The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  My awe doesn’t last long as the interrogation begins. We sit on the floor, surrounded by the boys, and Donald lets loose with the questions: Why did you escape? Whose idea was it? How did you get out? What did you say to the people in the mosque? Have you been communicating with the neighbour? Amina, did you tell the lady at the mosque that you have been raped?’

  Donald translates our responses back to Skids. They are looking for someone to blame and the finger is being pointed directly at Amanda.

  The interrogation continues for well over an hour, with Amanda bearing the brunt of it, in particular because of the rape allegation. We both beg for Donald not to leave us, not only because he is the only one who speaks English fluently but because we’re sure he will not let them kill us.

  He brushes aside our request and leaves. It’s the last time we will see him.

  Now alone with Skids, Donkey and Mao, the only comfort we have iseach other. Assam arrives shortly after Donald’s departure, carrying a small plastic bag. He looks at us like we’re filth and drops the bag on the floor; there’s the clunk of metal chains.

  I feel my body go cold with fear. Then Skids picks up two small cardboard boxes entangled in the chains. Opening them, he tips out the contents and four padlocks drop to the ground. Confusion at first, then a moment of clarity hits me: They’re not going to torture us with the chains; they’re going to shackle us.

  Mao snaps his fingers at me to stand. With him kneeling between my legs, he drags the chain around my ankle and snaps the padlock closed. I wince as the metal bites into my skin.

  ‘It’s too tight,’ I tell him but he wags his finger at me and gives me a cruel little smile, before tugging on the chain several times. He does the same with my other leg. And then to Amanda.

  I can’t spread my legs wider than 20 centimetres. Hobbled, we spend the rest of the day in this same room, guarded constantly. The only time we are allowed to move is to go to the bathroom adjoining the bedroom.

  We snatch fractions of conversation and try to steel each other for what lies ahead.

  FEBRUARY 2009

  Back-pocket strategies

  Kellie

  Newcastle

  Early February

  As any family going through a crisis knows, life goes on. Whether it’s a death, a fight against cancer or a divorce, life goes on. Our situation is no different, and actually, I am desperate for life to continue. I am finding the constant questioning along the lines of, ‘Have you heard from Nigel?’ as enjoyable as fingernails down a chalkboard. It’s fine from friends and family but when it comes from people just sticking their noses in, people who feel like they’ve had a brush with celebrity because they know the sister-in-law of the guy who has been kidnapped, it really gets to me. So I remove myself from everyone who knows about my situation.

  I have rented a space in the town of Morpeth to use as a fulltime base for my catering business. It is fantastic to have such an all-consuming distraction. The attention I need to give to the branding of the store, the design concepts, the daily menu and the direction this little café should take provide Matt and me with an alternative conversation to the one we’ve been having for the past six months.

  I hear rumblings of dissent among the family about how long the negotiation is taking, and while I am still paying attention, having work as an excuse to check out keeps me sane. There is talk of Ham heading to Melbourne see a man who might be able to shed light on Nigel’s kidnapping, and Heather, Geoff, Nic and Ham are going to meet the foreign minister, Stephen Smith, about the case. I desperately want these meetings to be successful. I want everything to start moving along – that feeling of treading water we’ve experienced for so many months is killing morale.

  The shop opens without the fanfare I was hoping for. Friends drop in and Mum and Dad come by for the first cup of coffee, but if I were expecting a complete distraction from the rest of my life, I was wrong.

  While life does go on, the situation is still there bubbling away. It still needs to be talked about, decisions need to be made, and the brutal reality of Nigel being on the other side of the world in god knows what condition is still something I think about. All the time.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  Thursday, 5 February

  The foreign minister sends a request via his minions. He would like to see what we have put together in regards to fundraising and how we plan to approach the media. To date, the Australian government and the minister have used their influence ‘to prevent adverse media’ – they specify ‘adverse’ but in reality it’s any media at all, good or bad – in relation to this matter. The minister wants to understand our thinking. No worries. Our thinking is bloody simple, breathtakingly so: we want Nigel back, and will do whatever it takes to make it happen.

