“Tell him.” My father gives me the floor. It’s a moment of triumph and, generously, he lets me have it.
“The Taliban’s court,” I say. “That’s why you’re here. To honor your part of the bargain. You’ll be sentenced by the Taliban.”
55
I apprise the Danes of the situation and tell them how Schrøder deceived the Taliban. Double-dealing might be the norm for most powerful Afghan men, but there’s a line—and Schrøder has crossed it. So our hosts will be sentencing him.
“You left him with the Taliban?” Shocked, Steffensen stares at me. “They’ll let him go!”
I glance at Hannah.
“They won’t let him go. You’ll even attend the trial. Once he’s sentenced, we’ll receive safe conduct. And then we can go home.”
“We’re not going home without him,” says Steffensen. “That’s been our mission all along. If he doesn’t come with us, then everything we’ve gone through means nothing.”
“You’re going home alive—and that’s what counts. We have no choice. I have no influence at all on what’s happening. It’s him or us. If you insist on bringing Schrøder, none of us will ever get home. They’ll let you go only because they believe the story about the American jihadists, or at least act as if they believe it. This is your only chance, and it’s your last chance.”
Steffensen’s face is blank. I can’t tell whether he’s convinced or merely resigned. Finally he nods. Møller doesn’t respond; he looks like he’s on another planet. Hannah says a loud and clear yes.
“If there’s no other way,” says Steffensen.
The scene for the trial is about to be set. I don’t know what’s happened to the men accompanying Schrøder. My father says they were informed about the charges against Schrøder and given a choice: receive the same sentence or join the Taliban. They chose survival. Their weapons weren’t returned, and I have no idea where they are now. I don’t know if I can trust my father. I’ve never lied to him, but I’m not so sure he wouldn’t lie to me.
The trial won’t take place in the mountain’s grottoes. The villagers return home, led by armed Taliban warriors who will help them put an end to the local militia who’ve been terrorizing them. Afterward, Khan Kala and Spinlay will fall under Taliban protection. They’ve been through that before, so it won’t change their life drastically. I have no idea if the Americans will leave them alone now, but this seems to be the Afghans’ destiny. No one will ever leave them alone.
In one long row, the villagers begin their long trek along the mountain paths. They’re still transporting wounded in swaying stretchers; maybe they’ll actually survive. As they leave, the villagers file past Steffensen, Møller, and Hannah. Do they still believe they’re the savior jihadists? Will stories about the soldiers from Third Platoon survive and become legends? I don’t know, but in some way I can’t explain, I think so.
We stay behind, twenty armed Taliban fighters and four Danes, including me. I search the Taliban faces, trying to see who might serve as judges. There isn’t a venerable old man with a white beard among them; they’re all young, about my age, in their late twenties or early thirties. At fifty-eight, my father is the oldest. I’d have more faith in older men; young men are too unpredictable. They have no distance from anything, not even their own pain. The law is a dangerous weapon in their hands.
The verdict is due tomorrow.
In the evening, my father seeks me out again.
“I want to know why you turned against me,” he insists. “I know something happened in Copenhagen that you never told me about. That’s when it all began.”
“That’s true. Something did happen. The same incident that made me decide never to use a weapon against another person.”
He points at me with his right hand and acts like he’s pulling a trigger. “This? You’d never do this?”
“No. I’ll never shoot another person just because his faith is different than mine, or he belongs to another ethnic group, or he’s a citizen of a foreign country.”
“Tell me what happened.” There’s no concern in his voice. It’s an order.
“I was in a gang. One of ours was shot and we wanted revenge. The other gang really knew how to take care of themselves. We decided we would shoot some random person who lived in their neighborhood—to make them feel they’d never be safe. There were twenty bits of paper in a big hat, and we each took one. We weren’t allowed to read what was on ours until we got home and were alone. That way we couldn’t turn each other in. I got the job. The slip of paper told me where to find the weapon and it told me who to shoot. Some unlucky guy. But he lived in our enemy’s neighborhood and he was Pakistani, just like them. And that was good enough. Want to know how I felt when I went to take him out? I felt so fucking important. I was a man to be reckoned with.”
