The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  “So now Schrøder is working for the Chinese?”

  “Or the Americans. Or both at the same time. For everyone and for no one. You are an agent for Denmark. He is an agent for no one.”

  “You make it sound like there’s a country called No One and he’s working for them. But there’s no such place.”

  He stares at me. “My dear Khaiber, intelligent people don’t yield to facts. They create them. As you should know, there are two ways to create your own reality. You can change the world or you can ignore it. Sometimes the latter produces the greatest results.”

  “And which method is Schrøder using?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what you need to figure out.”

  Halim offers to drive me back to the city. I decline.

  He follows me out to the gate. We say goodbye beneath the mulberry tree. A group of his men, all of them armed, are standing outside the wall surrounding his estate. They watch me as I walk back toward the city.

  5

  I’ve had it good in Kandahar, and I know it. It was the last concession to my inner Dane. Bathroom, toilet seat, clean towels. I sigh as I recognize the label on a large bath towel. Egyptian cotton. The same towels I have at home. Bought them in Illum.

  Wi-Fi in my room, and in the garden among the roses. I haven’t been able to check the Danish newspapers, though. The internet here is censored, and the reason is staring at me on my screen: “Nudity, news.” I understand that nudity is sinful in the eyes of the faithful—but news? Unless they’ve already decided Denmark means porn and blasphemy. And we do. I won’t even try to deny it. My whole lifestyle testifies to it. From my revolving door of partners to my excessive use of alcohol, I’m a typical Dane. I’m an obedient, goose-stepping consumer, totally preoccupied with my own holy needs and the purchasing power of my Visa.

  Now I’m doing my penance. Erasing my tracks, so to speak. I could have rented a car with a driver and covered the stretch to Girishk while riding comfortably in the back seat of a Toyota Corolla, its sides dented from countless collisions. Not because it’s my favorite brand but because it’s Afghanistan’s safest car. The scratched-up white paint job and all the dents are a much better defense against being attacked than the armored four-wheel-drive vehicles for one simple reason: Toyota is the most popular car on Afghanistan’s highways—and thus the least noticeable. There’s safety in numbers. That’s the recipe for a long life. And in this country, the numbers don’t consist of goose-stepping consumers but of survivors who know the fine art of blending in.

  Yet, I haven’t even allowed myself the modest luxury of the back seat in a choking, rattling Toyota Corolla held together with string and duct tape. I didn’t even call Zaeff’s cousin to ask him to drive me to Girishk, where the Danish military is. I’m sitting in a bus, on half of a seat facing the aisle. Next to me there’s a burly, panting man with two young boys on his lap who keeps drying his sweaty face with a rag. The two boys are quiet, staring out the window. The women wrapped in their burkas are having a lively conversation in the back of the bus. The middle aisle is full of men sitting on the floor, and one of them has chosen one of my legs as a backrest. His turban-covered head nods constantly, a sign that he’s falling asleep. Every time I move my leg, he awakens with a start and gives me an angry look. Then he falls back to sleep.

  My only luggage is a dusty travel bag in imitation leather. My fake ID looks just as travel worn. Like so many Afghans, I have a cell phone, and I just replaced the SIM card. I keep a whole collection of SIM cards in a small, waterproof chamois bag in my underpants. If we’re stopped at a checkpoint, it’s my Achilles’ heel, at least if I’m frisked. But why should I be? I’m not conspicuous. I live my Danish side in Copenhagen. Here, I’m someone else.

  If the police stop us, I’ll get off paying a handful of crumpled afghanis. If it’s the Taliban, they’ll check the call lists on my cell, and if they find a number in Kabul or abroad, or that I’ve received any calls from the local authorities, I’ll be pulled off the bus and my journey will end right there.

  Naturally, there are numbers on my cell phone—a blank display would look as suspicious as one packed with numbers at an American military base. But these are all innocuous numbers I’ve gathered from shops, restaurants, a business card here, a billboard there.

