The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  Now I can see what a disgusting hovel it is. The damp smell of mould is pungent in the air, and our mattresses look grottier than ever.

  Both Ahmed and Romeo come to talk with us after our colleagues have been brought to the house with the rest of the boys. They don’t explain why we have been moved but reveal they’re paranoid about Al-Shabaab trying to capture us. Ahmed says that a number of them live in the house next door and that we should be wary. They leave us, saying they’ll be back in a few days. It’s clear this is a step backwards.

  Again the move disrupts our routine. To counter this I spend the next morning cleaning the bathroom for Amanda. It stops me trying to second-guess what’s actually going on.

  We’ve asked for playing cards but been denied them – they’re seen as a form of gambling – so I decide to make a backgammon board and teach Amanda to play. I draw the board on the back of a piece of paper, and make the playing pieces from the cut-off ends of cotton buds. Too easy. The dice, however, is a different story. I painstakingly carve Panadol tablets into cubes using the scissors, then mark numbers on each side with a pen. It doesn’t take Amanda long to get the gist of the game and it fills the hours. We play surreptitiously, knowing this too is verboten. We have one very close call when Donkey bursts in unexpectedly to bring us water. I block his view for long enough so Amanda can hide the game under her mattress. He gets a whiff that something’s not right and suspiciously looks around the room before leaving.

  We don’t have much else to entertain us – just the Qur’an and a number of other religious books. Their droney tone and dull text mean the books don’t really stand up to repeated readings, although they go a long way in teaching us more about Islam and prayer. Amanda and I talk about anything that takes our minds away from this place. We speak at great length about our families, each other’s current and previous partners and life in general. She met Mum and Dad in 2007 so she knows a bit about their situation. I know a bit about her family but have never met them. Lorinda and Jon are long divorced, and Jon has a long-term partner, Perry. All three get along very well. Jon has a terminal illness and his only asset is his house. Her mother has a chequered past and very few assets. As we explain the intricacies of each other’s families, I am amazed when she tells me her mother was involved in a cult in Japan and was held hostage herself eleven years ago. My family looks quite dull in comparison.

  We play the ‘famous faces’ game regularly, where the other person nominates you as someone well known and you ask yes-or-no questions to figure out who you are. I always pick sportspeople, much to Amanda’s chagrin (‘I fucking hate sport’). She talks incessantly about food and even tries to make up a food game, which I’m not so keen on. Our food has become so boring that to talk about chocolate and gourmet fare is torture.

  Living in close confines with someone twenty-four hours a day for an extended period means you’re faced with the warts-and-all version of the other person. Niceties quickly go out the window. Sometimes this provides comic relief. When one of us farts we giggle like schoolkids. Amanda’s always protesting between fits of laughter, ‘Spray your cologne! You’re going to kill me.’ It’s a bit like the bond you have with your siblings. One pulls the other up whenever they’re having a bad day.

  We share everything, even the simplest things, who gets the bigger cup that day, or who gets to use the only plate and spoon. As time goes on, I’m happy for Amanda to have these little privileges, and I eat with my fingers from a plastic container lid. We also make meals for each other, trying to prepare something appetising with the basics they provide us. Papaya and canned tuna salad with onion is our signature dish.

  Our colleagues are not faring as well. They’ve been held in terrible conditions from the very start, concealed in darkness twenty-four hours a day, their only respite being when they’re allowed out to wash for prayer or go to the toilet. They are not being fed the same portions as us. I manage to communicate with Abdi in our doorways, and he uses sign language to indicate they need food. They’re being held for no reason other than that they were in the car the day we were taken. Their future depends on us.

  We think of a way to give them some of our tuna and fruit. First, we ask if we can go outside. I walk out with Amanda following a few metres behind carrying a plastic bag of food. Just as I make it to the front door, I drop my pen to distract the boys. Amanda puts the bag inside Abdi’s doorway before quickly catching up with me. Both of us sit in the courtyard, our blood pumping with the risk of it, feeling anxious about how Abdi will conceal the evidence but happy to have been able to do something. It gives me a thrilling sense of power, being able to defy our captors and break the rules.

