Australian photojournalist held 462 days in Somalia after 2008 kidnapping

I arrived in Mogadishu as a conflict photojournalist in 2008. Years of civil war had left the Somali capital in tatters. As rival factions continued to fight for power, hundreds of thousands had been forced from their homes. I had arranged to visit a camp for displaced people, joined by a Canadian journalist named Amanda.

The camp was in a militia zone, so we took two armed guards, but they soon jumped out of the car, saying it was not safe to go any farther. I was not happy about being unaccompanied for the drive, but it was that or abort the trip.

About 20 minutes later, masked men with guns surrounded the car. My door was wrenched open and I was flung to the ground. We were ordered not to talk, and driven to a compound.

“We’re going to hold you for ransom,” one captor said. They wanted $3 million. My heart sank. I knew the government in my home country, Australia, refused to negotiate with terrorists. “If it’s not paid in 24 hours, you’ll be executed,” they said.

I was terrified. The wait was agonizing, but when the deadline passed, we allowed ourselves a sigh of relief. Eventually, our kidnappers realized they would not get anywhere via government channels and demanded numbers for our families.

My parents did not even know I was in Somalia. I had told them I was traveling to Kenya so they would not worry. I knew they did not have the money and felt sick with guilt.

Days became weeks. At first, Amanda and I were allowed to stay together in a stifling room with cockroaches and dirty mattresses. As the days stretched by, I tried to build a relationship with the captor who spoke English, figuring it would be harder for them to kill me if they liked me. Amanda and I even converted to Islam to give us common ground with our guards.

That meant we could no longer share a room, so we communicated by leaving notes in our shared bathroom. To pass the days, I did yoga and read the Qur’an. I even started learning Arabic.

We tried to keep our spirits up, but after five months we began to lose hope. I had been allowed to speak to the Australian police, who confirmed no official ransom could be paid. I knew from short phone calls that my family were frantically cobbling together what they could, but that took time.

Every time I took a bathroom break, I started digging the crumbling mortar from the wall. Finally, after three days, I had loosened enough so Amanda and I could squeeze through. Free at last, we ran towards the nearest mosque. Men inside tried to help, but gunmen were right behind us. We were dragged back to our prison.

All the goodwill I had cultivated was gone. My ankles were shackled. If I wanted the toilet, I had to bang my cup on the floor. This was my lowest point. Weeks, then months, blurred into one another. The mental trauma was the worst: endless hours staring at the walls, thinking about my family and the dreams I had never achieve.

Nearly a year had passed since our escape attempt when someone cut the padlocks and threw me some clothes. I was relieved to see Amanda outside, but shocked at how gaunt she looked. I knew I must look the same. “Are you OK? Do you know what’s going on?” I asked, but she shook her head.

We were bundled into a car, then a second, and a third. A man we had never met handed a phone to Amanda. “Hello Mum,” I heard her say. We had been rescued.

My family had paid the kidnappers more than half a million pounds. They had liquidated everything and fundraised for the rest. Arriving home, I was euphoric but racked with guilt.

I have my own family now. I live in Tasmania with my wife, Alanna, and our two boys, Rumi, 10 and Omar, five, both named after Muslim poets. I have kept a healthy respect for Islam, as I know its real roots are based in peace.

My boys know a bit about my story. One day I will read them my memoir. You might think my experience would make me an anxious father, but the opposite is true. I want my boys to get out in the world and truly live life.

With endless hours to think in my 462 days of captivity, I realized all that mattered was family and friends. Now I will never take them for granted.

As told to Jacqui Paterson