Stieg Larsson, My Friend - Kurdo Baksi [36]
“I don’t know if we can win this debate.”
He was on the point of saying something, but for once it was me who interrupted him.
“More and more Kurdish girls feel that it’s the Kurdish or Muslim culture that is behind horrific incidents such as honour killings. That’s not entirely irrelevant.”
I got up to fetch the latest edition of Expressen. Without our noticing, the whole office had become completely dark. Outside the window was a solitary street lamp. I felt I had been attacked by my friend. Obviously I knew that he wanted to help me. He wanted to warn, protect and support me. He was doing that as best he could. I ought to have been grateful, but I could feel that my irritation had increased thanks to his vitriolic sermon.
When I switched on the lamp it suddenly struck me how remarkably light and darkness interact. Before, we had been hidden, but now the only darkness was outside the window. At a stroke anybody could see what was going on inside the office. I had that familiar feeling of vulnerability. How can you explain to somebody who has never experienced it what it’s like, always to be living alongside a powerful but nevertheless indefinable enemy? Somebody who can see you the moment you switch on the light and who follows every step you take. Luckily, most people never have to think about things like that.
I even surprised myself when I slammed the newspaper down on the table. The article’s headline was staring at us: “Choose sides – now!”
“Don’t you understand, Stieg,” I said, “that the Kurds’ spokesmen are worried about being blamed for the murder of Fadime Sahindal? But it’s not the media attention that’s the problem. The problem is the organizations that represent groups from the Middle East and North Africa. Kurdish women need the media attention they are getting. Believe me, I am a man who was born in Kurdistan. It’s not so bloody easy for me to represent Kurdish women.”
“I understand that, Kurdo, I understand that.”
“Most of those contributing to the debate think that honour killings are arranged by the victim’s family. In other words, that the phenomenon is socially acceptable. But if I understand you rightly, you’re saying that murderers who kill women in the Western world are individuals who make their own decisions and act individually. Am I right?”
“No, you’re not. Take 22-year-old Melissa Nordell. She was Swedish and dumped her considerably older boyfriend. He refused to let her go, and in the end attacked her. He raped her and tortured her with a stun gun. Then, to top it all off, he throttled her. When he realized what he had done, he phoned a relative who was a company director or something of the sort. Between them they cleaned up the scene of the murder, wrapped the corpse in chicken wire and dumped it on the island of Ingarö. Do you remember that?”
“Of course I do.”
“The boyfriend was jailed for life and his relative got two years for desecration of a grave. The newspapers called it a crime passionnel.”
“I take your point, Stieg. I understand that the difference between these two murders is purely cosmetic. You don’t need to be Einstein to get that. It’s just that there’s nobody in this country who wants to listen to such arguments right now. Fadime Sahindal’s father murdered her because he couldn’t accept the fact that she insisted on going her own way. Melissa Nordell was murdered by her ex-boyfriend because he couldn’t accept the fact that she was going to leave him. Neither woman was allowed to go her own way. That’s why they were punished.”
“That’s how we must express ourselves in the media. Exactly like that.”
For the first time in our conversation Stieg looked pleased. It was as if we both heaved a sigh of mutual relief. Neither of us had looked at the clock yet. It felt as if night had fallen.
Then Stieg leaned towards me