  I keep the contact information for the Special Forces guy in Lashkar Gah in my head. The same for Danish headquarters in Camp Price. If necessary, I can always be rescued by helicopter. I just think that if the time ever comes, it will already be too late. It’s like travel insurance. The travel brochure from the insurance company says you’ll be rescued by helicopter if you get an intestinal bug in Papua New Guinea’s jungle—and that you will. But by the time they get there, they’ll be rescuing your corpse. My phone numbers provide the same false sense of security.

  I’ve decided not to avail myself of any of them. I fly under the radar. I’m in the digital dead zone: no surveillance satellite can detect my movements, and I don’t leave any tracks behind in cyberspace. I’m sure Schrøder’s in the same place. And his hostages. If they’re alive. Halim thinks they are. I don’t.

  The children on the seat next to me block my view for most of the trip. Desert spotted with thick bushes. Distant rock formations. Scattered buildings that merge into the landscape. Dust rising from the road, a flicker of sunlight reflected in the dust particles. It’s late winter, and the temperature rises more than ten degrees by the middle of the day. There’s no heat in the bus. The tightly packed bodies emit their own heat. I take off my windbreaker and lay it on my lap. The father sitting next to me keeps drying off his face. His kirtle sticks to his fat torso.

  I try to think about nothing. How long have I been sitting here? I have no idea. I’m not wearing my wristwatch, so I start reaching for my cell to find out what time it is. I move the leg that has fallen asleep and get the same angry look from the floor. Wasn’t I just sitting in business class on the train to Copenhagen, with free Wi-Fi and a bottle of mineral water, staring out at the spotted cows on the grass . . .

  The driver slows down, but I don’t see any passengers signaling they need to get off. I lean forward to try to get a better view up the aisle and out the front window. There’s a roadblock ahead, although I can’t see who’s guarding it. It could be the police or it could just as well be the Taliban. Or maybe some local militia looking for money. I have a wad of bills ready in the pocket of my kirtle. A murmur passes through the bus. If it were the police, there’d be outrage. Some of the men would be cursing. But I can hear the fear. It’s the Taliban.

  Will they just go through the bus or will they order us out onto the road? My heart starts to pound. I have no reason to be afraid, yet I feel like this is my baptism by fire. This time. After I’m here for a few weeks, I grow accustomed to these situations, but each time I’m away from Afghanistan, I get out of the habit and have to start all over again. The fear is like a flight of stairs I have to climb—it always takes some time before I find my rhythm and catch my breath again.

  We’re all completely quiet now. A man in a turban who’s holding a Kalashnikov appears in the doorway. Although he’s pointing it down the center aisle, there’s nothing threatening about him. “We’re looking for traitors,” he says calmly, as if he’s here to tell us about a coffee break. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Yet another man shows up behind him—and he’s also armed. They move down the aisle while checking ID cards and cell phones. Several times they have to ask a passenger to turn on a phone, so snippets of electronic greetings ring throughout the bus. I hand him my ID card and cell phone. He glances briefly at my face and then examines the photo on my ID. He finishes quickly with my phone. His movements are calm and routine. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he seems downright friendly. He smiles at the small boys, and they smile back. One of them reaches out for the weapon, and he shakes his head, laughing.

  “You have to wait till you’re a little older,” he says. T
he boy laughs also.

  He’s checked the father’s ID card and is going through his phone. He scrolls back and forth on the screen while his lips move silently. The father looks up at him inquisitively and then looks out the window, as if he’s waiting for the inspection to be done.

  “You called the police twice. Today.” The Taliban fighter moves his finger across the screen. “And once yesterday.”

  The fat man’s jaw drops. His chest underneath his sweat-stained kirtle rises and falls as if he’s suddenly having trouble breathing. He lifts one hand defensively in front of his face, as if he’s expecting a blow.

  “No, no,” he says. “It’s a misunderstanding. It’s not the police. My brother-in-law.”

  “Does your brother-in-law work for the police?”

  The heavyset man shakes his head. “No, no. He has to pay a fine. They’re holding him. I have to bring the money.” That’s a credible story. The police here are often nothing more than a gang of kidnappers.

  “Then why are you sitting here?”