My father stares at me. I’m living up to his worst fears. Criminal. Gang member. But I can’t stop here. It’s important. He asked for the truth, and now he’s going to get it. I should have told him all this a long time ago, though I know exactly why I didn’t.
“My victim was working in a car dealership. Kind of short and he had on a suit and a light-blue shirt. I liked his face. Under other circumstances, we probably could have been friends. I had dressed up, too, so I wouldn’t look conspicuous. As I walked into the showroom, he smiled and asked what kind of car I was looking for. I pulled out my nine millimeter and got right up in his face. It wasn’t just the horror in his face that made an impression. I expected that. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. ‘Why me?’ he pleaded. ‘What have I done?’ That was the tipping point. I realized that whatever status the murder might have given me in the gang, it couldn’t compensate for the loss of something else. I don’t know what to call it . . . the better part of myself. If I pulled the trigger, I’d lose any hope of ever finding meaning in my life. A moment before, I felt important because I’d been given the job of killing someone. I suddenly realized that I can’t kill someone who’s asking me why he has to die by my hand when I don’t have an answer.”
My father still doesn’t react. This all happened after he’d gone to Quetta. Does he think he let me down, or is he convinced that I turned my back on him? I think he knows the answer.
Should I go on? Open up completely? There’s no way back now. I want my father to see me as I am. I’m not doing what I intended when I came here. I’m not a hypocrite, asking for forgiveness in exchange for a favor. Instead, I’m giving him something greater. I’m confiding in him. I’m placing my destiny in his hands without hiding anything. Is he man enough to appreciate it?
“Schrøder has a recurring nightmare where his face is falling apart,” I tell him. “I have a fantasy that reminds me of that. I’m standing in front of a mirror, cutting into my face with a sharp knife. Eventually, nothing is left that resembles a face. I’m not mutilated—I’m just not a person anymore. That was the same turning point I reached with the car salesman. I told myself, if you shoot him, you’re not a person. Ever since then, I’ve stayed away from weapons. The other gang members accused me of treason. There are neighborhoods in Copenhagen where I still can’t show my face. That’s one of the advantages of working in the intelligence community. I’m abroad most of the time.”
My father keeps staring at me. I want to scream in his face: Say something! But the moment has passed. The words I’d hoped for will never come. Maybe that’s what makes me dig in my heels. I’m not going to leave any misunderstandings between us. I’m committing a mortal sin—and I know it. I’m so fucking tactless in a situation where I should be so fucking tactical.
“I left gang life—but I also turned away from you once you announced you had found your roots and declared yourself Pashtun. I couldn’t see the difference in the mind-set. When that poor guy asked what he had done, you would have told him—just like my fellow gang members—that it wasn’t anything he’d done. That he had to die because of what he was. He belonged to the wrong tribe, lived in the wrong place,
believed in the wrong gods. And that’s enough. If I ran into your arms after I left the gang, I’d still be mired in the same shit. You filled my life with all these words: namus, honor, be abru, dishonor, be ghairat, coward, behrahm, merciless. I need a handbook in anthropology to understand my own father. I needed to get away from this sick way of thinking!”
“You don’t understand the world,” my father says, his voice calm. “That’s how it is. That’s all it is.”
“Oh, I understand it,” I say angrily. “I just don’t accept it.”
56
The next morning, Schrøder shows up walking between two men. I have no idea where he spent the night, but his hands are tied behind his back and he’s no longer wearing a turban. His light hair glows like a halo around his head, but his face is bruised; a strip of dried blood runs from one corner of his mouth onto his beard. There’s no angst in his expressionless face, but that attractive aura of self-confidence is gone, as if he’s turned himself off. Maybe he’s saving energy.
