The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  Steffensen and the Danish ambassador Kai Carstensen, who is usually accompanied by guests from Kabul, monitor these conversations. The distinguished ambassador with the graying temples clears his throat in a certain way if any of the advisers, in frustrated tones, starts whining about any problems. “After all, it’s the Afghan people’s culture,” the ambassador will observe, sending a knowing glance at the politicians, who respond with their own knowing glance.

  Visits always end in a photo op, politicians surrounded by smiling, optimistic privates sporting the Danish trademark: blond hair, bleached almost white from the desert sun. Guests are then led out to a waiting helicopter. Later in the day, when they fly from Kabul toward Dubai, they’ve been in Afghanistan for less than twenty-four hours.

  Along with his job at Almegaard Barracks on Bornholm, Steffensen has been on the island’s city council for many years. After sixteen years in municipal politics, Ove Steffensen is proud of his ability to play the game. In dull meeting rooms with industrial carpet, uncomfortable chairs, laminated tables, and thermo-pane windows facing suburban homes and crowded parking lots, he has learned that you can talk your way through anything—that no principle is absolute. He brought these lessons with him to Afghanistan. Colonel Steffensen has come to the desert to make things work.

  Finally, there’s the matter of superiority in weapons. When it comes to firepower, he is undisputedly the strongest warlord in the area. If he wants, he could bomb the entire district center of Girishk to pieces. The Brits have done just that in Musa Qala and Sangin. The centers of both towns are nothing but rubble now; the soldiers spray-paint “Welcome to Hell-mand!” on the few walls left standing.

  Steffensen is wise enough to know that power doesn’t exist solely in weapons, not even in a war zone. When he discovers that the Pashto word for “enemy,” turburgunay, is derived from the word for “cousin,” turbur, he understands that hostility can thrive within your own family—which also means that a stranger can be your friend. So, there’s room to maneuver.

  This is where he comes in. Everything depends on alliances, agreements, deals—and those can be had with anyone.

  Even with him, the warlord from Denmark.

  And that’s a game he knows only too well.

  Whenever Ove Steffensen meets him, Naib Atmar is in his bare feet, his quick, light steps reminiscent of a dancer’s. Atmar’s wild and frizzy beard counterpoints his narrow face and heavy eyelids, which impart a refined, aristocratic air.

  A few months earlier, Atmar was subjecting the Danish troops to nightly mortar attacks, although no one was injured. Still, those hostile actions would seem to make Atmar an unlikely candidate for negotiating. But the Danish commander viewed the bombardments correctly: not as the opening of a new war front but as an opportunity for discussion. He invited the Afghan to a meeting, and when Atmar showed up, he knew he was right.

  Under a previous British commander, Atmar entered into a dubious agreement by which members of his poorly equipped and opium-dazed militia would man eight checkpoints surrounding the camp. His ragtag army was supposed to believe they were protecting the already fortified camp, with Atmar receiving a handsome monthly sum in American dollars for this obvious scam. Steffensen’s predecessor, an uptight colonel from Holstebro who took over command of the camp from the Brits, was so outraged that he terminated the contract and ordered Atmar’s men to leave the checkpoints. And so began the nightly mortar attacks.

  Steffensen offered to resume Atmar’s monthly payments. The mortar attacks stopped the next night.

  That’s how simple it is.

  Not all problems can be solved on the battlefield—but they can at the negotiating table.

  Atmar loves to lecture his Danish partner about Helmand’s history. If this expansive desert landscape has any history at all, says the Afghan warlord, it’s a military history. Armies have marched in, first one way, then the other, not for hundreds of years but for thousands. They didn’t want anything—just to keep moving. “But we were in the way. That was our destiny. To be the ones who stand in the way of others’ plans.”

  Steffensen is inclined to agree. All the books he’s read about Afghanistan’s history say the same thing. These barren stretches of land have known more invaders than anywhere else on earth. And he responds every time with the same words of assurance. “You’re not in the way. We’re not here to conquer but to bring you a better life.”

  Naib Atmar nods and smiles. “I believe you. You’re not like the others.”