  Wednesday, 11 February

  We are told that contact with Adan has been shut down and the NOK cell is being permanently transferred to Canberra.

  Dave comes to sees us after he’s packed up. He and Adrian were our very first AFP negs and they’re also our last. He collects my mobile NOK phone. Both of them leave in tears.

  If a proof of life comes in, the Feds will look at putting something into place, such as transferring the call. They are doing so well at tying up their loose ends. It’s all so neat and tidy.

  We know our lifeline to Nige is being cut and we’re not being offered an alternative. We are being asked to trust the government, and I’m far from convinced we can.

  As per DFAT’s request, we distribute the missing-persons’ flyer for family members to discuss. We have named it their ‘lost-dog-poster strategy’. Ham bags the shit out of it. He’s right: it’s a stupid idea. Someone has put photos of Nige and Amanda looking happy and smiling on a poster. And whoever did the cut-and-paste has Gladstone-Smalled Nige – he has no neck. It’s an absolute shocker and we all swing between being horrified that this is a legitimate strategy and pissing ourselves over the absurdity of it. Wasn’t there a B-grade shocker in the seventies about a kid who survives a plane crash with his dog in the African desert, where they letter drop pamphlets telling him to walk east? Didn’t they do this sort of thing for propaganda in the Second World War? DFAT’s logic fascinates me.

  I’m having visions of people sticky-taping the posters to power poles like we did when Zeke, our labrador, went missing. Oh, hang on, there is no one who can safely walk the streets of Mogadishu, certainly not at night. My son Atticus sees the poster and cacks himself over the photo. ‘What is Uncle Nigel doing?’ he asks. ‘He looks like someone has cut his head off and pasted it onto a stick, like one of the characters from South Park.’ His comment confirms how daft the idea is.

  Nigel

  The Dark House

  Tuesday, 3-Friday, 6 February

  Things have degenerated since our escape attempt. We’ve been moved yet again, and my new room is tiny – 2.5 by 4 metres – with only a small shuttered window on the back wall. Our paper and pens have been taken away. My chains are removed once a day so I can shower. The rest of the time they bite into my ankles and make it almost impossible to sleep. None of the boys is to have more than the bare minimum of contact with me. But worst of all, Amanda and I have been separated completely. I have no way of telling how she’s being treated. The only indications she is even alive are her sneezes, coughs and the jangle of her chains as she goes the short distance to her own bathroom.

  In this new regime the boys don’t move from outside my door. The only advantage is that at one o’clock in the afternoon they tune in to the BBC broadcast. This becomes my window to the world while my life stays stationary. The only downside is that it is in Somali.

  The Dark House

  Amanda’s room

  Amanda’s toilet

  Boys’ room and prayer area, weapons hold

  Toilet

  Captain Yahya’s room

  Kitchen

  Nigel’s room

  Verandah

  Courtyard

&n
bsp; Area where the boys sit during the day

  I can’t believe my ears when I hear Kevin Rudd’s voice, and I’m wishing, hoping and praying he is talking about my predicament. It’s frustrating as the sound-grab dies and the Somali kicks in. Shortly after, Donkey – Abdullah – walks past. I call him back.

  ‘Are they talking about me on the radio?’

  ‘No, bushfires, over 100 people dead,’ he replies. I slump back against the wall. Hearing about Australia is overwhelming enough but this is heartbreaking news. I couldn’t feel further from home.

  After evening prayer I get mild stomach cramps which quickly intensify, and I have a headache that would kill an elephant. My hands are clammy and I’m nauseated. Then I can feel that my sphincter is about to let go.

  I bang furiously on the door, and Mao – Mohammad – appears.

  He grunts angrily in response and motions towards the toilet.

