“Tommy,” a 21-year-old Kabul native, learned the language of the enemy in secret: his mother would whisper the words to him while she cooked her lentils. Now, as an interpreter for coalition forces in the deadly Karwar District, he holds one of the most dangerous occupations in war-torn Afghanistan. CARSTEN STORMER joins the young Afghani on a typical day on the job, where land mines, booby traps, and hand grenades are delivered daily by the Taliban; and “infidel collaborators” like him are on the top of every terrorist’s hit list

It starts off as a tingling sensation in the toes, then rises through the veins to the chest.

There, dark thoughts constrict his heart like an iron hand and make his breath go shallow, his head empty. For a moment he is paralyzed by the thought that he may be about to die. He wishes he could make himself tiny and hide from death, the death which lurks in the mountains and valleys of his land. Tommy longs for the peace which seems unattainable, for ordinary life, lounging in cafés with friends or enjoying his mother’s cooking. Such thoughts rush through his head in the final seconds before each operation. What was it Captain Jon Trowller said just now in his briefing? That everyone should keep their eyes open, as patrols in Kharwar District always came under attack. “There’s a war going on out there, and they want us dead.” He knows what Trowller is talking about, for he experiences the brutal choreography of war almost daily: mines, booby traps, grenades. Then he gives his shoulders a brief waggle, as if that way he could shrug off his fear. “Inshallah,” says the lad. Everything will be all right.

“Call me Tommy,” says the young man, who is wearing a baseball cap and has a stubble of beard on his chin. He doesn’t dare to utter his real name, for Tommy has one of the most dangerous occupations in contemporary Afghanistan—he is an interpreter in the service of the U.S. Army. Anyone who works with the Afghan government, the Americans or the coalition troops is considered a traitor and collaborator by the extremists and fanatics. A person earmarked for death. Dozens of soldiers, policemen and interpreters are murdered or abducted or have their families threatened. He has been working as an interpreter for two years, and during this time his look has turned as hard as stone. His eyes are the eyes of an old man.

For a moment he is paralyzed by the thought that he may be about to die. He wishes he could make himself tiny and hide from death— which lurks in the mountains and valleys of his land.

He opens the heavy door of the armoured jeep, throws himself into the seat and looks down at his hands, simultaneously moving his lips as if he is whispering a prayer. He looks like a captive animal in a cage. Then the convoy rolls out of the American base and rumbles up over the Altimur Pass into the mountains of the Afghan interior. Its goal is Kharwar District, 30 kilometers north of the base. Taliban country. Here, in this parallel universe away from the civilized world, Afghan, American, French, and Czech soldiers are fighting for freedom, peace, pluralism—grand words which ring hollow in places where human bombs are blowing themselves up for their deity . . .

The convoy jolts along village tracks and over mountain passes; meanwhile, Tommy narrates his story. Really the only thing he wants is to get out of here, away from this dump of an American military encampment at Altimur, about 50 kilometers south of Kabul. Far away from the dust and the lousy food, the grenades and the mines. Back to Kabul, to study journalism. But he had to bury that dream several years ago. He did study for two months at Kabul University, but then the money ran out. His mother earned too little to be able to support him. There wasn’t even enough for board and lodging, let alone books and tuition fees. On top of that, there was the problem of string-pulling. He didn’t know anyone in the government, wasn’t on good terms with or related to any high officials. “Nowadays you can’t get a job unless you have connections or money, not even with the best qualifications.”

Nevertheless he loved Kabul. In Kabul there were tarmac roads, bazaars, cafés, beautiful girls, green parks in which one could discreetly hold hands. “Kabul!” He pronounced the name of the capital slowly, letting it roll over his tongue. Then he gave a sudden start, as if he had just woken from a dream. The city is far away, seemingly quite out of reach. Instead, he is tied to this camp which is attacked with grenades several times a week.

“Look at me,” he says, “I’m twenty-one years old, but look as if I was forty, all lean and greying.” It’s been seven years since the Americans drove out the Taliban. The day the first bombs fell was the happiest day in his life, declares Tommy. Because from then on, everything was going to get better. Peace, betterment, training, Internet and mobile phones would follow, or so he thought. He was a 14-year-old boy, dreaming of the future for the first time. Since then he has been waiting for those promises to be fulfilled.

It’s been seven years since the Americans drove out the Taliban. The day the first bombs fell was the happiest day in his life, declares Tommy.

