A House in the Sky

“When I was a girl, I trusted what I knew about the world. It wasn’t ugly or dangerous. It was strange and absorbing and so pretty that you’d want to frame it. It came to me in photographs and under gold covers, in a pile of magazines, back-issue National Geographics bought for twenty-five cents apiece at a thrift store down the road. I kept them stacked on a nightstand next to my bunk bed. I reached for them when I needed them, when the apartment where we lived got too noisy.”

This excerpt provides a vivid reflection of how Lindhout, as a young girl, perceived and romanticized the world through the pages of National Geographic magazines, which contrasted sharply with her reality. This quotation encapsulates her initial worldview, sets the tone for her later adventures and hardships, and highlights her escapism and budding curiosity about the world beyond her immediate environment.

“When I was nineteen years old, I moved to Calgary. For any kid from central Alberta, Calgary is the big city, a beacon of possibility, ringed by busy highways, its glass towers rising up from the plains like a forest. It’s also an oil town, a boom-and-bust headquarters for stock traders and energy executives working to extract and sell the huge reserves of oil sitting beneath the soil.”

This excerpt sets the stage for Lindhout’s young adult life, marking a significant shift from her past experiences to new opportunities and challenges in a bustling urban setting. It encapsulates her transition into adulthood, characterized by independence and exploration, while also hinting at the underlying economic forces shaping her environment. This move to Calgary represents not just a physical relocation but also a pivotal moment of transformation in her life, which impacts her future choices and experiences detailed later in the narrative.

“As I calculated it, three or four months of serving martinis to nightclubbers in Calgary could buy me a plane ticket and four or five months of travel—six, if I kept the budget extra-tight. ‘What do you do?’ people would ask me casually, the way people do—new friends, the dentist, the woman seated next to me at a wedding. Or ‘What do you want to do?’ was what people who came into the bar more often asked, presuming correctly that nearly everyone working there had other aspirations. ‘I’m a traveler’ was what I’d say back. ‘I want to see the world.’ It felt exactly that simple.”

This passage encapsulates Lindhout’s identity as a traveler and highlights her motivation for working transient jobs: to fund her travels and explore different cultures. This self-identification not only drives her actions throughout the narrative but also shapes her experiences and the way she interacts with the world. The excerpt underscores a fundamental aspect of her character and thematic elements of wanderlust and the pursuit of freedom through travel.

“Here is the rule of proximity: You get to one place, and it becomes impossible, basically, not to start looking at whatever else is nearby. Climb to the top of one mountain, and you see the whole range. If you make it as far as Cambodia, what’s keeping you from Malaysia?”

This excerpt encapsulates the inherent restlessness and curiosity that drives Lindhout’s continuous journey. It illustrates the “rule of proximity,” a concept that once a traveler reaches a new destination, the nearby possibilities become irresistible, leading to an unending exploration. This idea reflects a broader theme of the book about the addictive nature of discovery and the expansion of personal boundaries through travel.

“Right as I was planning to leave for Afghanistan, a woman disappeared in Kabul. She was Italian, thirty-two years old, an aid worker who’d been living there a couple of years. Walking along the pedestrian mall in Peshawar, I’d happened to buy a Pakistani English-language newspaper and read the story.”

Lindhout’s spontaneous purchase of a newspaper leads to a serendipitous encounter with a story that acts as a stark reminder of the dangers she faces as a traveler in volatile regions. This moment of realization introduces a significant thematic element of the memoir: the intersection of adventure and danger. This highlights how external events can abruptly influence personal decisions and underscore the unpredictability and risks of traveling in conflict zones.

“It was about eight months later, in the winter of 2006, when I first spotted Nigel Brennan—a thin guy wearing a fleece jacket, cargo shorts, and hiking boots, sitting alone on an empty hotel veranda in Addis Ababa, the capital city of Ethiopia. I’d spent the summer and fall waiting tables in Calgary, stockpiling my money. I was now five weeks into what I figured would be a six-month tour through Africa and the Middle East, so long as I stuck to a careful budget.”

Lindhout describes her initial encounter with Nigel Brennan in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. This meeting marks the beginning of a significant relationship that deeply influences her journey and experiences. The detailed account of their first interactions, shared interests, and the immediate bond they form reveals Lindhout’s longing for connection amidst her extensive travels.

“Then one afternoon he called me and, in short order, started to cry. The truth followed quickly, propelled by a rush of fully uncorked guilt. As it turned out, Nigel did not have a girlfriend in London named Jane. The woman in London named Jane was his wife. They’d been together about ten years, like he’d told me in Ethiopia.”

This excerpt reveals a turning point in Lindhout’s journey, as she confronts unexpected betrayal and deception. Nigel’s confession that Jane is not his girlfriend but his wife shatters Lindhout’s trust, which marks a moment of disillusionment and hurt. This disclosure not only reshapes her understanding of their relationship but also forces a reevaluation of her own choices and desires.

