Now approaching the city limits, we were passing refugees loping along the road—families hauling themselves westward, away from the besieged urban streets. I could see sprawling encampments, dwellings made of tarps stretched over tree boughs that had been bent like hoops, looking like a fleet of ragtag, rigged sailboats. Minibuses running between Afgoye and Mogadishu traveled both lanes of the highway. A haze of yellow dust hung in the air. We pulled up at the final government checkpoint, where several dozen uniformed soldiers sat in the shade under a large tent. Someone lifted the hatch on the car. Our TFG guards wordlessly climbed out. Our driver rolled down his window and called out something in Somali to the departing soldiers, and within seconds we were moving again, headed into a short stretch of no-man’s-land that separated the government area from the militia area.
The road curved away from the checkpoint. In the front seat, Abdi was talking into his cell phone. I was looking at more photos—a series I’d taken of Nigel, sweetly kicking a ball with some children in the Old City—when I felt the car slow. I assumed we were meeting our new set of guards. I didn’t bother to lift my head. Sitting next to me, Nigel was absorbed with his own camera. But the energy inside the car shifted; the air seemed suddenly tinged with electricity. The three Somali men in the front seat were muttering. I looked up and saw a dark blue Suzuki station wagon parked on the opposite side of the road. I then saw someone standing in front of our car, a man with a gun, his head, nose, and mouth swaddled in a red-checkered scarf, the kind favored by mujahideen fighters around the world. His dark eyes bulged. The gun was pointed directly at our windshield.
Abdi switched to English. “This could be a problem,” he said.
More bandits appeared from behind the parked Suzuki, circling our car, guns hefted—about twelve of them altogether.
I immediately started hoping for a robbery. Something fast, in which they took everything and then vanished.
Someone tugged open the back door, the heat spilling into the air-conditioned capsule of the car. People were shouting in Somali, male voices. Abdi and the two other men in the front seat were pulled out and thrust into a ditch by the side of the road. I watched Nigel climb out. A man in a scarf yelled in my face. I could see beads of sweat running from his covered forehead down past his nose. He looked young. I raised my arms—like I’d seen done a hundred times in movies—and slid my way out into the blaze of sunlight.
Was this real? How could it be real?
Just then I caught sight of a passerby, a woman, floating like an apparition past us, headed toward a junction in the road. She was looking and not looking, trying to pretend she hadn’t seen us, her head scarf streaming behind her as she moved. She walked on without once looking back. I began to understand that what was happening was real. From behind, someone shoved me toward the ditch. I knelt first and then dropped forward into the sand next to where Nigel was already lying facedown beside Abdi and the two others. I spread my arms and legs, as everyone else had done.
It got quiet. Someone seemed to be searching our car. Out of the corner of one eye, I could see the narrow cave of a gun barrel pointed at my head, about twelve inches away. My mind and body felt eerily calm. I thought for sure we were about to be shot.
The bandits were jabbering at us again. We were pulled to our feet. Abdi, Nigel, and I were waved back into the SUV. I was relieved to see one of the gunmen rifling through Nigel’s backpack. It was a robbery after all, I thought. They’d take our stuff and then let us go.
Three of the bandits now sat in the front seat. Four of us—Nigel, Abdi, me, and another of the gunmen—occupied the middle. I could hear several more climbing into the hatch. I wasn’t sure what had happened to the two other guys—our driver and the security guy who’d come from the IDP camp—but the rest of us were packed in tightly, sucking down what felt like the last available oxygen, smelling like sweat and fear. My own backpack sat at my feet, with the fancy camera inside. When were they going to take it? Why weren’t they demanding our wallets? The man in the driver’s seat turned the key. The car engine jumped to life. We accelerated, falling into place behind the Suzuki, which had executed a quick U-turn and was now leading us. For another minute or so, we rocketed over the paved road and then made an abrupt right-hand swerve onto an unmarked sandy track.