Steffensen, Møller, and Hannah haven’t seen him since his arrival. For a moment I fear Hannah will attack him, but she barely looks at him. Her knowledge of my plans might be restraining her. I don’t regret telling her. Steffensen and Møller glance at Schrøder, but even the sight of their archenemy doesn’t erase the exhaustion from their faces.
We’re about to leave when two men walk over and, without warning, twist my arms behind my back. I struggle for a moment before realizing I’d rather just surrender. They bind my wrists tightly. My father stands a little ways off—I’m sure this is his doing.
Now I’m in the same situation as Schrøder. Can I expect the same fate? For some reason, I don’t protest. Maybe I know it’s not worth it. I’ll only lose my dignity. Everything depends on my father and the sharp-featured young men who’ll be judging us.
We move down to the valley floor. I recognize one of the men—he’s wearing a backpack—as one of the doctors. We stop at a small grove of juniper trees. Judgment will fall among these thousand-year-old trunks, with a view of Sulaiman’s Throne. The springtime lighting is beautiful. Will my life end here?
Armed Taliban fighters form a semicircle around the clearing. Steffensen, Møller, and Hannah are standing, just like Schrøder and me. Laying down their weapons, five of the young men close the circle by standing shoulder to shoulder in front of us. A woven blanket is placed on the ground by their feet. Solemnly, they sit down next to each other, folding their legs beneath them. These are the judges.
Schrøder and I stand in the middle of the circle with our hands bound and two men guarding us. When I glance over at him, he stares back. His eyes flash scornfully, and he smiles ironically for an instant. We both look away. The sight of me with my hands tied must be his only comfort. I lured him into a trap, but I fell into one, too.
Would I have acted differently if I knew I would end up here with my hands tied behind my back in front of a Taliban tribunal?
It’s too late for regrets and too late to be asking ethical questions about duty and survival. I don’t have much time left. Should I let my life flash before my eyes, like a drowning person? Is this the time to be thinking about my relationship with my father, instead of who I am and who I choose to be?
My father claims he knows me. The same man who crossed so many borders in his struggle to find himself claims that I’ve betrayed my roots and myself. I’m always searching for an answer—it’s just not his answer. Or have I let the situation choose for me? Which is my true element? Am I a fish on land or a four-legged animal trying to swim? And what does it really mean to have an element when you’re a person, not a bird or a fish? If I’m sentenced to death, can I stand in front of the executioner and name anything—some country or idea—I value more than my own life? Not that I know of. It’s too late for questions. I have to concentrate on the moment. That shouldn’t be too difficult; it’s exactly how I’ve lived my entire life. Moment to moment.
The judges ask us to sit down. Steffensen, Møller, and Hannah do so also. A hand presses on my shoulder, and I sit down next to Schrøder.
The judge in the middle addresses me. He’s taller than the others, and I wonder if that’s the most important qualification for his job. He doesn’t introduce himself. “I am a judge,” he says. “The judgment that falls will be fair and based on the truth. You cannot resist but must accept it with your head bowed. Do you accept that?”
I nod. I don’t know if I’m betraying myself by nodding. I only know that any protest will be nothing more than an empty gesture that might put the three survivors’ lives at risk. So I nod. The judge acknowledges my nod as a valid response.
“I call the first witness.”
One of the armed men steps forward, states his name, and mentions he comes from Khan Kala. I mistook him for a member of the Taliban, but he’s one of the villagers; the connection between the local farmers and the insurgents must be stronger than I realized. His speech is one long defense of me. He describes my role in the battles and my closeness to the American jihadists, as they’re still calling the Danes. I can see that they’re beyond all suspicion. From now on, they’re the stuff of myths, and no one can reproach or accuse them. If I have an alibi, they’re it.
The villager’s words give me momentary hope, although I know I haven’t been brought before this court to be acquitted.
The next witness is my father. I believe it’s the only reason he isn’t sitting with the judges: he can’t testify and judge. Mentioning that he has also lived in the West, he describes my restless youth there. His information comes from contacts in my country. He doesn’t mention that he’s my father, but anyone listening carefully can tell that a disappointed father is speaking.
