The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  It turns out to be neither seriously threatening nor objectively documentary – it is pure propaganda. I get to go first. The first question is relatively simple: I’m asked why I became Muslim. I give them a predictable spiel, but each question becomes more difficult. Trying to be natural and sincere, but thinking on my feet, I blurt out each answer.

  The final question is: ‘What would you say to people who identify Islam as an extremist religion?’

  I feel like saying people misconceive Islam as extremist because of groups like the one we are being held by now, ironically validating that stance. Instead I say, ‘Islam is the religion of peace; it is a simple and easy religion to learn. People who say this are ignorant and don’t understand our religion. They are scared by Islam because of their own shortcomings.’

  Abdullah seems satisfied with my responses. Amanda swaps places with me and is made to jump through the same hoops.

  Though we’re happy to get back to the room after it’s all done, both of us are dreading the fact that it will hit the internet. Even though I’ve withdrawn from her recently, Amanda helps to quieten my concerns: these people wouldn’t know the first thing about uploading something onto YouTube. We agree that making the video widely known wouldn’t help their cause; if it became general knowledge that we’d converted, surely they wouldn’t get a cent?

  My relief is short-lived. Not long after, the whole gang turns up again. Abdullah, our religious teacher and the bearer of bad news, tells us to prepare a script, though we’re told exactly what we should say. We are marched out to the courtyard, and my entire body tightens when I see what they have ready for us. We are forced to sit on a mat while four of the young guys stand behind us, their faces completely obscured by their head scarves, and all of them packing weaponry. I find it cowardly of Ahmed and the other guys in charge. They spout their bullshit about Jihad and honour, yet are obviously too spineless and paranoid to risk being identified – using the grunts to do the dirty work. I feel like slapping the young guys and telling them to wake up. They’re being manipulated, just like us.

  I suddenly realise what is actually happening. This will be a show of force to terrify our families. Now they’re going down this path, there is every chance they’ll make a third video, documenting our brutal deaths. I’m trying to stay calm but I feel like a caged animal. With Ahmed and his little posse standing behind the camera, we read our statements: we are being held for ransom as we have been accused of working with the occupying forces; we ask our governments to intervene so that we can be released.

  One of the more senior guards, Joseph, talks at the end, reading from a piece of paper in Somali; the only words I can make out are ‘Canada’ and ‘Australia’. Filming the statement takes no longer than a few minutes, but all I want is to get back to our room. They make us wait on the ground while they stand around reviewing their handiwork. Eventually we are allowed to leave. I’m happy to be alone with Amanda, but I know our little cameo is about to hit the news.

  Saturday, 13 September

  In the evening Jamal walks into our room, AK in hand and his ammo belt across his shoulders. He tells us to pack our things; we are about to be moved.

  ‘What’s going on? Is everything okay?’

  ‘No problem, don’t worry, quickly, we go in five minutes,’ he replies coolly before leaving.

  We start throwing our things together. About thirty minutes later we’re marched into the courtyard and ordered to sit. All of the young guys are completely kitted out, ready for battle. My mind races off in all directions; I’m trying to divine what’s coming next. Amanda and I comfort each other, repeating that we are going to be okay. We watch the almost-full moon slowly rising in the jet-black sky, wishing it were under different circumstances.

  It seems to take forever before we are pushed through the front gate into an awaiting car. I’m terrified about being out in the open. I grasp for Amanda’s hand as we are pushed into the backseat. A boy sits on either side of us. I’m desperate to believe that we are being moved to another house. Other thoughts crowd in: they could be handing us over to another group or simply going to kill us. The unknown is torturous.

  The car moves forward slowly, gathering speed. After a few minutes we travel through a market area full of people. It looks apocalyptic: shanty-style corrugated-rooftopped shops line the road and cooking fires dot the edge of the street.

  Amanda’s grip tightens every second. Past the built-up area we turn down a sandy track, and after a short distance we come to a stop. Captain Yahya gets out, unlocking two large metal gates so the car can drive into the courtyard of a house. The gates slam closed before we’re pulled from the car. We’re marched up the stairs of the verandah and into a dark hallway. Our new room is at the back right-hand corner of the house.

