorities and techniques that are written on a sheet of butcher’s paper sticky-taped to the wall by the phone.
Adrian sees me scanning them. ‘That was a great call; we said just about everything we needed to. We pretty much exhausted all the conversation topics there.’
I like Adrian and I’ve worked really hard at doing so since the QPol removal saga – he’s big and loud and rambunctious and a lot like Ham – and then he says something dumb like that. I wouldn’t have cared if every single thing on the strategy sheet had been said, I’d have stayed on the phone to Nige for hours if given the chance.
We go over the call, recapping what I thought I’d said and what I thought Nige and Amanda had said. I can hardly keep my eyes open.
‘Go to bed,’ Adrian says. ‘We’ll try to decipher it.’
Nigel
The Filthy House
Early September
With September comes the start of Ramadan – the month in which all Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset. This practice of refraining from eating, drinking and sexual intercourse is intended to teach patience, humility and spirituality – all of which are a bit lost on me at the moment.
I’m feeling as defenceless as a baby, unable to do anything to change the circumstances. My head is flooded with images of Daniel Pearl, the American journalist beheaded in Pakistan, and thoughts that my life could end the same way.
At the beginning of the month Ali presents us both with English-language Qur’ans, as we requested. With great excitement he explains how this holy book must be handled – it should never be placed on the floor and always picked up with the right hand. His index finger raised to enforce the point, Ali says, ‘You can ask me anything about the Qur’an that you don’t understand.’ It’s like listening to the school suck-up.
After Ali leaves, we amuse ourselves by mimicking him and his high-pitched voice.
Ahmed has explained that if we convert, they can neither harm us nor take our money. He’s made it very clear that our being non-Muslim means they could very easily take
the ransom money and then kill us anyway. He reiterates this point several times. He tells us that to become Muslim is the best thing we could do, but that it would have to come from our hearts.
Knowing all this, for the next few days I immerse myself in the Qur’an, having never even read the Bible. My state of mind being what it is, it’s like trying to wade through mud. I am shocked by some of the passages, especially those about women and their second-class status. The pages on Jihad and fighting I find just as difficult, but I’m intrigued by the passages that state non-believers have the right to live in peace if they choose not to become Muslim.
When my head isn’t buried in the Qur’an, I start a diary as a way of keeping track of time and events, not that there’s a lot going on. It’s a small leather-bound travel diary that I’d been using to take note of what I’d photographed and which people I’d met.
Wednesday, 3 September
We take another phone call. I speak with a man named Mark, who is a negotiator from the AFP based in Nairobi. To hear an Australian accent is comforting but what he has to say doesn’t ease my mind.
He asks if we are okay and if they are taking care of us. I say that thus far they have treated us fairly and provided us with water, food, bedding, some personal effects and we’ve been allowed outside.
He asks me a POL question: Who did you used to go skiing with?’
‘Sandy Goddard. He is an old family friend,’ I reply.
Mark then tells me that the ransom price is $US1.5 million each. Amanda had already told me this after her call to her mother, but to now hear it officially is something else. I’m hit with a giddy sensation like I’m about to vomit. Mark goes on to ask me if I understand the government’s stance on the payment of ransoms.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We have explained to the kidnappers that the government will not pay.’
‘That’s correct.’
I knew well before I came to Somalia that Australia and Canada had signed a treaty forbidding the payment of ransoms for their citizens. Mark tells me that the government is working with my family to negotiate our release. I thank him, and then I hand the phone over to Amanda.
After the call we talk with Adan – not Adam as I had first misheard his name. He has been designated the communications expert and spokesman for the group. He’s based in another location, and sets up and listens in on all the conference calls we take. I explain what Mark has told me but he won’t listen. ‘Mark is trying to corrupt your mind. Allah will open his heart and your government will pay the money.’ Is he on crack? It’s like trying to reason with a spoilt child.
‘Your government will pay; they always pay,’ he says.
Thursday, 4 September
In the morning Amanda is once again put on the phone to Lorinda, her mother.
I have no idea why I have not been granted a single call. I just want the comfort of listening to the voice of someone in my family, and I’m desperate to ask their forgiveness for what I’m putting them through.
Whenever I ask to make a call, the answer is always ‘inshallah’, which I know means ‘God willing’, but reminds me of when I was a kid and my mother would say, ‘Let me think about it.’ That’s when I knew I had bugger-all chance.
Amanda tells her mum we are okay. She tells Lorinda to stop trying to raise money for us as the group will not accept one dollar from our families. I leave the room to give her some privacy. I talk to Ahmed briefly outside the room. He says, ‘What Amanda told her mother just now is very bad. She should not have said this.’ I can’t understand what his problem is; isn’t that exactly what he’s been telling us? The contradiction is confusing and frustrating, but I can’t get any more information out of him.
Later that afternoon Amanda and I are talking about our families. She stands and says, ‘You should demand to call them.’ I don’t want to be too confrontational as it seems like the quickest way to get ourselves killed. Still, I can’t let go of the idea.
We are allowed outside, and I sit at the back of the courtyard under the trees, formulating a plan, and working myself up into a near-hysterical state. I’m in tears as I approach Captain Yahya, begging him to allow me a phone call. The boys translate. I can see he’s uncomfortable by the way he tries to fob me off, but I keep at him until he finally capitulates, putting me on the phone to Ahmed.
