The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  Schrøder never says anything about his life back home. It’s like a tacit agreement between them. Not that they don’t talk, although he does most of the talking. He’ll suddenly get lost in a train of thought and say things she’s never heard him say before, to the platoon or to anyone else. It’s like he’s talking to himself out loud, which makes her feel privileged. She’s someone he confides in, not the intimate confidences of girlfriends, but his thoughts about the world. He speaks to her like a teacher speaking to a student. He wants to make her wiser, and that must be because he sees something in her. He wants something with her. She feels valued.

  “Look at Afghanistan,” he says. “We want everyone here to live together, Hazaras, Tajiks, Uzbeks, Pashtuns, and a hundred and seventeen other ethnic minorities. Do you realize that Europe fought two world wars because we refused to live with anyone who deviated even one iota from ourselves? Europe—where the flag looks best on a landscape covered in blood and dead bodies. We deported our human garbage to America, where they became a whole new people. The rest of us who stayed behind never managed to do that. Europe—always ready to serve the most outrageous industrial and military exploitation. Let the rest of the world blow to hell. It’s the true path. Forward, march! Why should the Afghans be America when we Europeans won’t?”

  He looks at her earnestly. She nods encouragingly, wanting him to say more, no matter what. Sometimes she thinks it’s like listening to rap lyrics. His voice is rhythmic, and his body moves right in time with the words. The only thing missing are the rhymes. Schrøder is Eminem with a gun. “Shake that ass for me!” Hell yes—as long as he’ll keep speaking that way. She has discovered a new side of herself, an intellectual hunger that only makes him even more attractive.

  “Have you seen all the walls here in Afghanistan?”

  It’s not really a question; he’s on a roll again.

  “They’ve been here for two thousand years, and they’ll be here for two thousand more. We brag that we’re the ones who invented the rifles they use to shoot us with. Roadside bombs, mortar grenades—it all comes from us. The remote control that activates the bomb. Their radio communication. Yes, we’re far superior in technology and science. That’s how all of us think, but it’s just the opposite. Science is only proof of our own stupidity. What’s been the end result of all its efforts, all its insights? Climate change that will soon be the end of us all—but not the Afghans. They’ve been on the edge of destruction for two thousand years, and they’ll survive for two thousand more. Desert everywhere, temperatures reaching astronomical heights, no rain. They’ve been adapting to that kind of thing for a long time. In the future they won’t need their rifles, missiles, and roadside bombs. We’ll be like lepers outside their walls, fighting with the jackals for their garbage. It’s the Afghans who will win in the end!”

  “Do you really think so?” she asks.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you mean some of it. Have you been smoking?” Her tone is teasing, but there’s a slight nervousness behind her question. She doesn’t want some pothead. She smiles so he won’t think her question is too serious and get angry.

  “Smoking? No, eating,” he says. “It’s hash brownie time!”

  They both laugh.

  He keeps talking until they suddenly look at each other and then quickly get dressed. They have to get back; they can’t be gone too long.

  She’s moved by the fact that time always sneaks up on him. They never kiss goodbye, as if they’re afraid it might leave a visible mark. When they’re with the platoon, they avoid looking at each other. They make a game of it. She laughs silently. “I’m happy,” she says to herself. That unfamiliar word.

  24

  “Shouldn’t we speak to the mayor?”

  Steffensen looks at Atmar. He used “we” intentionally to show Naib jan that they’re in this together. They’re a team.

  “Ali Shar is a good man,” says the warlord. “A great man. Yes, I would go as far as saying he is the only honorable man in Helmand. Honesty is a rare quality, and the mayor of Girishk possesses it. He is in a difficult position. Therefore, I don’t think we should say anything to him.”

  Steffensen nods. He already knew the warlord’s answer. If he’d been unsure, he wouldn’t have asked. “You’re right, Naib jan. The mayor has enough to do. His life is complicated.”

