The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  That is, up until we encountered the no-talking strategy, and things ground to a halt.

  Heather has been given the name of a gentleman who looks after media crews in Somalia – Mick F.

  Ham and Mick have many discussions about who’s who in Somalia, how long our government has taken in this process and how Mick thinks they should have handled it. Those two definitely have a good connection, and Ham is adamant that Mick can get Nigel out. The rest of us are unsure as Mick has never been involved in a rescue before.

  It’s March, and Heather and Geoff are visiting for Callaghan’s sixth birthday. Ham informs us that Mick lives nearby. So on a Tuesday morning, Heather, Geoff, Matt and I meet Mick F and his wife.

  Mick is in his late thirties and works out a lot by the look of him. He sits opposite us at a large table in the coffee shop. He has many Somali contacts, and is due back in the country shortly. He seems very capable, and his ideas for getting Nigel out sound plausible, but you need to trust your instinct and mine is not jumping up and down, wanting to put this man to the task. He has a young family and a stunning wife, and if anything were to happen to him, I couldn’t live with the guilt. Mick isn’t going to charge us for Nigel’s rescue, only for the costs incurred – around $30K – and money for dealing with certain elders. He believes we’ll need to give the group around US$500000.

  Mick and Ham talk about paying for Nigel first and then raising more money to get Amanda out. Most of the family know this is not going to be an option – none of us believes Nigel will leave Amanda behind.

  The Lindhouts are furious about Mick’s involvement. They feel it will jeopardise the strategies we’ve got in place. But we’re so unhappy with the AFP’s current approach that any communication with Nige and Amanda, regardless of where it comes from, would be good news.

  Ham and Lorinda have a huge argument. Lorinda says that Ham will have Amanda’s blood on his hands if anything happens to her, and Ham accuses Lorinda of leaving her daughter there to die by doing nothing at all. The Canadians definitely feel threatened – all the money we’ve got for Nige and Amanda’s release is ours.

  Nigel

  The Dark House

  Early March

  At the start of March I hear Romeo’s distinctive voice in the house. The last time I saw him was at Eid, well before the escape. It’s a relief in some respects: he speaks English and has some pull over the younger guards. I welcome any change, no matter how tiny.

  ‘Asalam alaikum,’ he says, a ridiculous false smile spread across his face as he comes bounding through my door. I greet him in the traditional Arabic way then hug him, immediately feeling that I’ve betrayed myself.

  ‘Noah, what is this?’ he says, feigning surprise as he touches my chains.

  ‘We tried to escape,’ I reply dully; his buddy Ahmed will have already filled him in on our misadventure.

  ‘Ah, yes, I hear you cause big problem at the mosque … How is your Islam?’

  The lie rolls off my tongue. ‘My Islam is good.’

  ‘You are very beautiful Muslim now, like Osama,’ he laughs, rubbing the end of my long beard. I am not some goat-rooting madman, thank you very much, I think, my skin crawling.

  ‘What do you read about Islam?’ he asks next. I explain that the boys have taken away all of my religious material, which Romeo seems displeased about.

  ‘Inshallah, you must have these books,’ he says. I then press him about my Qur’an, which Donald has. He assures me he will collect it the next time he goes to Mogadishu. He asks me if there is anything else.

  Apprehensively, I ask, ‘Is Amina okay? I am worried about her.’

  ‘She is fine. I will go to her now,’ he replies before walking out the door.

  Later in the day Romeo delivers some of my religious books and a pencil. I’m not overly excited about the books, but the pencil is a win.

  He asks me if I need anything else. I ask for a macawiis, the Somali sarong. My jeans have become uncomfortable and are extremely difficult to go to the toilet in. Romeo comes back five minutes later, with the macawiis he was just wearing, saying, ‘You can have this; it is mine. I will buy another at the market.’ I’m reluctant at first, not really keen on anything that’s been in contact with his balls, but I’m in no position to be picky.

  ‘Thank you, can I put it on now?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He calls one of the boys to bring the keys to my chains. After they’ve unlocked me, I take off my jeans, feeling exposed as all the boys crowd into my room to watch. Romeo shows me how to put on the macawiis and I stand there like part of a freakshow. All the boys laugh and say, ‘You Somali now.’