Shit. Panic was rising in me. We were moving off the grid. We barreled over scrubby, russet-colored hills, shoulders knocking, heads flailing, as we dodged thorn trees and ran right over bushes, not following any sort of path. With every passing minute, I knew, we were rushing farther away from anywhere someone would think to look for us. Beneath my abaya, I was sweating heavily. I could feel my jeans pasted to my legs.
“Abdi,” I said, “what’s happening?” My voice came out high and quavering.
“NO TALKING!” shouted one of the men in the front seat. I took note that he spoke English.
Desperate for reassurance, I tried again, my pitch continuing to rise. “What’s happening, Abdi? Is everything going to be okay? You have to tell me. Is everything all right?”
“Be quiet,” Abdi said under his breath, fiercely. There was nothing reassuring about it. He was no less terrified than we were.
I thought about the cell phone in my backpack. I had a phone number for Ajoos written on a page in my notebook, also in the backpack. But how could I get it? And what would I say? Looking over my shoulder, I could see a gun barrel fixed on my head, and behind the gun, a kid holding it. His scarf had come loose from his face. His cheeks were round with baby fat, his eyes lit with terror when he caught my gaze. He held the weapon awkwardly, as if he’d never done this before. He couldn’t have been older than fourteen, I guessed.
As we banged on through the desert, an order was called out from the front seat. The man sitting back with us grunted something in Somali and held out a palm. Abdi translated. He wanted our phones. Of course he did. My heart sank like a stone. I handed over my phone, and Abdi did the same. I figured that Nigel’s was in his bag, which already had been taken away. I watched as the man powered them down.
We lurched to a stop in a flat, empty area, pulling up next to the Suzuki. A man in civilian clothes got out of the driver’s side, walked over, and opened my door. He had a black-and-white scarf draped tidily over his shoulders, but his face was uncovered. He was clean-shaven and in his mid-twenties, with thick eyelashes, an alert expression, and slightly protruding front teeth. When he leaned in to look at us, his eyes landed intently on me.
“Hello,” he said in relaxed English, his tone soothing, as if welcoming me into a restaurant. He showed no interest in Nigel. “My name is Ahmed.” He pronounced it Ock-med. “Please, come with me.”
Ahmed waved me out of the SUV—me only. He was separating us. I didn’t turn to look at Nigel, for fear I’d betray my panic. Already, I was one woman among about sixteen men. Now they were taking me away from my one sure ally. I had to pretend it didn’t matter. Quietly, I followed Ahmed as he led me over to the parked Suzuki and directed me into the backseat. A masked man slid in next to me. Two more of the gunmen sat behind me. Nobody’s body was touching mine, but I could feel the humid closeness of them. The car shot forward again, skidding through the sand.
Where is it that we learn the cliché about how talking can help keep you alive? How it’s necessary to remind the bad guys that you’re a human being? I had an idea about what I should do. I focused on Ahmed, who was up front next to the driver. He had one arm slung over the seat, his neck crooked so he could look in my direction. He was smiling, like a fisherman who’d reeled in something big.
As calmly as I could, I started talking. I told Ahmed my name. I told him I was from Canada, a place where many Somalis had come to live. I said I was a journalist. That we were headed to an IDP camp to help tell the story of Somalia. I said I loved Somalia already, that its beauty was stunning. I tried to sound earnest, girlish even. I cautiously worked a political angle. For the first time ever, I felt grateful that I’d spent those
few months working for the Iranians, since old Mr. Nadjafi in Tehran had taught me a thing or two about how to tweak my words in order to sound less Western, more Islamic. “I am saddened,” I said to Ahmed, “by the occupation of your country.” I was referring to the Ethiopians and the Ugandans, the Christians, the outsiders. I added that I had worked for an Islamic television station in Baghdad.
Sitting next to me in the backseat was a man I would learn later was named Ali. His face was wrapped in a purple scarf, his eyes visible through a narrow slit. If Ahmed seemed friendly, almost a peer, this guy—what little I could see of him—appeared hardened and mean. He was looking at me carefully. “You are a Christian?” he said in stilted English.