  The time between visits from Ahmed and co. drifts from one or two days to around five. I hear Donald and Romeo’s voices, but when I ask to speak to them, I’m told they’re not here.

  From our bathroom window we can look out into the back of the courtyard. One day I see Donald walk across the courtyard, going to wash his hands, and I bang on the door. Jamal comes in, looking frustrated.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Jamal, I just saw Mohammad in the courtyard and I want to speak to him.’

  ‘Wait,’ he replies as he walks away. Minutes later he comes back.

  ‘The Captain refuses them to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know; is Captain’s orders,’ and he leaves. Romeo comes to see us later that morning, asking why we’re causing problems. He says they’re busy negotiating with people in Nairobi and don’t have time to spend with us.

  The most difficult thing is not knowing what’s going on with the negotiations. It’s like being in jail without a sentence. We don’t have a date to pin our hopes on, and there’s nothing to work towards.

  Monday, 20 October

  In the late evening Jamal comes in and tells us to gather our things again. We’ve only been back at this house for around a fortnight.

  We’re marched into the courtyard, where the boys are all standing about with their weapons in hand. There’s no moon tonight and we sit and wait in the pitch-black. Suddenly they order us to stand up; they rip our belongings from us, and push us towards the gate. I can’t see a thing, not even the car until they force us into the backseat. It takes a few minutes before my eyes adjust enough to make out Romeo in the front passenger’s seat; I’m relieved that it’s him and not a complete stranger, but I’m still shitting myself.

  Ahmed jumps in the driver’s seat; Skids and one of the boys jam in beside us seconds before we lurch forward.

  We hit the bitumen road and Ahmed accelerates hard as we swerve around potholes and pedestrians.

  Amanda tries to talk to Romeo – ‘We haven’t seen you for a long time; what’s going on? Is everything okay?’ – and his silence only fuels our fear. We travel for a few kilometres and I try to get my bearings. It’s not until we drive into the courtyard that I recognise it as belonging to the light house and we’re pulled from the car and put back into the same room as last time.

  Half an hour later we hear Abdi and the other two being escorted to their room. We can hear Ahmed talking with Skids out in the courtyard for a long time before there’s the sound of the front gate opening and closing. No explanation from Ahmed tonight then.

  Tuesday, 21 October

  We’re woken by the metallic clang of our flask of tea being dumped on the floor. Tea is the one thing we look forward to, but today neither of us is in a rush to get up. Last night’s little jaunt has wiped us out. A short time later our morning meal is delivered but we barely greet Jamal before going back to sleep.

  At around 9.30 a.m. we’re shaken awake by four of them, carrying guns. Something has changed.

  Mao angrily orders us to stand as Donkey, Mr Handsome and Assam look on. I feel exposed, standing just in my jocks, and ask what’s going on. Mao brings his finger to his lips. My blood feels like it’s pooling in my feet as I realise that whatever is about to happen, it’s not going to
be good. Assam takes my camera bag and starts rummaging through it, and I’m helpless as I watch these criminals take away every last thing of value, right down to my loose change. Once he’s finished, Assam starts on Amanda’s bag, taking her bracelets, camera, iPod. Nothing is missed. We try to reason with them but we’re curtly told to be silent. I’m actually surprised that this hasn’t occurred long before now.

  I quickly pull my jeans on while Assam puts our stuff into a plastic bag. Donkey and Mr Handsome move towards me, and I think I’m about to be hit but they brush past, taking my bed and mosquito net with them. We’re about to be separated.

  Mr Handsome grabs my arm and frogmarches me out the door. I’m not even given the chance to say goodbye to Amanda. I’m moved into the small room between Amanda’s and our toilet. I try to ask Mr Handsome what the problem is. He’s always been quite accommodating, and seeing that I’m shaken, he says, ‘No problem; is okay.’ That’s all very well but he gives no reason for us being split up.