  There’s no electricity so it’s hard to get a sense of the surrounds until they bring us a torch. The room is much larger than our last one, maybe 5 by 8 metres, with a window on each of the exterior walls, and a tiled floor. There are two new 4-inch foam mattresses up against the walls, still in their plastic wrap. It will be a relief not to have to sleep on a filthy wafer-thin mattress any more.

  The bathroom is at the end of the hallway. There is no door, just a thin curtain, and that first night the bathroom is absolutely crawling with cockroaches. A bonus is that in it is a western-style toilet and shower, but the plumbing doesn’t work so we have to use water from a bucket to both flush and wash. There is also a small vanity, and a large window about 6 feet off the ground. The cockroaches have made their way down the hall into our room, much to Amanda’s disgust. We’re ordered to go to sleep. To fend off more roaches I close the doors and jam the plastic covering from the mattresses under the bottom edge, hoping it will stop them from entering.

  The Light House

  Sunday, 14 September

  In the morning we get a better sense of the house. Both of us are unhappy about our new jail cell, even though it has more space and light. Abdi and the other two have also been moved during the night and are now in the room next to ours, closer to the front door. We start communicating to each other by knocking on our adjoining wall.

  When we are allowed outside later that morning into the L-shaped courtyard, there’s more disappointment. It’s a concrete jungle. Gone are the leafy green trees; now there’s only the heat, sun and glare from the whitewashed compound walls.

  Both Amanda and I are unsettled by the move, being ripped so suddenly from a place we had become accustomed to, all our small routines thrown out. We set up the room so our mattresses are on opposite walls, about 3 metres apart, both of us using our nets more as a deterrent for the cockroaches than the mozzies.

  The window on the back wall of the compound looks out into the yard of another house – well, not a house so much as a tin shack – we occasionally see people come and go. Seditious thoughts cross my mind about trying to contact the neighbours, but these are quickly quashed when the guys explain that we’re surrounded by Al-Shabaab. We’re told that if anyone tries to take us by force, our captors will kill us.

  From our room we have a view out over the tops of rooves and trees, and I can watch birds flying and the sun set every evening. It is a form of escape. The other window looks onto a house that is just over a metre away. Diagonally opposite is the window of the neighbours’ house, and the boys are always checking to see if it is locked.

  A small alleyway runs between the houses and the light coming in is reflected off the white walls.

  We settle in but I can’t shake a morbid feeling. Amanda finally pulls me up, giving me a stern talking to – she doesn’t remember me ever being this quiet; I’ve always been a gregarious person. I know in my heart I am blaming her for our situation. I try to fob her off but she won’t let it go.

  ‘We’re in this together; we have to support each other. You’re the only person I can talk to and you are ignoring me.’

  It’s a hard pill to swallow but I know she has every right to
kick me up the arse. I’m being a moody little prick. I have no one to blame but myself for the situation I’m now in; Amanda didn’t force me to come here. I apologise, and it’s like a dark cloud has been lifted. This is a wake-up call. Wallowing can only lead to despair. We’re a team and we need to keep sharp and positive.

  Thursday, 18 September

  I have been constipated for days and my stomach has started to distend. When I finally force myself to go, it’s like I’m tearing myself a new arsehole. Then I notice the blood in the toilet bowl. When Jamal next comes in, I try to explain my problem. We play charades; I slice at my wrist and enact the squirting of blood before pointing to my bum and motioning like I’m taking a crap. He looks completely dumbfounded and tries to leave, but I won’t let him go. Amanda now gets in on the act, taking my red sarong – to symbolise blood – and flapping it behind my arse while I make farting noises. Jamal finally clicks and races out of the room, returning with Captain Yahya.