  I dash down the hall on tippy-toes, trying to get to the bathroom before my bowels explode. I barge through the door, barely closing it and just pulling down my jeans before shit sprays everywhere. Like a burst water main, it keeps coming. Finally, I clean myself up, noticing the hem of my jeans has not got away unscathed. I don’t really care. Feeling exhausted, all I want is to lie down. Into the early hours of the morning I get no rest, shuffling between the bedroom and the toilet. This is my first experience of dysentery.

  With every request for Panadol or antibiotics, I get the same reply: ‘Inshallah.’ Over the next three days I can only sleep. I barely manage to keep food down and I know I can’t afford to lose more weight. At some point a blister pack of Panadol is tossed through the door.

  ‘Allhamdullah,’ I reply, trying to sound thankful, but I can’t understand why it’s taken so long. I’m not much use to them dead.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  Mid-February

  After our unenthusiastic response to the lost-dog-poster idea, we are informed that it is only ‘a back-pocket strategy’ that would be considered if the current approach fails.

  The current approach, which is to have no communication with the HTs, ‘would continue until it is certain it will not produce the desired outcome or until another new line of enquiry opens that has the potential to be more beneficial than this one. Should the current line of enquiry fail, there are a number of different options, including the information pamphlets [that is, the poster], which are open to negotiators to proceed with.’ This is serious Humphrey territory.

  We want to know if there are any other strategies in play now. This no-talking tack with the kidnappers appears totally at odds with what Gordon described to us in September, when he said that communication was the key. It’s been months since we’ve had a proof of life. No one is in contact with the kidnappers, so how can we possibly be building a rapport? This strategy is the polar opposite of what was discussed with us, which was all about gaining empathy and, in turn, some control.

  We really want answers. In a conversation I have with Ben via speakerphone, so I don’t have to try to explain things to Mum and Dad, he breaks down a possible new strategy for us, one championed by the RCMP.

  ‘We have contact with an extremely influential person in Somalia, who has confirmed he is willing to help us. We believe this person has the power and influence to generate the release of Nigel and Amanda. Unfortunately, this person has been unable to assist until this point in time. There have been a number of reasons, including the civil unrest in the country.’ Later Ham will comment that this guy sounds like a coked-up warlord – this moniker sticks and becomes our code name for the strategy.

  ‘This person’s connections are with the Canadians, and we are in their hands on this matter. The Canadians have biblical belief in this strategy.’ That statement sends a chill up my spine.

  In late February Mum gets in contact with Mick F. His name and number come in a roundabout way, from Nigel’s old workplace, the News Mail. When Mum rings him, he says he has been following the situation closely and shares our frustration that after six months there appears to have been no progress.

  Mick tells Mum he was formerly with the Australian Defence Force and has been in the private security sector since 2004. He is now covering the Australian 60 Minutes team on their story about piracy in Somalia. He tells Mum those in the private sector are not jockeys; they have social responsibilities. Mick believes we won’t get any further without having somebody on the ground, and he has contacts in Somalia. He tells Mum that in all hostage situations in Africa a ransom is paid; it just comes in different forms.

  He offers to negotiate on our behalf, saying it could take another three months. Mick asks if Mum thinks the AFP and DFAT would be prepared to work with him or whether he’d have to work by himself. We’re not sure. Mum asks what the cost would be. It would involve airfares and insurance and probably the greasing of a few palms, but he would not charge for his time.

  Ham rings 60 Minutes to establish Mick’s credibility and more about his role working with them. Mum discusses the issue with Ben, and somehow the government interprets this as the Brennan family doing a story with 60 Minutes to mark Nigel’s six-month anniversary Eh? Yeah, we’re going to have a party with beers and a band as well.

  Ham starts to talk to Mick regularly.