  ‘Is good?’ Romeo asks. I nod. My qualms about wearing his clothing quickly vanish without the feeling of rotting denim clinging to my legs.

  The boys slowly file out, leaving me to my first night’s sleep in a long time where I don’t have to lie in a pool of sweat.

  Friday, 6 March

  Several days later Young Yahya comes into my room. I am disturbed by what he has to say. ‘Amina, no Muslim,’ he growls, shaking his finger.

  ‘Amina is a Muslim; she is our sister,’ I reply, trying to sound forthright.

  ‘Not real Muslim,’ he retorts. ‘We watch praying, like this, like this, no good.’ He moves his head from side to side, as if looking around for something.

  ‘Nobody has taught her how to pray properly,’ I say.

  ‘Amina says Muslim but not real Muslim. Forebeer Muslim,’ he says. I can feel him trying to gauge my reaction.

  ‘We are both Muslim, Yahya,’ I say, the conversation making me increasingly nervous.

  There is an uncomfortable silence before he says, ‘Forebeer, you have this?’ He begins drawing with his finger on the ground.

  ‘What is that?’ I ask, thinking it’s maybe a star or a flower.

  ‘Here,’ he says, touching his forearm then drawing it again.

  ‘Tattoo? No, I don’t have one,’ I say, smiling at him.

  ‘Tattoo,’ he repeats. ‘Amina, tattoo; Muslim, no tattoo.’ Amanda has a small tattoo on her ankle.

  ‘Her mother did this when Amanda was fourteen,’ I try to explain but Yahya doesn’t understand. Neither do I, come to think of it. What sort of mother tattoos a fourteen-year-old? I don’t like where the conversation is going so I say nothing more and he eventually leaves. In a bit of a panic, with no way of communicating with Amanda, I want to tell her, Just play the game. If you’re going to try to bluff someone, don’t do it half-arsed.

  Over the past seven months the boys have done little more than eat, sleep, pray and read their Qur’ans. Their only task now is to guard us and make sure we don’t embarrass them by escaping again – a virtually impossible feat now we are chained and monitored by them around the clock.

  Since our escape attempt Assam has kept his distance; he only comes in when he’s forced to and his manner’s cold. My guess is he copped some flak for teaching me Somali and Arabic. I need a friend on the inside, someone who I can ask for things or push for information. I need to win back his trust. So, when he comes into the room while Romeo is talking with me, I leap at the chance.

  ‘Assam, you do not speak to me for a long time. I know you are angry at me because we tried to escape. I am sorry if I have caused problems for you; you are my brother. In the Qur’an it says we must forgive one another; I am asking for your forgiveness.’

  He breaks into a big broad smile as he replies, ‘Okay, I forgive you.’

  Walking over, I embrace him. I can’t help but feel like the older brother who has just pulled the wool over the eyes of his credulous sibling.

  Saturday, 7-Monday, 9 March

  From the corner of my eye, I see Amanda coming out of her room. She is bent over and looks weak as she hobbles to her toilet. Abdullah, who’s shepherding me, flies into a complete rage. He lunges towards her, arm raised ready to strike. ‘Go back! Go back!’ he screams at her.

  I continue on, so happy to have see
n her for just a second but heartbroken at how she’s being treated.

  It’s especially painful to see as I’m winning a few small privileges Amanda is obviously not afforded. Having a pencil legally means I can do my crosswords and sudoku puzzles, which they’ve given back to me. I have also restarted my diary. On a blank pages torn from the front of a novel I start jotting down our movements, the comings and goings in the house, when phone calls occur and when I speak to the guys in charge. I hide this with the other contraband items down the side of my mattress. It stops me from losing time. Just knowing which day of the week and month it is helps my mental state.

  The following evening I get a visit from Ahmed.

  ‘Noah, how is your situation? Everything is okay?’ his voice is shrill.

  ‘Everything is okay. Do you hear any news?’ I reply morbidly.

  ‘I think,’ he starts off before pausing, a smile at the corner of his mouth, ‘maybe in two days is finished, you go back to your family.’