  Donkey then walks in with Mao, and he sums up the situation very succinctly: ‘If you try to talk to each other, we will kill you. Your door is to remain closed at all times; you must knock and wait to go to the toilet. Understand?’

  Ahmed will have ordered this, once again showing his cowardice by leaving it to someone else to do the dirty work. Knowing that Amanda is now alone fills me with dread.

  Mao points towards the wall, referring to Amanda. ‘Amina,’ I say. He nods then raises his finger to his throat, slicing across it. They’re going to kill her. ‘Why? She is Muslim,’ I say, trying to hold back the tears. He shakes his head, his sinister grin widening as he rubs his fingers together to imply money then in English says, ‘No money, no life.’ Then he turns on his heel and walks out with Mr Handsome.

  Now I’m completely alone. It takes me an hour or two to steady the ship, telling myself that I have to stay in control. I’m determined to stay strong for the both of us. My spirits lift as we begin knocking to each other on our adjoining wall.

  A few hours after our split, I hear Amanda knock for the bathroom, and as she moves past my door, she nudges it open and flicks in a note. I scurry across the floor, picking up the note and hiding it in my coin pocket. My heart races. Donkey’s threat from hours earlier is still swimming around my head. When I think it’s safe, I read her note, with one eye kept on the door.

  She tells me that she is okay and we have to stay positive. She tells me to focus on the beautiful things that surround us, explaining that they are there; I just have to look for them. She says we should leave notes for each other at the back of the window ledge in our shared bathroom. She will knock once, then twice, then three times in short succession when she’s left a note, telling me to do the same after I have read and destroyed it by flushing it down the toilet.

  We communicate two or three times a day, backwards and forwards like we’re having a conversation. We change the position of the notes from the window sill to the vanity, which has a small light at the top with a cover that slides off. There’s less chance of the boys finding the notes there. We use the paper from our diaries, tearing pages out carefully so that it’s not obvious.

  A few days after our separation we get a visit from Donald. He talks with Amanda for a long while before coming to me. He explains that we’ve been separated because in Islamic culture it is forbidden for a man and a woman to share the same room if they aren’t married. I ask him if we are allowed to see each other, and he says it’s not up to him; he’ll ask Skids – he is in charge of the house. Donald gives me all of five minutes of his time, saying that Canada is causing problems.

  I’m guessing that the real reason they’ve split us is so they can apply pressure to our families.

  I tell him about Mao threatening Amanda’s life, saying that as a Muslim, this surely can’t be allowed.

  ‘They are just boys. I will speak with them and tell them this is forbidden,’ he replies.

  That conversation with Donald has dire consequences.

  Two or three days later, spying out the door, I see Mao and Donkey going into Amanda’s room, guns in hand. I expect to hear her scream but instead it’s eerily silent. I stand at my door, waiting for them to come out. When I see Donkey leave, I rip open the door and knock. Our eyes meet as I ask for the toilet. He looks like a madman as he flicks his head, motioning for me to go. I then ask him in Arabic, ‘Mushkila? Problem?’ He slowly shakes his head before walking off.

  Later Amanda writes me a note about what happened. They ordered her to lie face down on the bed before putting an AK47 to the back of her head. They played Russian roulette with her as they cocked the gun and pulled the trigger, getting cheap thrills by terrorising her. I can’t believe how quickly our circumstances have deteriorated. I feel responsible; I thought telling Donald would give her some protection but it’s backfired.

  To distract myself I start exercising for two hours every day. I haven’t done any form of exercise for the last two months – there didn’t seem much need because I had Amanda’s company and I didn’t think we’d be in here for long. Now that it looks like negotiations have stalled I begin flogging myself doing Bikram yoga, Pilates and push-ups. The rush of endorphins takes my mind off things for a short period and helps me to think clearer. I put my mattress up against the wall so I have space to stretch out, stripping down to my jocks before working myself up into a sweat.

