anything he could that might be useful against these guys if we survived. While it wasn’t a plan, it was a piece of one; I began gathering any information I could. There was no way to know what might be useful, so I just tried to observe everything and commit as much to memory as possible. Our main focus was on the kidnappers themselves, since the temporary locations they ducked us in and out of didn’t really make much difference. They kept us outdoors the whole time.
The region was sparsely populated. The only other people we saw were glimpses of wandering nomads, always passing. They seemed not to see us, detached from the doings of outsiders, as they have been for centuries.
I began to put forth a timid question or two in spite of the belligerence exuded by the men. The first problem was to determine who their “leader” was. Poul broached the topic, and together we tested the situation, using pidgin and pantomime to ask if we might be permitted to place a call to our NGO. We weren’t going to be allowed to make phone calls, but it was important to see who would make the decision. I tried to convey the idea that our people would surely be worried about us, but that was a difficult idea to mime.
Finally they appeared to get the message. Our suggestion was rejected out of hand. But I noticed the decision seemed to be agroup sentiment, not a response made on anyone’s order. One of the men barked something indicating that before we communicated with the outside world, everybody had to wait for permission from the “Chairman.” Whoever this was, he hadn’t arrived yet.
Now we had that much—not only was there an identifiable leader, but he went by the businesslike title of the Chairman, instead of a clerical title of any kind. If someone referred to a mullah, that Muslim title would indicate Al-Shabaab, in this region. Thus the difference in title was no small distinction. A secular title was good news. Very good news.
Someone brought me a scarf to make sure I stayed covered, and I was provided with a can of tuna, a packet of sugary cookies, and a small bottle of water. Funny how the mind works to shield us from grave danger; I felt concerned about how I was supposed to eat tuna with my filthy fingers after hours of being pushed in and out of cars, stumbling hands to the ground, and sleeping in the dirt. The answer in that moment was a wrapped tampon in my small black bag. I took off the wrapper and used the applicator as an eating utensil, then tucked it back in the bag to keep handy. At least I could do something about dirty fingers. That small victory in hygiene somehow made it easier to tolerate the fact that I could do so little about the odds of getting my head blown off.
• • •
There were about twenty Somali men milling around our latest stopping place. Their number included that same boy I’d noticed during the initial attack because of his high voice. My first assumption was that he must be the son of one of these men. But it quickly became evident that nobody was watching over him; he looked completely wasted on khat, and he fidgeted away the drug’s stimulant effect by constantly running his mouth and throwing out macho poses with his AK-47.
Here you go, Jessica, my own thoughts taunted me —a child soldier. Help the poor thing. Although I came to Africa on a wave of concern about the plight of child soldiers, I hadn’t asked myself what I would do if I was taken prisoner by them. My first lesson in this boy’s case was simple: The term “child soldier” was a misnomer. This boy’s childhood was long gone. He had a khat user’s black holes where his eyes ought to have been. I had no doubt he was capable of forgetting why we were kidnapped in the first place and killing us for his own amusement. Even if he could control his impulses, he and all the other armed men were so offhanded in the handling of their weapons that even now with the terror ride over, my experience of the
The region was sparsely populated. The only other people we saw were glimpses of wandering nomads, always passing. They seemed not to see us, detached from the doings of outsiders, as they have been for centuries.
I began to put forth a timid question or two in spite of the belligerence exuded by the men. The first problem was to determine who their “leader” was. Poul broached the topic, and together we tested the situation, using pidgin and pantomime to ask if we might be permitted to place a call to our NGO. We weren’t going to be allowed to make phone calls, but it was important to see who would make the decision. I tried to convey the idea that our people would surely be worried about us, but that was a difficult idea to mime.
Finally they appeared to get the message. Our suggestion was rejected out of hand. But I noticed the decision seemed to be agroup sentiment, not a response made on anyone’s order. One of the men barked something indicating that before we communicated with the outside world, everybody had to wait for permission from the “Chairman.” Whoever this was, he hadn’t arrived yet.
Now we had that much—not only was there an identifiable leader, but he went by the businesslike title of the Chairman, instead of a clerical title of any kind. If someone referred to a mullah, that Muslim title would indicate Al-Shabaab, in this region. Thus the difference in title was no small distinction. A secular title was good news. Very good news.
Someone brought me a scarf to make sure I stayed covered, and I was provided with a can of tuna, a packet of sugary cookies, and a small bottle of water. Funny how the mind works to shield us from grave danger; I felt concerned about how I was supposed to eat tuna with my filthy fingers after hours of being pushed in and out of cars, stumbling hands to the ground, and sleeping in the dirt. The answer in that moment was a wrapped tampon in my small black bag. I took off the wrapper and used the applicator as an eating utensil, then tucked it back in the bag to keep handy. At least I could do something about dirty fingers. That small victory in hygiene somehow made it easier to tolerate the fact that I could do so little about the odds of getting my head blown off.
• • •
There were about twenty Somali men milling around our latest stopping place. Their number included that same boy I’d noticed during the initial attack because of his high voice. My first assumption was that he must be the son of one of these men. But it quickly became evident that nobody was watching over him; he looked completely wasted on khat, and he fidgeted away the drug’s stimulant effect by constantly running his mouth and throwing out macho poses with his AK-47.
Here you go, Jessica, my own thoughts taunted me —a child soldier. Help the poor thing. Although I came to Africa on a wave of concern about the plight of child soldiers, I hadn’t asked myself what I would do if I was taken prisoner by them. My first lesson in this boy’s case was simple: The term “child soldier” was a misnomer. This boy’s childhood was long gone. He had a khat user’s black holes where his eyes ought to have been. I had no doubt he was capable of forgetting why we were kidnapped in the first place and killing us for his own amusement. Even if he could control his impulses, he and all the other armed men were so offhanded in the handling of their weapons that even now with the terror ride over, my experience of the
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