Ahmed asks me why I’m so upset, and I tell him that I need to speak with my family so they’ll know I’m still alive.
‘Inshallah. I will organise it tomorrow,’ he replies.
‘No, I need to call them today,’ I snap without thinking. I take a breath and a different tack. ‘Please. Amanda has spoken to her family; I need to do the same.’
‘It is not possible today. Inshallah tomorrow. I will talk to Adan and arrange it.’
There’s no point in continuing to hammer him so I let it go. It’s not yet a victory but I’ve made my intentions clear.
In the evening, to my surprise, Ahmed turns up, telling me that I will talk to Nicky shortly. Jubilance is quickly followed by a nauseating thought about how furious my family must be. I try to keep it in check.
Adan puts through the conference call. The sound of squawking birds fills my ear before the phone finally connects. Just hearing Nic’s voice almost makes me lose it.
I try to stay composed as I tell her we are both okay and we haven’t been harmed. In some respects I’m happy it’s her on the other end and not Mum or Dad – I don’t think I could have got through it otherwise. I manage to keep it together during the phone call but as I hand over the phone to Amanda, I start to sob uncontrollably.
Ahmed seems perturbed by my tears.
‘Why do you cry? You should be happy to speak with your family. It is a sign of weakness for a man to cry; only women cry.’
Suddenly I want to jump on this arsehole and punch his buckteeth into the back of his throat. I explain once again that my family believes we will be killed if there is no money. He seems to find this funny.
Both Amanda and I know we have to make these people like us. We have countless discussions with Ahmed, Adan, Ali and some of the younger boys.
The main theme of our talks is our governments’ ‘war with Islam’. Ahmed keeps pointing out the fact that both our countries had troops in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan and that they are fighting a crusade against the Muslim world. Neither of us even lives in our country of birth but this makes no difference to them. Ahmed states again they are only interested in our governments’ money. He argues that Australia will pay a ransom for one of its citizens. These conversations are infuriating. Telling them that their beliefs are bullshit just isn’t an option; we can’t do anything other than sit here and take the barrage of insults.
Friday, 5 September
Today seems like just another day, but I can feel depression taking hold, squeezing the lifeblood from me.
I’m angry at myself, and at Amanda for having suggested coming to this godforsaken country in the first place. I find myself withdrawing from her to spend the morning trying to read the Qur’an. I can tell she is unhappy about this, and she asks one of the boys for permission to go out into the courtyard. I’m still struggling to read as Amanda comes back into the room.
‘I’ve told them that we are going to convert to Islam at eleven o’clock today,’ she says.
I can’t believe my ears.
‘Hang on, what?!’
We have talked about the possibility of converting as a survival technique, but she’s just gone and made the decision for us. I haven’t even got all the way through the Qur’an and I’m battling to comprehend a fair slab of what I have read. This is not a game.
‘Well, I have told them we will. We have to do this,’ Amanda argues.
‘Are we actually going to discuss this first?’
‘What is there to discuss? At the end of the day it’s something we’re going to have to do to stay alive.’
I don’t have a religious bone in my body. Religion, to my min
d, is the root of a lot of the pain and suffering that has occurred over history. Now I’m going to have to immerse myself in, perform the rituals of, and follow something that I don’t even understand. I’m not sure I can pull this off; it will be the biggest bluff of my life and if they ever find out it’s a sham, they will butcher us like animals. But she’s right: we don’t have a choice.
Muslims are not allowed to smoke, as it’s classed as a drug and therefore forbidden. We’ve been chain-smoking a pack a day. I’d begun to hoard them as Amanda was smoking my share. They haven’t brought us our daily packet yet and I have two hidden away. I ask if Amanda wants a final cigarette and the look on her face tells me she is desperate. How will we be able to give this up? I slowly pull two from my camera bag and hand her one.
Both of us sit there, doing what it seems will be our last pleasurable activity for a while. We slowly smoke our last coffin nails, having no idea what the future holds.
Ali comes into the room, excited that we are willing to convert. He asks me firstly why I want to do it. I pull the answer out of my arse: after reading the Qur’an, I know in my heart being a Muslim is something I want to do and that Islam is the true way. He seems to swallow it but surely he must suspect we’re not doing this for the right reasons.
He teaches us some Arabic words so that we’ll be able to recite the declaration of faith, Shahadah, the oath one takes to become Muslim.
There’s no turning back now. I can’t quite believe what I have got myself into; I imagine the looks on my family’s faces if they could witness this farce. Struggling with every word, I try to practise the two short sentences. Ali thankfully walks us through it when the time comes. Surrounded by several of the boys and Captain Yahya, I stammer out the words, feeling their eyes burning into me. They must know I’m an impostor.
As soon as we finish showering and completing our ablutions, we perform two Raka’ah, the prayer movements. I have no clue what I’m meant to do. I stand there as Ali recites the first Surah of the Qur’an; being a woman, Amanda has to stand behind me and to the right. Following the movements of Ali, I prostrate myself, stand up then kneel before finally touching my forehead to the ground. I’m in way over my head.
The Price of Life Page 7