From Hope to Sadness

I looked down into myself. I saw a lunar landscape. Some vegetation being observed by young people. From a distance. A green area in the middle of nowhere. A village in a lunar landscape. The young men are Danish soldiers from the international assistance force. The country is a damned piece of land: Afghanistan.

The documentary is called Armadillo - In the Afghan trap. It is accompanied by a warning. This documentary contains violent images.

I hear. International Security and Assistance Force. I think. Assistance is nice. But not occupation. Love is beautiful, but not rape. Why is the idea always more beautiful than the reality?

I don't know.

I look through the holes in my skull. My eyes hurt. I wait for disaster. I look at the idea. I don't understand it. I see the excitement of young people waiting for action. Adrenalin. I can already imagine their sleepless nights once they've had their moment of pure excitement and glory. And terror too. Fifteen per cent will suffer psychological after-effects. Three per cent will suffer from PTSD (Posttraumatic Stress Disorder). It's not nice to feel post-traumatic stress. But I can't shout that at them. They can't hear me. They won't believe me anyway. At the moment they can't imagine. The pain. Neither their pain nor that of those around them. Their loved ones. Nor the pain of the damned, the natives.

They won't live long anyway. The natives. They don't count anyway. The natives.

We never counted them. We lost count of them. All this time. We're not going to observe minute of silent in their remembrance neither. Otherwise, we wouldn't be talking anymore.

I think. They piss me off because they're part of me and I'm part of them. They annoy everyone with their lunar landscapes and their eyes that ask you to leave them alone. They haven't asked anything from the Russians or the Americans, let alone the Danes.

I watch. Young people who have come to feel the rush. They walk through a lunar village. Children follow them.

Vers les voix de la nuit des étoiles perdues*

Towards the voices of the night of lost stars

I hear again. International Security and Assistance Force. Assistance is fine, but not insecurity, still less the murder of children and young people, their heads full of dreams and follies.

J'entends des sons lointains qui cherchent des caresses*

I hear distant sounds seeking caresses

Shooting. Running. Hiding. They shoot and shout at the top of their lungs. Is anyone dead? No, not yet. Holy cow! exclaims a "Robocop" armed to the teeth. A kick in a small wooden door. An explosion in the wall of a house to clear a path.

The skinny cow is frightened and has trouble standing up. An old man explains that they're tired. No, not just the cows. Especially the villagers caught between the Robocops and the god’s fools.

God is an idol there. A rock star in Denmark. The Robocops listen to metal on the cursed plains. They shoot to the sound of metal. Metal that shreds their beautiful bodies and the emaciated bodies of the cows and the bone-dried bodies of the god's fools. They are dead. They are pulled by the legs. Is that a cow? No, it's a man. It was a man. It was a child. One day a long time ago.

I wonder if his mother loved him. Was he thinking of his mother before he was torn to pieces? Perhaps was he thinking of his idol?! The god. I think and I'm sure: even if he existed, we'd have to get rid of him. Of the body? No, of God. Bodies too.

‘‘ Au coin d'un vieux soleil exténué des glaces.

In the corner of an old sun exhausted from the ice.

Mélancolie Mélancolie la mer se calme Je vois monter partout des filles et des palmes Avec des fruits huilés dans la fente alanguie Les matelots me font des signes de fortune Ils se noient dans le sang du soleil descendant Vers l'Ouest toujours à l'Ouest”*

Melancholy Melancholy the sea calms down

I see girls and limbs going up everywhere

With oiled fruits in the languid crack

Sailors are waving good luck at me

They drown in the blood of the descending sun

To the West, always to the West

I cry out. Stop the madness. They don't hear me. They carry on. Goodness, they don't know what they're doing.

Huic ergo oarce, Deus!

Spare them, my Lord!

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* “Les amants tristes” by Léo Ferré