  They smile at each other. Once again they agree in their assessment of a delicate situation. With the approval of the Minister of Development, they have agreed to pay a bribe so the district’s schools are left in peace. Atmar serves as the intermediary. Neither of them mentions where the money is going, but the mayor will. “Are you paying money to rebels now?” he will protest, making things difficult.

  The mayor in Girishk deserves all possible respect, but that’s the only thing Ali Shar deserves. The tall, stately man with the thick, silver-gray beard and the sharp features is useful as a symbol but useless as a negotiating partner. He incarnates all the good intentions of the Brits and Danes. They can point to him and say: See, this is how we want all Afghans to be: honest, straightforward, with a strong sense of justice and a democratic mind-set. That’s what we’re fighting for. Right now there is only one Ali Shar. If it were up to us, there would soon be hundreds, then thousands. Once there are a million of them, we can return home with true peace of mind. Mission accomplished.

  But you can’t get anything to work with men like Ali Shar. If all politicians were like Ali Shar, democracies would collapse. All he has is his damn sincerity, his loudmouthed honesty, and his unyielding single-mindedness. It’s impossible to reach agreements with him. His uncompromising nature isolates him. He’s beyond any kind of influence. The local power brokers ignore him or deal behind his back.

  Steffensen can’t help but admire the mayor, he’s a brave man, but Ali Shar also irritates him to no end. The people did not elect him. No one is elected here because people voted for him. You are elected here because the local power brokers decide that people will vote for you—and Ali Shar is not their candidate. The Brits have installed him because they want a man who follows rules, one they can rely on. Only gradually have they realized that the only people they can rely on are those who have no power. Ali Shar is a man with no power. That’s why he can afford to be honest. He’s window dressing they can show journalists and politicians making a quick stop in a country they don’t understand.

  At some point his outspokenness becomes too much; he starts to contradict all the optimistic messages of progress coming from the press officers taking care of prominent guests. In a fit of despair, he confides in a journalist. He discusses his powerlessness, corruption in the police force, the population’s fears, the lack of communication between soldiers and the locals. The journalist stands there writing everything down.

  Afterward, Christian Halskov, the press officer attending the incident, says that he couldn’t believe his ears. Breathless, he interrupts the mayor’s catastrophic speech. “You shouldn’t be talking like that. Why aren’t you talking about the progress being made?”

  Ali Shar turns toward him. “You!” His voice is enraged. “You know nothing! You don’t know how it is! Riding around in your armored car! You all know nothing! Nothing! None of you!”

  Afterward, Steffensen warns the mayor: if he ever presents such a negative picture of the foreign troops’ efforts to a journalist again, the negative mood will reach home—and that will end with the troops being withdrawn. Is that what he wants?

  “I’m simply speaking the truth.” Ali Shar looks Steffensen right in the eye.

  Steffensen stares back. Now is the time to assert his authority. He has intentionally not sought out the mayor inside Girishk. Instead, he has ordered him to come to camp, a telling sign of his lack of respect. Ali Shar needs to know beyond a doubt who makes the decisions.

  “You know what will happen if we pull out? You’ll be left alone with your enemies.”

  “Who are my enemies?” ask
s the mayor.

  “I don’t know how you can even ask that question. It’s obvious. Your enemy is the Taliban.”

  “And what about these warlords plundering and terrorizing people every single day—are they my friends? Are they the cornerstones in this democracy you say you want to establish here? I guess they are, since you’re so happy to cooperate with them.”

  Roshaan is translating. Isn’t there a bit too much enthusiasm in his voice, a small, barely hidden triumph in his eyes? The mayor is definitely saying what the interpreter has been saying all along.

  “I’m serious,” says Steffensen.

  “I’m serious, too,” replies the mayor. “My life is on the line. That’s how serious I am.”

  That evening, Steffensen shows up in the mess tent. The journalist sits alone at a table with a notebook and a plastic mug of coffee. Steffensen, who has deliberately avoided taking the press officer with him, rarely makes an appearance in the mess tent and never sits down with a journalist.