  “I’m going to Girishk to get the money.”

  “You are a friend of the police.”

  The wide-eyed, chubby man shakes his head. He holds his hands against his chest as if placing them over his pounding heart might lend his words greater credibility. “I am not a friend of the police. I am a good Afghan. I hate all the traitors. I hate the foreigners who have occupied our land. I hate all the infidels.” His eyes start to fill with tears. “My children!” he exclaims, reaching out for the two small boys. “I am a father,” he says, as if he already senses what’s going to happen and is grasping at the last argument at his disposal, mercy for his children, who risk becoming fatherless.

  The Taliban fighter places the barrel of his rifle against the man’s chest and shoves him up against the window. “You are a spy for the police!” he yells. “A friend of the infidels!”

  The boys cling to their father. I expect the mother to show up from the back of the bus, but nothing happens. The women, like all the other passengers, sit with their heads bowed. Is it possible the father is alone with his two boys—or is fear so deeply embedded in these women that even a mother who sees her children’s father being led away dare not move?

  I’m told to get up. With a dark expression, the Taliban fighter heaves the fat man out of his seat and shoves him forward. The man is shaking uncontrollably. Those seated in the aisle get up and move aside. Another Taliban fighter waits at the door. The bus driver stares straight ahead. Outside, one car after another stops while the passengers are searched and then waved on.

  The two boys try to force their way to their father, not that they could stop what’s about to happen. It’s better if they don’t witness it. I grab both of them and sit them down in my lap. One of the boys immediately goes limp in my arms, but the other struggles and starts striking out. I make some calming sounds. He hides his face in my chest and stops punching, but his body remains tense. I get the strange feeling that they know what’s going to happen. Everyone in the bus knows it. No one is looking out the window. I can’t help it, even though I know I shouldn’t. If one of the Taliban looks up and sees me, it could be dangerous.

  The father stands there, fat and defeated. His body language tells me that he’s given up. One of the Taliban fighters walks over and places a hand on his shoulder. There’s no anger in the movement. He looks him right in the eye. I think that it must be a difficult thing to do to a person whose life you are about to end. There’s a kind of farewell in it, a sorrow almost. The heavy man bows his head.

  I’m sure he’s innocent. Everyone knows the risk of traveling on public transportation. If you have anything at all to hide, you don’t travel with two children. It’s almost as if something inevitable has happened, and everyone accepts it. It’s an agreement finalized by the executioner’s hand on the accused’s shoulder and that resigned bowing of the head, an intimacy that makes me sick to my stomach. I look away. I hear a shot. When I look back, the dead man is lying stretched out on the ground. He’s been shot in the chest and has fallen backward. His white kirtle is red, but there’s no pool of blood spreading beneath him. This isn’t a movie. Here, the ground drinks up everything.

  The Taliban fighter stands there, his Kalashnikov lowered, waving on the bus. The engine starts with a roar.

  My lap suddenly feels warm. One of the boys has succumbed to his fear and peed on me.

  I hold both of them tightly against me. There’s something life-affirming about the warmth from their bodies and the pee spreading across my lap.

  The children are completely silent. I don’t understand why they aren’t screaming. I don’t understand why the whole bus isn’t screaming. Why am I not screaming? Why this dogged silence, this paralyzing self-control in all of us? It almost makes us complicit.

  I think back on the Taliban fighter placing his hand on the shoulder of the man he was about to execute. The victim being invited to take part in his own demise. I think about Halim’s hand on my shoulder. What was his message? We’re playing by my rules now and you’d better accept them?

  Why didn’t I do anything? I’m not armed. Could I have said something that might have changed anything? I don’t know. I didn’t try. That’s not why I’m here. I’m not here to save anyone. I’m here to find a man so he can be punished.

  The Afghans must take care of themselves. It’s their country. Still, how long can you think like that without losing some part of yourself? Do I lose some part of myself every time I come here, or would I lose some part of myself if I stayed home?

  I wrap my arms around the children’s tense bodies. I wish they’d burst into tears, but nothing happens.