  Because the two men meet often, Atmar has constructed a small clay house just outside the camp’s entrance. Half buried in the ground, it also functions as a shelter. The house is a compromise. It’s within walking distance of Steffensen’s headquarters, but it belongs to Atmar. The Danish warlord comes to the Afghan warlord. A sign of respect.

  From Atmar, Steffensen receives what he ironically refers to as his first lesson in the local power structure. He’s taught when to add the suffix jan, which means “friend.” He must understand that in reality his status is only that of ashna, an acquaintance, neither friend nor enemy, merely a business partner. But jan makes everything better.

  Atmar is jan: Naib jan.

  The Ministry of Defense has informed Steffensen of a glitch in his agreement with Atmar. It’s not the arrangement the ministry disapproves of; they agree that Danish soldiers should not have their night’s sleep disturbed by incoming mortar fire. The method of payment is the problem. Someone might find it strange that Danish taxpayers’ money is ending up in the pockets of an Afghan warlord. Colonel Ove Steffensen’s mission is to find another solution with the same result, so that the nightly rain of fire doesn’t start up again.

  Food becomes a regular part of their ritual. Atmar serves kebabs on skewers so large you could stab someone with them. And there’s always naan, the flatbread, baked in a tandoor. Steffensen has learned to use bread instead of a knife and fork. He tears off a piece, folds it between his fingers, pulls meat off the skewer, and lifts it to his mouth. His fingers get greasy but it works.

  Atmar has installed a television that’s always on with the sound turned off and an Indian soap opera in full swing. Bosomy women show off their cleavage, which, out of respect for Afghan viewers, is blurred like the faces of still-unconvicted criminals in a news broadcast. The whole time they’re together, Atmar glances at the screen and then back again as if he has been caught doing something forbidden.

  Steffensen’s contribution to the evening is dessert, chocolate ice cream, brought from the mess tent in a freezer box. Vanilla ice cream with chocolate chips is the warlord’s favorite, and he gobbles it up with a spoon in greedy mouthfuls. Ice cream drips all over his beard, which he cleans off with his fingers after drying them on his embroidered kirtle.

  Roshaan, the interpreter, sits next to Steffensen. A place is never set for him, though, not even a cup of tea. In the warlord’s eyes, he’s merely a servant who uses his tongue instead of his hands.

  In such a lawless land, every agreement is, by nature, informal. It involves faith and mutual benefit, along with an unsentimental assessment of the other party’s strengths and weaknesses. No one is either weak or strong. All people are complex, and so their destinies are entwined. This is how Steffensen sees Naib Atmar—as someone with whom he will share a destiny, at least for a time.

  “We’re here to support an Afghan government elected by the people,” says Ove jan. “We’re here to build a democracy.”

  If Ove jan wants to call Afghanistan a democracy, that’s fine with Atmar. They’re involved in a rhetorical exercise in which they both take a certain satisfaction. “Yes,” says the warlord, “we all support democracy here in Afghanistan. Democracy is the best form of government.”

  As a professional, Roshaan translates Atmar’s statements with a neutral expression on his face. Roshaan once told Steffensen that if the Taliban wins, he’s finished. A tall, thin, clean-shaven man wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket,
he represents modern Afghanistan. Roshaan hasn’t abandoned his studies, but with no family to support him, he has had to place them on hold. So he’s working as an interpreter. He always refers to Naib as “this man,” as if he wants to establish distance between himself, someone studying economy at the university in Kabul, and the warlord from Afghanistan’s bloodiest province. Perhaps he even looks down on him.

  Roshaan has a wife, one whom he chose, and two children. He and his wife both lost their parents during the Russian occupation. In a world where families include scores of members living under the same roof, surrounded by protective walls, they are totally alone.

  “We have a problem,” insists Steffensen. “In a democracy there’s an army, and only the soldiers have the right to bear arms. They’re the ones who guarantee a nation’s safety. In Afghanistan, you have many private armies and armed men who don’t obey the state. It’s the opposite of law and order. It’s chaos. At least seen through the eyes of democracy.”