  He extends his hand and states his rank and title. The journalist, who’s hunched over his notes, straightens up in his chair. He’s clearly impressed. Steffensen has dug up some information about Sigurd Ludvigsen. A middle-aged freelancer, he’s a former news editor from a now-defunct regional paper in central Jutland. He’s not a name in press circles—but he would certainly become one if he returns to Denmark with a sufficiently meaty story.

  “Did you speak to the mayor today?”

  Ludvigsen nods. “He was very critical about conditions out here. He seemed almost despondent.”

  “That he is.” Steffensen nods, as if to emphasize what’s about to come. “His wife was just killed in a traffic accident. But we fear it was an assassination. The mayor is a symbol of progress here in the district. He enjoys great support. When the rebels strike at him, they strike at us, too. That’s why they’re going after his family. To break him and force him to resign. That would be a great victory for them. Try to understand—the man just lost his wife. It’s a hard time for him. So sometimes you say things you don’t mean. It would be unfair to depict him as you met him today. He wasn’t really himself.”

  “If only I had known that.” Ludvigsen shrugs uncertainly, as if for a moment he’s considering consoling Steffensen. “That’s a totally inhumane situation to find yourself in.”

  “It’s okay. We’re at war with a merciless enemy. We can use all the optimism we can scrape together. I would really hate myself if Ali Shar were portrayed as such a pathetic figure. Believe me, he’s not. He deserves better.”

  It’s true that Ali Shar’s wife—the only one he has as far as Steffensen knows—was killed recently in a traffic accident, though no one, not even Ali Shar himself, suspects it of being an assassination attempt. It happened at a busy crossroads where accidents occur frequently. The Taliban doesn’t camouflage its murders; it advertises them on every possible media outlet.

  Steffensen’s words have their intended effect: Ludvigsen doesn’t use the interview. Instead, after a conversation with the press officer, he writes an article about the need for traffic lights in Girishk. The city is flourishing like never before. Business is booming and more stalls are opening in the bazaar, so the heavy traffic needs to be regulated. He titles the article: “Green Light for Progress.”

  Still, the problem of Ali Shar remains. When will he open his mouth again in the presence of the wrong person at the wrong time?

  One solution would be to keep Ali Shar away from journalists and visiting politicians. Another is that the interpreter translates the mayor’s constant whining more loosely, though Steffensen immediately realizes that will never work. Roshaan wouldn’t only have to translate against his better judgment—he’d also have to defy his own points of view. Of course Steffensen could always bring in a new interpreter, but he doesn’t want to. Despite their disagreements, he has learned to value Roshaan. So, they’ll have to make the mayor invisible for the time being, at least until Ali Shar has learned the art of compromise. Steffensen is sure that he eventually will.

  Steffensen informs Naib jan of the plan. His Afghan allies must understand what is happening. Steffensen brings his finger to his lips. “Not a word to anyone.”

  That Roshaan doesn’t fall under the heading “anyone” is understood: the interpreter is no one, a nonperson. Later Steffensen will make it clear to Roshaan that his job depends on his discretion.

  Naib mimics Steffensen’s gesture, his finger disappearing into his beard. “Not a word to anyone,” he repeats, a smile revealing his straight teeth. He gets up and extends his hand to Ove jan. They’re going to dance. Although Steffensen thinks it’s extremely inappropriate, he can’t decline the invitation. He doesn’t have to watch the warlord’s feet anymore; by now he knows every step by heart. It’s a sign of their connection, of how often they’ve agreed and how many times they’ve reached a solution together.

  “You’re half Afghan now,” says Naib jan.

  “And you’re half Dane,” replies Ove jan.

  25

  Two weeks later at a meeting in Girishk, Ali Shar asks why he’s no longer being introduced to journalists and politicians. Steffensen explains that you can’t rely on the media. Their interest can suddenly spike, and at other times they’ll ignore the most important stories. The war has received a lot of coverage lately. Now, readers and editors are turning their attention elsewhere.