  We drive on. The children stare straight ahead, and I do, too. I don’t look out the window. The desert wind hits me in the face, along with the smell of exhaust fumes and gasoline. I want to close my eyes. I should be hardened to everything by now, but I’m not—and it’s because of the children on my lap. What am I going to do with them?

  That question is answered when a burka-clad woman bends over me and lifts up one of them. The boy remains passive. I stand up and set the other child down on the floor. The woman reaches out her hand and takes both of the boys to the back of the bus, where the other women are. I have no idea if they’re relatives, or what will happen to them now. I only know that their lives are shattered and that this day will haunt them for the rest of their lives.

  I can finally hear them crying. I don’t turn around. I’m not even sure it’s them. Not a wild, gasping, exhausted sobbing but a low monotone cry, as if their small bodies know instinctively to save their energy. The women talk among themselves, though I can’t hear what they’re saying. Suddenly they all break into an infernal lament, an uncoordinated chorus of screaming, where feigned and real sorrow merge in a ritual that makes me realize how far I have traveled from the country of my mother and father.

  I want to cover my ears. I want to scream at them to shut up. I don’t want any part of their grief and the curse that has fallen on their country. Instead, the hairs stand up on my arms; I can feel it in my scalp, too.

  We stop in Girishk, where the Danish soldiers are. This is where I get off. I don’t see any Danish soldiers, not that I was expecting to. The screaming stops, but the sound of the children’s crying continues, and I feel as if they’re no longer the source of it. It’s coming instead from the passengers and the people passing by in the chaotic crowded street, from the run-down flat-roofed houses surrounding us, from the very desert itself.

  I’m thoroughly exhausted. It’s not disgust. Maybe it’s a kind of reluctant sorrow. My country, I think. But it’s not my country. I should be thankful I belong somewhere else. Yet Afghanistan sits inside me like a hook in my flesh, the source of wild, unmanageable pain. In some desperate way I belong here. Although I regret that I’ve come, I have no choice. It falls upon me like a weight.

  There’s a stain at the bottom of my shalwar kameez.

  I don’t c
are.

  6

  The two boys disappear into a flock of burka-clad women. Their faces are swollen, and their tears continue to flow. I don’t say goodbye; I feel too embarrassed. Nor do they look at me. I’ve shared the most important moment of their lives with them, but I’m irrelevant. It’s not the foreigner sitting next to their murdered father who will haunt their memories.

  I stroll through the bazaar and up to Highway 1. At the outpost for NATO soldiers, I’ve arranged to meet with a British patrol that will drive me the five kilometers to Camp Price. If the Taliban try to stop us, we’ll destroy them. That’s how I’m thinking right now. I can still see the gunned-down father—it will stay with me until I experience something worse.

  I like the British soldiers. They’re unpretentious, full of an ingrained distance and skepticism about the war, which they saw through a long time ago. For them, it’s a job just like all the others, and as with all jobs, they’re doing their best. They stand by who they are and prefer not to sugarcoat it. They’re the ones who spray-painted “Hell-mand” on the walls in Sangin.

  The personnel carrier we’re riding in doesn’t have as much armor underneath as the Danish version. More Danes are killed, comparatively, but the Brits suffer more wounded. If soldiers were seriously wounded every time a Danish vehicle struck a roadside bomb, the Danish army would consist solely of legless soldiers. It’s different for the Brits. They lose limbs in large numbers. They call their own vehicle the “Amputator.”

  “Shitty war,” says Sergeant Jason Riley, who’s sitting next to me in the APC as we leave Girishk behind.

  “Shitty country,” he adds. “And we’re the ones using it as a toilet.”

  I smile at him.

  “On a secret mission?” He smiles back. He takes my silence as a confirmation and gives me a thumbs-up.

  “You Danes really fucked it up. Man, what a mess. Half a platoon ambushed and the other half disappeared—along with your commander. And then the attack on this goddamn compound. Don’t get me wrong. That Atmar got what was coming to him. Fuck all this Hearts and Minds shit. Give them a thousand-pound bomb, I always say. But this mess—Jesus Christ!”