  The Light House

  Bathroom

  Nigel’s room after separation

  Amanda and Nigel’s room before separation

  Kitchen

  Abdi and the drivers’ first room

  Abdi and the drivers’ second room

  Verandah

  Weapons hold and Captain Yahya's room

  Courtyard

  Mistaking my problem for diarrhoea, they bring me a litre and a half bottle of water containing sugar. They force me to skol the whole thing. As soon as I finish, I can tell it’s all going to come racing back up. Jamal takes me to the toilet where I throw up the lot.

  When I’m brought back to the room, Captain Yahya seems concerned. A thought strikes: If they believe we’re extremely sick, they might let us go. I lie on the mattress, exaggerating my symptoms. Yahya says in stilted English that they will get medicine from the market. After eating breakfast, I put my fingers down my throat to force myself to vomit but it only makes me gag. Amanda is much more adept at it; she learned how to do it as a teenager. She brings up the contents of her stomach onto the floor next to me.

  Lying on the mattress, she bangs furiously on the door to get their attention. While our hope for an early release doesn’t pan out, our diet improves. Later that afternoon Old Mohammad arrives with a smorgasbord of food and medicine. There are cans of Coke, pieces of fried fish, a huge bowl of salad, an array of fruit and a mixture of drugs from Panadol to anti-nausea tablets. Amanda is grateful for the tablets, which are basically sedatives and help her to sleep.

  The call to prayer is actually useful as it breaks the day into segments. After first prayer at dawn, we sleep more, getting up around nine. Making it to Asr prayer (between mid-afternoon and sunset) is our hump, after that we get a flask of tea and that signals we have made it through another day.

  Praying is a chore but we try to time it so someone will see us doing it. Sometimes Amanda just sits back and watches me go through the process. This worries me. We are playing a huge bluff already and if someone were to walk in, there’d be hell to pay.

  We’ve given each of our captors a nickname so that we can talk about them safely. Ahmed becomes ‘M&M’, not to be confused with the rapper Eminem, even though we’re sure he thinks of himself as a gangster. His protruding front teeth and bulbous head lend him his name ‘Monkey Man’, which we’ve abbreviated. Adan we call ‘Snaggle’ in reference to his missing front tooth, and Ali was ‘Evil Eyes’. Abdullah, our supposed religious teacher, is ‘Romeo’ as in Romeo and Juliet because he is so captivated by Amanda. Old Mohammad is ‘Donald Trump’ as we’re sure he is the one financing the whole operation. Captain Yahya, having worn the same underpants since the start of Ramadan, we call ‘Skids’. It has a double meaning as he is the one who always pulls the brakes and determines what we can and can’t do when the head guys aren’t around. Joseph, the big guy, exercises every morning, or tries to, by lifting an invisible dumbbell. We call him ‘Mr T’. Young Mohammad, all of 5 foot 2 with his small pinched face, is a little dictator so we dub him ‘Mao’, Young Abdullah we give the unfortunate name ‘Donkey’, not only because he is an ass but because this is the worst form of insult for a Muslim. Amanda names Young Yahya, with his good looks and toned body, ‘Mr Handsome’. We’re yet to find good fits for Jamal and Assam, Ismail’s replacement.

  They all have their different roles to play. M&M, Donald, Snaggle and Romeo run the show and make all the decisions. Skids is in charge of the house and the boys. Mr T and Mao are the lieutenants but don’t really have that much to do with us. Donkey, Mr Handsome, Jamal and Assam are our guards and bring our food. These last guys are the ones we interact with most often.

  We try to communicate with Abdi as best we can, knocking on the walls whenever we think it’s safe. They are being kept like animals; they’re in the dark all the time and only allowed outside to use the toilet.

  Whenever I come back from the bathroom, I use sign language to communicate with Abdi, who can peek out the crack of his partially open door. We check with each other that things are okay, simulating sickness when we’re unwell, rubbing fingers together to signal money, and holding fists to ears to suggest talking on the phone. It’s extremely risky. If they catch us, Abdi and the drivers will surely take a beating. This communication is short-lived, though, as they are soon moved to the room on the opposite side of the hall, closer to the front door.

