They call me Nielsen. I began my career in the foreign services as a multiple character in a play staged in a Danish suburb and written by some late Danish author back in the old century. The play was called The Parliament and I was the People. Then in February 2003, just before the Iraq war, I left the fiction to face reality. One beautiful morning (it wasn’t) I just stepped off the stage, left the theatre and took to the streets. Since that February morning I have been on the move. Constantly. For five years. I done service in Kuwait, in Iraq, in Jordan, Dubai and even in the US. Last fall they sent me into Iran. As an under cover agent. To start that revolution. Me and a colleague. Tall guy, red blonde, handsome. As bloody tourists. It didn’t really work, but at least along the way we had some beautiful girls and a lot of booze. But no revolution. In the end we got lost in the mountains north of Tehran. Since then I’ve been kept off the stage, out off service, as a sleeping cell. In some cave. Or in the midst of quotidian life. Can’t tell, really.
But now they sent me in again. For the final countdown. In Kabul. Of all places! Off course? Well, yeah, I guess. The War against Terror. Operation Enduring Freedom. Never ending story.
BRING IN THE FLAG!
My job is quite simple. Almost as simple as a suicide bombers: One beautiful morning in late February 2008 I just appear. Out of thin air. In the outskirts of Kabul. Suddenly I’m there, cameras roll, I’m already marching, been marching the world stage for more than 5 years now. Same as ever: Grey suit, white shirt, grey tie, black leather boots. Carrying a white flag with a hole in the centre. They used to call it the Flag of The Democracy. Back in 2003. Now they call it the Flag of the New. What New? Never mind. I just carry on. It’s my job. No more asking. I just walk. From the outskirts of Kabul towards the centre. National Theatre of Afghanistan. That’s the target. Off course. Great symbol, stuffed with people. That beautiful night in late February when I come marching in. Me and the flag. Through the streets of Kabul, the asshole of Nowhere. But centre to the attention of God and Man in the twenty first century. National Theatre. Tonight is the premiere. “The Parliament in Afghanistan”. The story of a grand attempt to build and open a world parliament. Staged by the Afghans. But written by us. The Europeans. Of course. It’s a question of timing now. The play is a fiction. It has it’s own time. And me closing up from the outside. Pure reality. On my way to burst into the fiction. Blow it up. The actors all on stage now. Facing The End. In the moment they move into the cadence, I round the last corner. And there it is, old battered building, shot by the Soviets, Talebanned and left behind by History, but beautiful, still. I mount the stairs, I enter the doors. In the moment the actors open their mouths to strike up the Happy End (not the original, tragic, old European style, but a new bright and hopeful End written on demand from the Afghan people by our secret service (no matter what they say: their words will be written by us!)), against all odds, the Happy End, when the Afghan people finally unite as one, the Voice of Afghanistan, the last pathetic, nationalist monologue, the grand “WE”, that’s my cue! I enter the stage, burst into the lights, carrying the flag. I don’t say anything. No need of words anymore. Just action!