  Nigel

  The Dark House

  Tuesday, 17 February

  In the afternoon Captain Yahya brings in my laundry. Just as he is leaving he says, ‘Noah, your nickname, Forebeer debenetchay.’ Shrugging at him, I ask, ‘What does that mean?’ He tries to explain but I don’t understand. He touches his forehead then points at my groin. Dickhead? I wonder. He runs outside then brings back Abdullah, who says, ‘Forebeer means wrinkly forehead; debenetchay is tight underpants.’ They both begin to laugh. From this point on I am no longer called Noah, instead I am ‘Forebeer’. I run with it, not wanting to rock the boat. It’s funny because since the escape attempt, except in Romeo’s case, I’ve stopped using their nicknames – it’s no fun any more.

  My illness has settled down and I get a short respite from my room. After three days of my pestering Young Yahya for a haircut, he finally gives in. It’s a victory, even though it means breathing in the stench of the toilet for half an hour. I’m surprised by my reaction. The touch of another person is mesmerising. It feels like a betrayal, but I’m not about to deny myself this small opportunity to feel human again.

  He moves my head to get the angle right for the razor, and I luxuriate in the contact. All the stress and anxiety I had been holding on to for the last three weeks dissipates for the twenty minutes it takes to shave my head bald. Once it is done, I feel guilt and disgust at my weakness. Amanda is not getting this sort of treatment and has more than likely heard the two of us laughing.

  Back in my room I get a visit from each of the boys to see Young Yahya’s handiwork. They all respond in a similar way. ‘Forebeer, very beautiful. Islam good.’ Some kiss their fingers like an Italian would, saying ‘Bellissimo.’ Others stroke my beard, which makes me feel like I’m in some homoerotic movie. Only minutes before it had felt so nice to be touched by another person, now I feel like a cheap whore and just want them to leave me alone.

  In the late evening I hear people talking down Amanda’s end of the house. I know Ahmed is here – I can smell his aftershave. It’s been nearly a month since we escaped and part of me is desperate for information from him. The other part doesn’t want to see him for fear of what he might do.

  He finally walks through my door, the half smirk spread across his face, and greets me in the normal way.

  ‘How is your situation?’ he says, the pompous, sarcastic arsehole.

  Sucking back my anger, I answer him straight.

  ‘My situation is not good, Ahmed. I’m in chains, I’m not allowed outside, I’m sick and have been passing blood. They won’t give me the right medicine.’

  ‘The chains are because you cause problem. Why do you run? Do we not give you food, w
ater? Now you cannot run. This is good for you,’ he replies, touching my chains.

  I change the topic. ‘Do you hear anything about our situation? Is there any news?’

  ‘No, there is no news. Nairobi is causing problems; they do not want to finish this. What should we do?’ he replies nonchalantly. Unsure if this is a rhetorical question, I sit staring. It’s been nearly seven months and it feels like the wheels are just spinning with no traction.

  ‘Maybe you will be here for a very long time,’ he says, taking the wind even further out of my sails.

  ‘Ahmed, the Australian government does not pay ransoms; they have signed a treaty,’ I say for the thousandth time.

  ‘If the government doesn’t pay, your family will,’ he replies.

  There it is, clear as crystal for the first time, the cold honest truth.

  ‘Ahmed, you promised you would not take money from our families,’ my voice rises slightly as I struggle to control my fury.

  ‘We can take money from your family because they are Christian,’ he fires back at me, almost mockingly. I just want him out of my sight; I’m afraid what might come out my mouth. I sit there passive-aggressively, waiting out the time till he leaves.

  That night I toss and turn for hours, replaying the conversation over and over in my head.

  MARCH 2009

  What if?

  Kellie

  Newcastle

  March

  When Nigel was first taken, many people came out of the woodwork to offer assistance. Someone knew someone else who was involved with other kidnap cases, and so and so had an uncle who had spent time in Somalia and has connections. A lot of these people made themselves known to the AFP as well. The family followed up all the leads. However, on the advice of the AFP and DFAT, we didn’t pursue them.