  Glancing at Roshaan, Steffensen senses that the interpreter views the warlords as bumpkins with too much power. The gaping chasm between Roshaan and the rural population might be as large as the one between Danish soldiers and local farmers. His dreams hang in the balance with this war; he notices a certain obstinacy among the farmers, a tendency to hold on to the familiar, no matter how miserable.

  Yes, Roshaan grasps the purpose of the Danish soldiers’ presence. He’s the one they’re fighting for, so the interpreter is a man you can count on.

  Naib jan sends the Danish commander a worried look. “Ove jan,” he says earnestly, “I’m a good man. Without my men”—his right hand slices through the air in a horizontal motion—“no law and order. We protect the Danish soldiers. And we protect the Afghans. We are friends of democracy.”

  “I know that, Naib jan. But in a democracy no one can have his own private army.”

  Roshaan translates quickly, effortlessly. He doesn’t look at Steffensen while speaking.

  Atmar sits up. There’s still a drop of chocolate ice cream on his beard. His look implores Steffensen. “Ove jan. Am I your enemy now? Remember one thing.” He clenches his fist and then raises his index finger in a gesture that seems both instructive and threatening. “I can be a formidable enemy. I know the terrain, I know the locals, everyone is on my side. Without me, you’ll never manage. With me, you’ll achieve your goals.”

  “I know that, Naib jan, trust me. I’ve seen your strength. Our friendship is unbreakable.

  “It’s very simple,” Steffensen adds. “Our agreement will remain the same. We just can’t refer to you as a warlord. Do you know anything about the Italian Renaissance?”

  Naib jan nods. He knows nothing about it—he only knows that it’s important not to lose face.

  “Then you also know something about how they fought their wars?”

  “Of course. Just like us.”

  Steffensen thinks for a moment. Does Naib jan really know anything about it? This is Steffensen’s point: there’s a similarity between warfare in the Italian Renaissance and the way the Afghans fight.

  Steffensen is convinced that the high point in military history is the Italian Renaissance, when armies marched back and forth across the troubled peninsula, delivering one spectacular blow after the other. Thousands of men dressed in glorious uniforms battled each other—yet for reasons that have never been fully analyzed, losses were quite minimal, at most a hundred once a battle was over and the two parties retreated, one the victor, the other in a defeat that, upon closer inspection, was only apparent.

  “Have you ever wondered why the losses were so small?”

  Naib jan is hesitant. Steffensen’s first instinct was correct; the warlord knows nothing. Now he has to offer a lesson without sounding as if that’s what he’s doing.

  “The reason—which I’m sure you’ve already considered—is that all the armies were private businesses and their generals no more than senior executives, whose most important duty was not to win battles but to see to it that their employees were satisfied. If they lost too many men on the battlefield, they’d have difficulty recruiting new ones and soon find themselves at the head of an army with no men. The soldiers also placed demands on their workplace, the battlefield. They wouldn’t fight in the winter, for example, when it was too cold.”

  Naib jan nods. “We don’t want to, either.”

  “And when it rained they preferred to stay home to avoid catching colds.”

  “Just like us.” Naib jan nods again.

  Steffensen smiles. He has his own personal memory about warfare in the Italian Renaissance. While on his honeymoon with Karen in Venice, he took her to the square in front of Santi Giovanni e Paolo to see a statue of his favorite general, Bartolomeo Colleoni. The powerful horse in attack mode seems to merge with its rider, who is decked out in armor and a helmet and holding a sword at the ready. Colleoni has an experienced, haggard face with a pronounced chin, hook nose, and heavy eyes. He stares spitefully at his enemy.

  But it’s all a deception. The general is not on his way to battle.

  “Colleoni is a general after my own heart,” said Steffensen when he showed his wife the statue. Karen stared first at her husband’s peaceful expression and then at Colleoni’s belligerent and distorted profile. “You two couldn’t look more different,” she said, teasing him.

  “We have more in common than you’d think. Colleoni didn’t win any meaningful victories—nor did he suffer any total defeats. He just looked after his men properly and finally saved up a fortune, which he left to the city of Venice. That’s why there’s a statue of him. Here’s a general who took irrationality, hatred, and violence out of war and replaced them with simple business sense.”