Does a father pursue revenge? I want to scream that question at him but refrain. A strange shift has started to occur within me. I feel as if I’ve suddenly become a firm believer in destiny; my life is not my own but merely a plaything for more powerful forces. If you feel like a spectator of your own life, is it a sign of approaching death? Is that the real meaning of subjugation?
My father says he doesn’t want to gainsay the previous witness. He has no doubts about the sincerity of his words. He adds that my actions speak in my favor. The judges listen intently. I can see something beyond respect in their hard faces; I see reverence. My father is only testifying for the sake of appearance; it’s the only reason he’s exchanged places with the judges. Standing there before them, he’s not a witness. He’s the actual judge, weighing for and against before letting them render the final verdict.
What’s working against me, he continues, is the undeniable fact, which I have already admitted, that I work for the American intelligence service. I notice he makes no references to Denmark, not that it would mean anything to them anyway.
“Then why did he help the American jihadists, our dear brothers, these glorious martyrs for our cause?” he asks rhetorically. He suddenly turns around so that he’s not only facing the judges but also the armed warriors guarding us. I’m the only one he doesn’t look at. And then he answers his own question. “Because he wanted to bring them back to their country to be punished for what their government considers treason.”
He pauses dramatically to let the weight of his words sink in. “He fought side by side with our brothers, maybe even saving their lives, only to eventually bring them to a court, our enemies’ court, where they will be sentenced to death.”
That’s a clever twist, and I have to admire him for it. My father is standing in front of me and lying to hurt me as much as possible. He’s lying about the legal system in Denmark, which he knows only too well. He’s lying about the soldiers, whose motives he ought to know better. And more than anything, he’s lying about me, and his deliberate lying will probably cost me my life. But he’s clever. He’s a power broker, and like any good power broker, he knows how to use all means available.
I know what’s coming now. He’s going to ask me to confirm the accusation. A denia
l would only be construed as proof that I’m a pathetic coward who doesn’t have the balls to stand by his own actions. If I tell the truth, I’ll put Steffensen, Møller, and Hannah’s lives in serious danger. If I say I’m here to save their lives, so they won’t be punished when they get back home, I’ll be tearing off their cloak of invisibility. They’ll become what they’ve always been, despite how much wrong they’ve done: soldiers sent here to fight the Taliban, bitter enemies of everyone here.
If I speak the truth, it won’t save me anyway and will plunge the three survivors into the abyss. At least they have a chance this way. If I try to defend myself, they’re done for.
I’m told to stand up. “Is this witness’s accusation true?”
“Before I respond, I request permission to explain the context of the case to the American jihadists. They don’t understand our language.”
The judge glances at my father, who nods almost imperceptibly. In some grotesque way, we’re co-conspirators.
I outline the accusations for Steffensen, Hannah, and Møller and make it clear that telling the truth would cost them their lives. “Under no circumstances should you get involved or support me in any way,” I insist. “My mission was to get you home alive, and I’ve all but failed. Only three of you are left. Twelve are dead. If their deaths are going to have any meaning at all, you have to survive. It doesn’t matter if you think you’re betraying me. Just don’t betray yourselves.”
One after another, they nod. Hannah, whose eyes are swollen with tears, continues staring at me to avoid looking at Schrøder.
“The accusation is true,” I say. “My intention was to get the American jihadists home so they could be punished. That’s been my mission all along.” I try to capture my father’s gaze, but he turns away, as if my confession is merely a passing formality.
If I’m going to die now, they won’t hear any heroic words coming from me. I did my job. That’s all. There’s nothing more to say. No one’s going to write about it in an obituary or on some gravestone. I’ll be buried in this landscape where I don’t belong. I don’t belong anywhere. I know it sounds as if I’m complaining—I’m not. My homelessness could just as well have been a prelude to freedom, to an unfettered life, but those aren’t the times we’re living in.
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