“In all my years of studying National Geographic, in all the fantasizing I’d done about making my way in journalism, I’d somehow never managed to imagine, let alone meet, anyone who actually worked for the magazine. Here they were, in Mogadishu—a writer-and-photographer team, two guys, one American, one French—and in addition to me and Nigel, the only other guests occupying the forty-eight-room Shamo Hotel.”

Lindhout reflects on her longstanding admiration for National Geographic and her dreams of working in journalism. The sudden encounter with a writer-and-photographer team from the magazine in Mogadishu represents a collision of her aspirations with the harsh realities of her current situation. This moment highlights the stark contrast between her idealized fantasies and the challenging, dangerous world she navigates.

“I then saw someone standing in front of our car, a man with a gun, his head, nose, and mouth swaddled in a redcheckered 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.”

Lindhout describes the critical moment when she first encounters the armed man who represents the immediate and violent threat that culminates in her abduction. The man is masked with a red-checked scarf, a detail that not only anonymizes him but also connects him visually to global mujahideen fighters, amplifying the fear and danger of the situation. Abdi’s understated remark, “This could be a problem,” juxtaposed with the tense scene, subtly underscores the severity of their situation through its understatement, reflecting the surreal and precarious nature of their circumstances.

“For your frustration and misery, blame the girl. For two months of stasis and boredom and homesickness, blame the girl. For everything you don’t have, for everything you haven’t done, you can blame the girl. It is she who told her mother not to pay.”

Lindhout discusses the psychological manipulation within her captivity, where the captors shift blame onto her for their orustrations and failures. This passage reveals how gender plays a critical role in her experience, as she becomes a focal point for blame—symbolizing broader societal tendencies to burden women with responsibility for circumstances beyond their control. This scapegoating not only emphasizes the precarious position of women in hostile environments but also reflects the power dynamics and moral dissonance within her captors’ psyche.

“My mind felt liquid, spilling out of me, unable to hold a thought. I felt him reaching down for the hem of my Somali dress, tugging it upward. I kept talking, my voice muffled, my arms batting uselessly at him. ‘Don’t do this. Please don’t.’ He slammed a fist into the side of my head, and I felt my whole body go rigid. ‘Shut up I will kill you,’ he said. ‘ShutupIwillkillyou.’ Then he pushed himself into me and I wanted to die.”

The author recounts a traumatic experience of sexual assault. Her description captures the disorientation and desperation she felt during the attack, portraying her mental and emotional turmoil as her mind becomes “liquid,” signifying a loss of control and the inability to process her reality. The assailant’s brutal response and threats underscore the extreme power imbalance and the dehumanizing nature of the violence she endured.

“I should have hated Abdullah, but I hated myself more. My mind ticked through every mistake I’d ever made, every wrong thing about me. Why had I come to Somalia? What had I done? I’d spent eight weeks telling myself that this was all temporary, but now the reality felt unshakable. It didn’t help that every minute was basically the same as the last, every hour like the one just past.”

Lindhout reflects on her internal struggle and self-blame following her traumatic experience of sexual assault in captivity. Her self-criticism highlights a common psychological response to trauma, where the victim questions their own decisions and actions—in this case, her choice to come to Somalia.

“I realized the blade was serrated; I felt its teeth holding my skin. I begged them not to do it. I thought of every time Abdullah and Ali had mimicked the motion of beheading with their hands. I thought of the hacked-up Iraqi man I’d seen. I kept talking. I blurted a thought I’d never had, not once in my life, but which felt like a desperate certainty: You can’t do this. I haven’t had children. I want to have children. Was this really me? It was, it was.”

Lindhout is taken to a remote location in the desert, where she fears she is about to be executed. Under the moonlight, surrounded by her captors, she is pushed to her knees and feels a serrated blade against her neck. As the blade presses against her skin, Lindhout reflects on her life, expressing a desperate desire to live and experience motherhood. This incident illustrates the extreme physical and psychological threats she faced during her captivity.

“It was as if a starting gun had been shot, as if a seismic disturbance had unsettled the air, rippling over the rooftops to the patio where our captors lay in repose. Everything became instinctual then. The colors went flat and the world went insane. Nigel and I didn’t even look at each other. We just started, madly, to run.”

Lindhout describes the intense and spontaneous moment when she and Nigel decide to run from their captors. The imagery of a “starting gun” and a “seismic disturbance” highlights the sudden, instinctive nature of their escape, underscoring the chaos and desperation of the situation. The description vividly conveys the urgency and the surreal, almost dreamlike quality of their flight, adding to the overall narrative tension of their captivity and their relentless pursuit of freedom.

“As men jabbered around us, the woman tightened her hold on me. It was the most comfort I’d known in half a year, more if you counted back through the lonely months in Iraq. I wanted to stay there forever. I wanted to tell her everything. Lifting my head to find her eyes again, I told the woman I’d been a prisoner, that I wanted to go home.”

Lindhout describes a moment of human connection when, after escaping, she encounters a Somali woman in a mosque who offers her comfort. This embrace represents the first genuine compassion Lindhout has felt in months, which emphasizes the isolation and harshness of her captivity. Her reaction to the woman’s kindness—wanting to stay there forever and her desire to share her story—underscores her deep need for empathy and understanding. This moment not only highlights the stark contrast between her brutal captivity and moments of human kindness but also reinforces the theme of hope and the search for compassion in even the most dire of circumstances.