This was a loaded question. I knew from my travels that in the eyes of devout Muslims, it was generally better to be a “person of the book”—a Christian or a Jew—than to have no religion at all.
“Yes,” I told him. “But I have deep respect for Islam.” I paused to see how this would go over.
Ahmed turned back to regard me. He smiled again, in a way that gave me some hope. “Sister,” he said, “don’t worry, nothing will happen to you. There is no problem here. Inshallah.” God willing, it meant. He added, “We are soldiers in the Islamic army. Our commander would like to ask you some questions. We are taking you to our base. We think maybe you are spies.”
I could feel the fear spike in my throat. Journalists often got accused of being Western spies. I tried to keep talking. I was babbling at this point, listing off every Islamic country I’d been to, as if that made me more of an insider. There was a golden-brown fur rug draped over the middle console in the front seat. “What kind of fur is that?” I said, making a ridiculous attempt to sound casual. “What animal does it come from?”
Ahmed ignored the question. He dialed a number on his cell phone and said a few words. A few minutes later, the car stopped again. The back door opened, the guard to my left climbed out, and Nigel, looking pale, got in, having come from the SUV behind us. He was breathing hard, on the verge of hyperventilating. The guard slid in next to him, sandwiching the two of us together.
“Nigel,” I said brightly, gesturing to the front seat as the car began to roll, “this is our brother Ahmed. These men are soldiers. Ahmed has promised that nothing bad will happen to us.”
I sounded like some insane schoolteacher, I knew. I was pronouncing my words deliberately, keeping an overcooked smile on my face. Nigel flared his eyes questioningly at me. I flared mine back, unsure what we were communicating but relieved at least that we were together.
Inside my head, a battle raged between rational and irrational. Some part of me believed this was only a misunderstanding, that we were unwelcome in this territory, with our flashy hotel car and our white skin, and we’d get some sort of militiaman reprimand about overstepping our boundaries before being sent back down the road. Then again, I knew enough from my stays in Iraq and Afghanistan, from following the news in those places, to understand that angry extremists liked to behead their enemies. I wasn’t sure which thought was the more unreasonable one.
Every time the car went over a bump, a gun barrel hit my skull from behind. I felt certain it would get knocked hard enough to go off. “Brother Ahmed,” I said, “could you please ask the soldier to take his gun away from my head? I have no weapon. I’m not a danger to you, and it’s scaring me.”
Ahmed said something in Somali to the soldier behind me. The gun was repositioned but only slightly. I noticed that Ahmed wore a gold watch. I caught a hint of sweet cologne coming off his extended arm.
I tried to think strategically, imagining some conversation we’d have with this Islamic commander who was waiting for us, wondering what I could say to persuade him we weren’t spies—that they should relieve us of our belongings and return us to Mogadishu. Mogadishu at this point sounded like home to me, like a place worth longing for. I imagined this commander rummaging through our bags, inspecting our stuff. I thought then of our cameras, of the dozens of images we’d shot of African Union troops and TFG guards on patrol in Mogadishu. Their existence could create the impression that we were allied with the infidels, that we were on the wrong side of the holy war. All they’d need to do was turn on the cameras and start pressing buttons.
“Excuse me?” I said to the man sitting next to me. “My lips are dry. Is it okay if I open my bag and take out some cream?”
The man stared at me blankly, then gestured in a vaguely permissive way.
I bent down and began rooting through my backpack with both hands, pretending to look for my lip balm. I felt my cheeks flush with the lie as my fingers found the camera and then located the slot that housed the memory card. Working quickly, I pressed the tiny lever that released the card and then, keeping it trapped between two fingers, I flicked it away from the camera and into the recesses of the backpack. Now, at least, they’d have to make an effort to see my photos. I grabbed the stick of balm and lifted it with a flourish. Ali averted his eyes as I rubbed it over my lips, but I could tell he was watching.