  “Well, it’s certainly not going well in Girishk. Your people have the right to know the truth. What about the politicians? Why don’t they come to speak to me anymore?”

  Because no one wants to hear your negative bullshit, thinks Steffensen. “Right now Denmark has large economic problems that demand the politicians’ full attention,” he says. “They don’t even have time to talk to me.”

  Ali Shar frowns at him.

  “We won’t let you down.” Steffensen speaks in his most soothing tones. “The politicians will come back. Then you can tell them your thoughts and offer some good advice.” Even he can hear how patronizing he sounds.

  Ali Shar looks Steffensen right in the eyes. “No one is listening,” he says, “but you need to listen.” He breathes in deeply, as if he’s about to dive into deep water. “You’ve cleared the earth along Highway 1.”

  Steffensen looks resigned. He knows what’s coming.

  “On both sides. It’s fertile soil. That’s a great loss for the farmers who own it. You’re paying compensation. You think everything is a question of money. It’s not. It’s a question of soil.”

  “You’re mistaken,” says Steffensen tiredly. “It’s not a question of soil. It’s a question of human lives. Soldiers’ lives. We’ve cleared out one of the most dangerous stretches, an area where we’ve found the most roadside bombs. And the only way we can find them is if we have a clear view of both sides of the road. It also makes it more difficult for the Taliban to plant them.”

  “For every tree you cut down, for every square meter of land you confiscate, there’s one more Taliban soldier. Don’t you understand anything?”

  Steffensen nods sympathetically. “I hear what you’re saying.”

  “Yes, you hear what I’m saying. But you don’t listen.” The mayor throws his arms out in despair. They he bows briefly, turns on his heels, and goes.

  Steffensen watches him leave.

  “He’s right,” says Roshaan. “People here don’t see the big picture. When they see a squad of soldiers stomping all over their fields, the only thing they think about is their crops. It’s impossible to explain to them that the soldiers are there to protect them.”

  “Yes,” says Steffensen. “He’s right and I’m right. We’re both right. And that’s exactly the problem.”

  Steffensen indicates to his two military police bodyguards that it’s time to leave. They walk together to the APC, waiting with its engine running. Driving through the gate, they turn north onto the highway. Steffensen prefers to stand in the open hatch. He feels vulnerable when he has to s
it hunched over in the APC’s cramped interior unable to see out. Behind them, a row of personnel carriers joins in what slowly takes the form of a convoy. Traffic on the highway stops and pulls to the sides as the roaring motors pick up speed. He spots the mayor, his hands behind his back, walking on the side of the road. As they drive by, he continues to stare at the ground and does not look up. Steffensen turns around and looks back at him. A dark shadow crosses the mayor’s face with its silvery beard.

  Steffensen feels great sympathy for him—it’s impossible not to—but Ali Shar’s problem is obvious: he’s a living illustration of it as he walks alone on the side of the road. Traffic starts to pick up again once the military convoy has passed. Cars barrel by him. Why isn’t he sitting in one of them, a powerful four-wheel-drive vehicle, filled with armed men wearing vigilant expressions, commander of a whole procession of cars? Why does he choose to walk alone, insignificant in his worn-out sandals, lost in his own thoughts?

  Ali Shar is an idealist. He has no militia. He understands what the common folk feel and think, and that’s important, but like all idealists he allies himself with the silent and the powerless. That’s his great mistake. What can one achieve with the powerless?

  Yes, Ali Shar is a good person, an exemplary democrat. Atmar possesses none of these traits. A good person? Not exactly. But Atmar understands power, and the language of power is universal. It needs no interpreters. That’s why he’s amenable to talking. It’s not democracy quite yet, but isn’t discussion always the first step?

  Does the warlord abide by the law? No, he does not, but so what? Steffensen knows from experience that loopholes help the law to function. A law that’s absolute is doomed from the start. There always has to be something unspoken that allows for improvisation and initiative. Otherwise, it’s impossible to work under.

  Atmar is the unspoken.