  Towards the end of the month we get a visit from M&M and Donald. They ask us to join them on the verandah for a talk. They don’t reveal much about the negotiations, but we do speak with them about the day we were ambushed: they knew there were four foreign journalists staying at Hotel Shamo, working in two teams. They knew exactly how many vehicles each team was using and our movements. Their intelligence was spot on. I am sure that someone set us up, but exactly who is an unanswerable question. Trying to place blame now seems irrelevant anyway. They had expected to capture the two National Geographic men, and were surprised to see a man and a woman.

  We ask them what they planned to do with the other two had they captured them. Ahmed says plainly, ‘We were going to kill them both.’ I have no idea whether it’s the truth or not. I think about the National Geographic guys; I know Pascal has a newborn baby. It’s good to picture him with his family and not dead somewhere on the side of the road. Even so, I can’t quite shift the feeling that fate has screwed me over.

  One afternoon in late September I am sitting in the courtyard, washing our clothes. I am doing Amanda’s too as she doesn’t have the strength and isn’t feeling well. The boys chide me – as a woman Amanda should be washing my clothes.

  I tell them, ‘You have a lot to learn about the world outside. Why should she have to wash my clothes? I wash her clothes because it is a nice thing to do.’ They shake their heads, bewildered at my response.

  Donald explains to them that western culture is different; when Somalis emigrate to western countries, the women usually divorce their husbands because they’re lazy. I think Donald’s on to something. I watch these guys sit around on their arses day after day; the place looks like a pigsty and they seem just to dump waste where they stand.

  Thursday, 25 September

  Around a month after we were taken Amanda informs me that she hasn’t had her period. She thinks she could be pregnant. We had talked about her boyfriend back in Iraq, a Jewish guy who works as a journalist for one of the big American publications. It is a huge concern for both of us, knowing that it is definitely a case of wrong time, wrong place. She needs to take a pregnancy test.

  Ahmed arrives in the afternoon, and I leave our room to give Amanda an opportunity to talk to him. I’m sure he’ll think that I am the sperm donor.

  On returning, I’m happy that he doesn’t point the finger at me. His only comment to Amanda is that it’s strange that a Jew and Christian could be together. It’s an uncomfortable subject; I’m pleased when he finally leaves.

  One of the boys brings in a small plastic container to Amanda the following da
y for a urine sample. It takes two or three days for the result to come back via Donald – both Amanda and I are ecstatic that it’s negative.

  Kellie

  Newcastle

  Mid-September

  It’s clear that the kidnappers’ claims that they won’t accept money from the families are lies. We’re very aware that we might have to get our hands on substantial amounts of cash. Heather and Geoff have an investment property in Brisbane and they’ve been discussing selling it for some time – it needs a new roof and now they’ve retired and all the kids have left Brisbane, it’s served its purpose. With Nigel’s kidnapping, it becomes more urgent to sell Rouen Road. It’s an easy option in many ways – everyone else is mortgaged to the hilt and no one has power of attorney for Nigel so his property can’t be sold. There goes Heather and Geoff’s superfund.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  Wednesday, 24 September

  It’s week five and the DFAT and AFP contingents arrive en masse. Both Matt and Kel, and Ham and Amy come up to be present at the big debriefing. We ask to tape the conversation but we’re told no. They have someone taking shorthand, but those minutes are never presented to us.

  The meeting takes place upstairs around Mum and Dad’s dining room table, fully extended. There are twelve of us and six of them.

  On 8 September I had talked to DFAT’s James, and after lots of to-ing and fro-ing and but not a lot of plain English, I was able to establish that the department had received ministerial approval for the provision of financial assistance to our family if and when we request it. That is, they’ve agreed to give us a loan to help us pay the ransom. Although no one from DFAT ever uses the ‘R word’.

  We are not seeking the loan immediately but we do want to know the amount available to us and how much they think we’ll need to secure a release. It distresses all of us that resources might be available which the negotiators over in Nairobi have not been authorised to use.