  He can still see that moment. The springtime sun in her blond hair, the love in her eyes. It wasn’t the military man in him she admired. No, she saw the man he wanted to be. A constructive, practical man whose experiences helped him find a solution where others searched for an excuse for confrontation. A modern version of Colleoni.

  Steffensen leans forward and stares imploringly at the Afghan sitting across from him. “Being a warlord is over. It’s a word the West doesn’t like. They think you’re a wild man, running all over the desert with a bunch of armed bandits. We have to find words they know and value in the West. I suggest we call you ‘director’ and rename your militia a ‘security firm.’ If you agree, we just have to find a name for the firm so we can register it. I can help with the paperwork.”

  When the idea came to him the night before, he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He knows it by heart from his committee work on Bornholm. Outsourcing is the magic answer every time a problem demands a new solution. It means a reduction in costs, a transfer of responsibility, and most importantly—when policy is most effective—opaqueness. You start by turning the cleaning of a nursing home over to a private cleaning company, and you end by privatizing the entire nursing home. If something goes wrong, it’s the firm’s fault—not the city council’s.

  Now he’s outsourcing the war to his friend Naib Atmar and his militia.

  It takes some time, and some persistent efforts by Roshaan, before Naib jan grasps what Ove jan has in mind. Then he brightens. “Does that mean I still get my money?”

  Ove jan nods.

  “It might even mean you get more. We might find other jobs for you. We just have to come up with a name for the firm.”

  “‘Allah is great’—that’s a good name.”

  Ove jan shakes his head. “That won’t work. It will be misunderstood in Denmark.”

  They sit in silence and think about it. “‘God’s Punishment,’” suggests Naib jan.

  “What about ‘Helmand Security’? I think there will be greater understanding in the Ministry of Defense for a firm with that name.”

  Naib jan raises his hands in the air as a sign of surrender. “Okay,” he says with a smile. “My friend Ove jan knows best.”

  Naib jan stands
up, which Ove jan takes as a sign that the meeting is over. He reaches out his hand for the obligatory handshake that here, as at home, always finalizes the deal. Instead of taking Steffensen’s hand, to his surprise, Naib jan stands next to him with both hands pressed against his own chest. “We must celebrate this. We will dance together. Attan.”

  He motions to the interpreter, as if the rest is up to him now. Roshaan explains that Attan is the national dance men perform at special festive occasions. He nods at Naib. “This man will now demonstrate the steps for you.”

  Ove jan takes the same stance as his Afghan business partner, who, with pedagogical slowness, demonstrates the dance’s initial moves. Ove jan takes a step forward, then one more, stretches out his hands and claps; when Naib jan makes a sudden jump forward, Steffensen immediately imitates him.

  The former warlord, now director of Helmand Security, sends him an encouraging smile.

  Ove jan smiles back.

  5

  Something has been bothering Adam since the day he shot the Taliban fighter carrying the Fjällräven backpack. He participates just like the others in the daily activities of the platoon. He eats what he’s supposed to, performs his tasks, and fulfills his duties, but he does so mechanically, without enthusiasm. He’s brooding, closed up. His rank is squad leader—and it’s not good for a squad leader to be so removed. The others know exactly what his problem is; they just don’t know what to say to him.

  “Words don’t help,” says Viktor. As platoon sergeant, he has seen it often, men like Adam who shut down.

  “You’re walking around with a heavy stone inside you,” he says to Adam. “Think of your body as a catapult.”

  Viktor implements a rigorous training program, which he goes through with Adam. They run four hundred meters. They swing the kettlebell twenty-one times. They toss the one-hundred-thirty-kilo shot put twenty-one times. They do twenty-one pull-ups. Each round must be completed in five minutes. And then another round. And another. Five in a row. They hang next to each doing their pull-ups. Viktor’s neck muscles bulge. His twisted face turns bright red, his narrow lips exposing his teeth. He sweats, alternating between groaning and shouting.