  Trying to hide my excitement, I give the flattest response I’m able to: ‘Really?’

  ‘Inshallah, in two days – finished; you will go to your family.’ He looks pleased as punch. Part of me doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to be tricked. I won’t have the energy to pull myself up again if it’s not true.

  ‘How is it finished?’ I ask him.

  ‘Nairobi says they will pay. Inshallah, it is finished.’ I can’t hold it back any longer, and the rush of adrenaline charges my entire body. I can’t help smiling and laughing. I could burst into tears at any moment, but I stop myself as I know Ahmed dislikes it and sees it as a weakness.

  ‘Is good,’ he proclaims as he pats me on the shoulder.

  ‘Alhamdulillah,’ I repeat over and over. We’re going home. After he leaves I lie there, like a kid on Christmas Eve, the anticipation travelling through my body like electricity.

  The next morning, with a spring in my step, I replay the previous night’s conversation in my head. Assam and Abdullah come into my room, and Abdullah asks me what Ahmed said the previous night.

  ‘He said in two days I will go home.’ Doubt creeps in as the words come out. Surely they would know what’s going on? They both smile sheepishly then Abdullah says, ‘If Allah says, you will go.’ This does not put me at ease. I try to reassure myself that the boys are as ill informed as I am, or perhaps they are just playing mind games with me.

  Around sunset I sense something is imminent.

  The boys have begun putting their things together; I watch as they go back and forth past my door. I’m sure we are about to be transported. Hastily, I gather my belongings. Jamal walks into the room.

  ‘Quickly, take everything; in five minutes we go.’

  I throw the last of my things together. I sit, waiting, looking at the bags, amazed at how much crap I have accumulated. Twenty minutes tick by painfully slowly. Then I hear the sound of chains coming down the hall. I get a split-second glimpse of Amanda as she walks past, shepherded by two guards.

  Shortly after, Mohammad comes in; gun in hand and ammo belt slung over his shoulder, he barks at me, ‘Bax, bax. Go, go.’

  I jump up, grab my bags and shuffle to the courtyard. All the boys are anxiously milling about. Joseph stands there, holding a massive machine-gun. I’m pushed towards the car and ordered to get in next to Amanda. Seated beside her, I grab her hand, our fingers interlocking. I tell her everything is okay.

  We take off through the gates at breakneck speed and soon turn right onto a bitumen road. If my sense of direction is correct, we’re heading towards Mogadishu. I’m doing all I can to suppress the excitement bubbling away. Amanda tries to say something to me but Young Yahya, who is behind us, pushes her head away violently. ‘No talk’

  All I can think is, Please, please, please, let this be it. Please, let us go home; I just want to go home. We continue driving for what feels like ten or fifteen minutes before peeling off again to the right. We come to a stop about 300 metres later.

  My excitement turns to dread. This is not part of the plan. Captain Yahya gets out of the car to unlock the gates. The car drives in. Amanda is taken first, out of the car and to the front door and then she disappears into the dark hallway. They come back for me, pushing me through the front door and into the first room on the right. Taking my torch from my bag, I survey the room.

  I’m surprised by its size; it’s maybe 4 by 9 metres. I’m even more shocked to see a sofa and two matching chairs. I drop into one of the lounge chairs; after months of sitting on the floor, the rubber foam feels like silk against my skin.

  Mohammad walks in and, looking furious, gestures for me to get off the lounge. ‘Sorry,’ I say timidly as I move onto the floor; he then leaves. Minutes later, Abdullah throws my mattress through the door along with my other bag. I set up my bed on the back wall between two windows.

  We’re not going anywhere. I’m so angry at myself for stupidly believing Ahmed.

  I bash on the wall to get Abdullah to take me to the toilet. On the return trip I see a dull glow coming from the door diagonally opposite mine. As I walk past, I spy Amanda lying on her mattress. It’s a comfort to know she is just across the hall.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  March

  Have a cup of tea and tell someone your problem – up here, it’s usually crippling debt as a result of the drought – and the other person, as well as everyone else in the district, feels it with you. But the government line is: if you talk to an outsider, you lose control.