“Sister, why are you not afraid?”
“What?”
Ali had asked the question, not looking directly at me. He seemed provoked by my confidence, false as it was—angered, maybe, that I wasn’t weeping or begging.
I thought quickly and spoke loudly. “I’m not afraid because my brother Ahmed has promised that nothing bad will happen.”
In the front seat, Ahmed was again talking on his phone. I hoped that he’d caught what I’d said. I could hear Nigel, sitting on the other side of Ali, struggling to calm his breathing. I wondered what had happened to his camera.
Just then we tore past another vehicle, coming in the opposite direction, a truck full of young men with guns. I craned my neck to watch them pass. In twenty minutes of driving, we hadn’t seen a single human, animal, or structure. I felt a hard knock on my arm, a smack from Ali. “Why are you looking?” he screamed. He seized the loose end of my head scarf, yanking it over my face. There was an odd terror in his voice.
We drove on awhile in silence, before I tried again with Ahmed. “My brother,” I said, leaning slightly forward in my seat, trying to sound friendly, directing my words toward the back of his head, “is this about money?”
He turned to look toward me, his face breaking into a wide smile, as if we were alighting on the notion together, as a team.
“Ah yes,” he said. “Maybe so. Maybe it is like that.”
17
Tuna Fish and Tea
After about forty-five minutes of driving, having briefly rejoined a paved road before pulling off into the desert again, we arrived at a small mazelike village where narrow sand lanes snaked between a jumble of walled-off properties. The car pulled up outside a large rusty gate made of blue metal. Ahmed got out, produced a set of keys, and unlocked it. The gate swung open, and I could see more masked soldiers waiting inside, in a compound surrounded by high walls. The Shamo SUV was no longer with us. Abdi and the two other Somali guys we’d been taken with were gone.
I climbed out, holding my backpack, figuring it would be a matter of minutes before they searched it. I counted nine or ten masked men, all of them staring at us, guns strapped over their shoulders. In addition to scarves, they wore jeans and collared dress shirts. Their bodies looked lean and young, despite the Q-tip-like wrapping over their heads. And they were keyed up, it was easy to see. It seemed they’d been ordered not to speak in front of us. One of the soldiers walked over and shut the gate behind us.
If this were some sort of army base, it was a small and hardscrabble one. There was a long, low, tin-roofed building shaped like a shoe box, with three doors equally spaced on its outside wall. I could see what looked to be a cooking area underneath a lean-to made from hammered-together scrap wood and a thick-trunked acacia whose branches hung heavily over the yard. In front of the house beside the gate was a small shed, which I took to be an outhouse. I turned to Ahmed. “Can I use the bathroom, please?” I sa
id.
He pointed in a solicitous manner toward the shed. “Of course, my sister.”
One of the soldiers escorted me. I carried my bag with me, hoping nobody would notice. The bathroom had tall walls and no roof. Inside was a stale-smelling shallow hole cut into the concrete floor. It did not seem to have been used recently. Standing to one side of the hole, I pulled out my camera and switched it on, cringing at the sound of its electronic ping, hoping nobody could see me through the wide cracks on either side of the wooden door. Fishing the memory card from the bag, I reinserted it and quickly hit “delete all” on the stored photos, erasing the evidence of what we’d done thus far in Mogadishu. For good measure, I squatted down and peed into the hole before exiting.
Back outside, the soldier named Ali—the one who’d hit my arm in the car—barked an order to one of the younger-seeming soldiers, who approached me with a plastic bucket of water so I could wash my hands. Ali then marched me toward the low building, to a darkened room on the far left, where I found Nigel sitting on a foul-looking foam mat, his shoulders pressed up against a dirty wall. The air was musty. Along the back was a small window with closed metal shutters. A very long time ago, the room had been painted a pale shade of pink. The floor was strewn with bits of electrical wire. Nigel had lit a cigarette and was looking distraught.
A House in the Sky: A Memoir Page 14