  One day Assam and Donkey come in while I’m mid yoga pose, and ask what I’m doing. I explain that it’s an ancient Asian exercise, which strengthens the mind and body. They ask if I will teach them how to do it. I’m undecided, having to overcome my hatred for what these people are doing to us, but in the end I see it as an opportunity. I want to show them I am a real person, and there are times when we’re together that I see glimpses of humanity in them.

  Like all boys trying to impress each other, they show off and overexert themselves, at times losing their balance and falling into the wall or onto the floor. When this happens we all break into laughter. I end up teaching them for more time than I spend exercising, showing them how to hold each pose and the proper breathing techniques.

  As time goes on they relax around me. Assam, the youngest in the group, and I begin to connect. I’m sure Amanda must hear the laughter and wonder what the hell I’m doing. Maybe she thinks I’ve come over all Patty Hearst.

  Assam takes over the role of bringing in my food and often sits and talks afterwards. I enjoy his company – he has a vibrancy about him and compassion for my situation. He willingly tells me things about himself and his family, and I learn that he is the most knowledgeable in the house about Islam. He tells me that his mother was killed by a thief when he was very young, and on hearing this I burst into tears, thinking of my own mother, who I may never see again. This makes Assam incredibly uncomfortable and he asks me not to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say and tell him I feel for his loss.

  Our interaction goes a long way to staving off boredom. Other times I turn to the Qur’an, reading it for hours on end. I ask Assam endless questions about the things I can’t understand, using it as a tool to break down the barrier between captor and captive.

  A lot of my day is spent standing by my window, as the light allows me to read. On one occasion I notice three small geckos on the window ledge and think of Amanda’s advice to focus on the beautiful things. I feed them fruit and watch them chase insects, the electric colours on their heads mesmerising. I even find myself in conversation with them, which makes the time pass even though it almost convinces me I’m going crazy. I try to immerse myself in anything I can so as to not think about my family or what’s going to happen to me.

  Our existence has changed dramatically since our separation. Skids has revoked many of our privileges, one of the most important being the freedom to go outside. This is now only granted every few weeks so we can wash our clothes. I can no longer see the sun, sky or trees from my window, only my four blank walls. It’s a momentou
s occasion when I am allowed outside. Seeing that the sky is still blue allows my mind to fly high above the compound walls and far from here.

  Amanda and I continue to communicate by sending notes of reassurance and support, informing each other as best we can about what’s going on.

  I panic when my pen begins to run out of ink, asking Amanda via a scratchy message if she has a spare one she can leave in the bathroom for me. She does, but it too has a limited lifespan. I devise a cunning plan to get a pen from the boys, singling out Assam as the easy target. I have to give him a good reason to get me a pen. I ask him if he will start teaching me Somali and Arabic so I can converse with the boys who don’t speak English. I also say I want to learn the pronunciation of certain Arabic sayings and Surahs (chapters) of the Qur’an. Assam is happy to help me, saying it’s good that I want to learn.

  After telling him my pen is kaput, I ask him if he will buy a new one from the market. He baulks at this, saying he will have to ask Skids first as he doesn’t have any money. My heart sinks. I know that Skids already has us on a short leash and I’m sure he won’t agree to my request.

  I will just keep chipping away at Assam and hope for the best.

  NOVEMBER 2008

  It’s kidnap month in Somalia

  Kellie

  Newcastle

  November

  Same old, same old. The NOK cell has been moved to the Villas, and the phone calls are coming less often. Heather has started on a downward spiral. One minute she’s good, the next minute she has Nigel in the grave.

  Matt, along with every member of the Brennan family, is growing anxious about the decreasing amount of information we are receiving from the AFP and DFAT regarding the case. On one hand, he’s incredibly frustrated. On the other, he is a breath of fresh air. Recently, every word that has come out of his mouth is kind and lovely. It’s not that he wasn’t like this before, but this is an extreme version. My mum and dad ask what has happened to him.