  Through the country grapevine I’ve been able to contact Colin Freeman, the British Sunday Telegraph journalist, who was released after being held for forty days in Puntland, in northeastern Somalia. I’m sure it drives DFAT crazy that we have the ability to do things without their help – they don’t have a clue how our network out here works. It doesn’t have monetary value and can only be acquired after many hard years on the land, where friends and neighbours have to rely on each other and, heaven forbid, even trust each other.

  DFAT is sceptical of Colin; after all, he is part of the media – the enemy. As it turns out, he is a godsend. By the end of our conversation I’m wishing I’d been put in touch with Colin, or in fact any other kidnap victim, earlier. Colin says that he and José Cendón, the photographer he was captured with, had discussed Nige and Amanda and often wondered how they were faring, having been held for so long.

  Colin and I don’t discuss strategy. All I want to know is how they coped. How often they got POLs. How they were treated – really treated, not the airbrushed version. What sort of a rapport, if any, they established with their kidnappers. How he is now.

  I am elated to hear his responses. Here is someone who has been through the same experience as Nige, and who is far from being messed up. There is every chance that Nige is going to come out of this okay. I haven’t felt so good about his chances in months.

  But both Colin and I know not to compare the cases too closely. Different gangs, different parts of the country. And as corrupt as it is, Puntland has some semblance of government. The south, however, has zip.

  There are a couple of things I am interested in that Colin has no idea about so he puts me in touch with his titular head, Adrian. Not to be confused with Adrian from the AFP.

  ‘I love how you Brits use language,’ I say to Adrian. ‘You couldn’t be called “tit” anything here without piss-taking.’

  Adrian, as it turns out, is just as delightful to talk to as Colin, and incredibly informative. All the don’t-discuss-anything-with-the-media warnings are unwarranted. There is no way these guys would do anything to jeopardise Nigel and Amanda’s safety; they have just got their own people out of a hostage situation.

  I ask him so many questions that Adrian gives me the number of the security agency that facilitated Colin’s release.

  I am thrumming with excitement. I phone David, the Sunday Telegraph’s K&R guy, and he certainly seems to know his stuff. David’s view is that we ca
nnot move forward till we set up our own crisis management team with Amanda’s family and remove any other players – that is, the government – and preferably run the negotiation process in Nairobi.

  David passes on some alarming news: he has heard that Nigel and Amanda have attempted to escape, going to a mosque for sanctuary. I am chilled by the thought. What would be happening to him now? Unsuccessful escape attempts historically have been a pretty good way of getting the shit beaten out of you, if not killed.

  David also tells us there are unconfirmed rumours that Amanda is pregnant. This sends us into a tailspin. Amanda’s unmarried: won’t she get stoned? What if she and Nige were madly shagging and it’s his baby? Or if it’s her boyfriend’s, what’s his say in all of this?

  The worst case scenario is if this is a product of rape by the kidnappers. I feel sick. This ‘what if’ is a place I don’t want to go. It’s too gut-wrenchingly scary, and all too possible; they are in a war zone and men in wartime can do the most hideous things.

  We ask DFAT if Lorinda and Jon have been told. It appears not. Ham is now at the point of ‘verbals are for gerbils’ and is writing and emailing everything so we have a paper trail. In the subject line of his latest email to DFAT, Ham writes, as only he can, ‘one toasted shit sandwich coming up’. Ham gives DFAT a day to have this discussion with Jon and Lorinda or we will have it for them.

  DFAT’s response is surprisingly prompt, a twenty-four-hour turn around. It’s amazing what a threat will do. The reply is that the Mounties have talked to Lorinda about the unconfirmed reports.

  Good, I think, that was not a phone call I wanted to make. It made me feel like a real Mrs Jessop, but I couldn’t let the rumour go unspoken, none of us could. If it’s true, this would not be a case of ignorance being bliss. But DFAT has thrown some extra info into the email for fun.

  ‘As has been discussed with members of your family, negotiators have agreed not to limit efforts to a single line of enquiry and other strategies are currently being considered, including direct contact with the kidnappers.’ I can’t tell where this is going.