“‘Help me, please. Please.’ ‘They’re blaming you already,’ Nigel whispered to me. ‘I think you should just take this one.’ These were words that would stay with me a long time. A long, long time. Through everything that was to come, through the many hours I’d have to think about it, I’d turn his words over in my mind like a rock in the hand, looking for some seam that wasn’t there. I think you should just take this one. ‘I can’t do that,’ I whispered back to Nigel.”

Nigel suggests Lindhout accept blame for their attempted escape, as their captors were already blaming her. This advice, given under the pressure of captivity, deeply hurts Lindhout, highlighting the severe strains of their relationship under extreme stress. Her shock and refusal to accept blame reveal her resilience and the ethical challenges posed by their desperate situation, emphasizing the psychological toll of their ongoing ordeal.

“This was the Dark House. There were new rules here. My captors made them clear right away. I was not allowed to speak; nor was I allowed to sit up on my mat, not even for a minute. I was permitted to eat and drink only by propping myself on one elbow. Any infraction brought a beating. My prison was no longer the size of a room.”

Lindhout describes the severe restrictions and harsh treatment she faced in the “Dark House,” a shift to even more oppressive conditions within her captivity. The captors’ new rules—prohibiting speech, movement, and enforcing these rules through violence—illustrate an escalation in the severity of her imprisonment. This reflects not only the physical confinement that shrinks to less than the size of a room but also the intense psychological control and dehumanization she endured.

“On days when I was really struggling, when I felt the pressure in my mind moving again toward a snapping point, the voice posed questions. It said, in this exact moment, are you okay? The answer, in that exact moment, was steadying: Yes, right now, I am still okay.”

Lindhout shares a coping mechanism she employed during her captivity, focusing on the present moment to manage overwhelming stress and despair. The internal voice asking “are you okay?” and her affirmative response highlight her struggle to maintain mental stability and find moments of peace amidst the chaos.

“Some part of me couldn’t let go of the photo, though. I felt like Omar was mine to protect. I thought of us as allies. He’d left his house and now, in the twisted logic of his country, I was here, in his place.”

Lindhout reflects on her emotional attachment to a photo of a young boy she named Omar. Her feelings of responsibility toward Omar and viewing him as someone to protect, even as she occupies his home under duress, reveal her deep need for human connection and a sense of normalcy in her captivity, which highlights The Psychological Impact of Captivity.

“‘Are there any of the soldiers you would like to marry?’ By ‘soldiers,’ he meant the boys. I told him no, I never wanted to marry any of those soldiers. He smiled, raising his eyebrows. His voice was sonorous, wheedling. ‘If I asked you to marry me, would you be happy?’”

Lindhout recounts a chilling interaction with Romeo, one of her captors, who manipulates the concept of marriage as a tool of coercion. His question about marrying the soldiers—her guards—and his subsequent proposal reveal his attempt to trivialize her captivity and exert psychological control. This conversation underscores the power dynamics and the psychological manipulation she endures, which highlights the dehumanizing aspects of her experience.

“I hadn’t seen a bird in nearly a year. I’d always believed in signs—in charms and talismans, in messengers and omens and angels—and now, when it most mattered, I’d had one. I would live and go home. It didn’t matter what came next or what I had to endure. I would make it through. I believed it with a sureness I hadn’t felt since the beginning.”

Lindhout shares a moment of hope and conviction triggered by the sight of a bird, which she interprets as a sign of future survival and freedom. This experience reveals her reliance on symbols and omens as sources of strength and reassurance during her captivity. Her renewed certainty and belief in her eventual release underscore the importance of hope and psychological resilience in enduring and overcoming extreme adversity, a central theme in her memoir.

“I phrased what I wrote as a letter to my mother, a one-way conversation. I told her about my days. I described how I passed the time by escaping in my mind, how, if I needed to use the bathroom, I had to bang an empty water bottle on the floor to get my captors’ permission. I wrote about being hungry and lonely, and about the regrets that gathered at the edges of my mind each day, asking to be reviewed.”

Lindhout uses the notebook she receives to express her thoughts and emotions by writing a symbolic letter to her mother. This form of expression serves as a therapeutic outlet for her, where she details her daily struggles and mental escapes within the confines of captivity. Her description of simple actions like signaling to use the bathroom and enduring hunger illuminates her harsh realities. This reflective writing reveals her resilience and the importance of maintaining a psychological connection to her previous life and loved ones.

“The first person I spotted was my mother, waiting for me in the sunshine on the curb. She looked a little thin but beautiful. I was struck by how beautiful she was, in fact. It was as if time had folded in half, putting us back together as if nothing had ever happened. When she embraced me, we both wept hard.”

Lindhout describes the moment of reunion with her mother after enduring prolonged captivity. Her observation of her mother’s appearance and the emotional embrace they share highlight the deep connection and relief at being reunited. This scene symbolizes the restoration and healing beginning to take place, contrasting sharply with the trauma of her past experiences.