Michael Scott Moore – TRANSCRIPT
When this picture ran on a story I published last year about being held hostage by Somali pirates, one British soccer fan wrote in to comment: “Bastards making him wear a Manchester United shirt I’d be pissed too.” That is a Manchester United jersey, and it was one of a few pieces of clothing that the pirates gave me. Cheap clothing they had probably stolen from a cargo ship. I’m not a particular soccer fan. But you probably know that Manchester United is like the New York Yankees of international football. People feel passionately about them, for and against, and all my pirates were soccer fans.
At another point in my captivity, I was sitting in a prison house, wearing the same shirt, and a new pirate came in, a young guy I’d never seen before. He didn’t know how I liked to dress. He sat in a corner and looked at me for a long time until I thought he was going to hit me or something like that. Finally, he said: “You support Manchester?” I think he was a Barcelona fan. Some people have asked – It’s true.
Some people have asked how I can make light of the experience in Somalia, or how I can maintain a sense of humor about it, and I don’t know if I have a complete answer, but I will try to give you one. It’s true that having a sense of humor, or trying to maintain one, helped me survive there. But it’s also true that there was nothing especially funny about Somalia itself. While I was there, I didn’t smile very often, as you can see, and I probably laughed out loud about five or six times. I was captured in early 2012, in January, when I went down to research a book.
I’d just covered the trial of ten pirates in Hamburg, in Germany, where I happen to live. I went with another journalist, and we traveled around, we gathered some material. He went to Mogadishu and I went with him to the airport. It was on the way back from the airport that a truck full of pirates ambushed us, overwhelmed my security, came to my side of the car, and pulled me out, beat me with their rifles, broke my wrist, bloodied my scalp, broke my glasses, which I sometimes wear, and bundled me into a car that was waiting, and then drove me off into the bush, into the Somali bush, for about five or six hours, three or four hours, I’m not even sure. This is the Somali bush.
They held me there for two and a half years, just over, not always out in the open. Sometimes we camped, but sometimes, more often, we were in prison houses. And, for a span of about five or six months, I was actually on a hijacked ship on the water. But it was always in these atmosphere. While I was there, I thought about a book by Gerald Hanley called “Warriors,” which I had read before I went to Somalia, because Hanley was very eloquent about the effects of this landscape on the mind of a person who never grew up there.
This is Hanley. That’s a sketch of him by the director, John Houston. Hanley was an Irish novelist, ethnically Irish, who was born in England. He went to Somalia during World War II as part of the British Imperial Army. Since he was Irish, he had a very skeptical take on British imperialism.
He wrote a very good book, and he noticed while he was there that about 15 British officers went crazy in Somalia. A number of them committed suicide. And this is what he wrote: “It does not follow that just because all the suicides I knew were very serious, earnest men with little sense of humor, that only the humorless kill themselves when they are in good physical condition and still young.” There’s a lot in that quotation. It’s true that a sense of humor can help, and it’s true that Hanley had a good sense of humor, and it’s true that he didn’t kill himself.
But I’m going to argue that there’s not only something about a sense of humor that can help, but it may have nothing to do with humor itself. Sometimes, in Somalia I could do yoga, sometimes I could write in a journal, sometimes I could listen to the radio, but sometimes, I couldn’t do any of those things. In fact, I went for a year and a half with no radio and no notebook. Sitting, just sitting, with nothing to do in a baking prison-house like that is enough to drive you insane. My guards watched me with their guns and chewed khat, which was their leafy drug.
Every time I stood up to go to the bathroom or whatever, they would leap up to guard me, as if I was going to go somewhere, but I couldn’t. One day, the only guard in my room at that point stood up to leave, and he left his gun behind. He wasn’t supposed to do that. It happened more than once, but every time it happened I had to sit there and think very carefully about whether I was going to get up and take the gun. It would’ve been quite easy.