Tommy sits in the back seat of the Humvee, nervously cracking his fingers, and looks through the armoured glass at the “Qualas,” the windowless mud farmhouses of the local people, from whose inhabitants he has to conceal his identity behind sunglasses and a baseball cap. In his army trousers, bulletproof jacket and helmet, he looks more like someone from a special anti-terrorist unit than an interpreter. The Americans and NATO people mean well, of that Tommy is convinced. “It’s right that they should be here. Only it’s taking too long for anything to change.” He speaks like someone who has found the perfect woman yet can’t fall in love with her.

Under the Taliban he used to have to wear a turban and learn surahs of the Quran by heart. Everything else—English, Math, Chemistry, Physics—was prohibited. That was what school meant for them. It was his mother who taught him the language of the infidels. She had previously been a teacher, until the turbaned warriors gained control over Afghanistan and forced men into beards and women into burkas. “My boy,” his mother had said, “if you want to get on, you must learn the language of the Americans.” And so in the kitchen each day, while she was cooking lentils and rice, she would whisper English words to him.

Tommy is a practicing Muslim, but he has always loathed the Taliban because they tried to force their world view on him. When he was 15, he once decided to go to Pakistan with a friend, to visit an uncle in Peshawar. At a checkpoint close to the frontier, the Taliban arrested both of the youths because they had found two cassettes of Indian love songs in Tommy’s possession. The taxi driver had informed on them. After two days in lockup and 20 baton strokes on their hands, they were allowed to continue their journey. When they returned from Pakistan 10 days later, both the lockup and the Taliban had disappeared. The Americans had started bombing Afghanistan. Tommy began to sing the forbidden songs.

Tommy earns $800 a month, but for that he risks his life six days a week. Still, it is many times the average Afghani salary of just $400 a year. Yet he can save little, for he has to support the family—his mother who has no pension and his younger brother who has had to flee to Sweden. “It was my fault,” says Tommy. When the Taliban learned that he was working for the Americans, they started threatening his family. Three times they tried to murder his younger brother Anayetullah. Once a bullet hit him in the thigh. That was it. Tommy could not bear to face the possibility that Anayetullah might be killed on his account. He drew out all his savings, $10,000, and paid a band of people smugglers to take him to safety. Now Anayetullah is in an asylum seekers’ hostel in Stockholm awaiting his permission to stay. He has heard that Sweden is a good country with liberal immigration laws. From time to time, the brothers get to talk over the Internet. “Things are looking good,” says Tommy.

Someone in his village has reported him to the Taliban. Now they’ve got hold of his mobile phone number, and he keeps receiving threatening calls. Unfamiliar voices warn him that, if he doesn’t stop collaborating with the enemy, he will be killed. Tommy then retorts, “Fuck you! It’s you who are the enemies of my homeland, not me!” And he hangs up. “I won’t let myself be intimidated by those ignorant savages.” But he won’t be able to stand this kind of life much longer. “Another two months and then I’ll stop and look for another job.” Like what? No idea.

He has survived 10 Taliban ambushes. He describes his life as a state of suspension, and keeps telling himself there must be better things.

A halt in the little village of Anger. It lies in a valley surrounded by dusty brown mountains—a couple of mud huts and stony roads with men in white turbans riding on donkeys. A herd of camels is grazing on a hillside. Tommy gets out, pulls a receiver like a radio set from his pocket, and starts to listen in on the extremists’ radio communications. Captain Trowller is sure they are somewhere up there in their mountain holes, watching the convoy and planning an attack. For five minutes nothing is audible except some rustling and crackling, but then voices are heard and Tommy translates:

Voice One: “Have you got something prepared, brother?”

Voice Two: “Yes, we’re ready. But they’re still too far away.”

Voice One: “Be careful. There are a lot of them.”

Voice Two: “Allahu Akbar!”

Another crackle, and the convoy rolls into the village, very slowly, with its heavy machine guns trained on the slopes and the mud huts.

Captain Trowller was right. Soon afterwards, a vehicle sets off a booby trap, and two grenades burst from a hundred meters away. American mortars fire in the estimated direction of the extremists’ position, and Captain Trowller calls for air support. Twenty minutes later, fighter jets are roaring over the valley. After half an hour, the scare is over. “Usually the bastards withdraw as soon as a fighter jet appears,” says Trowller.

Whilst Americans and Taliban are shooting at each other, Tommy lies unconcernedly in the shadow of an armoured vehicle, quietly dozing. “I’ve gotten used to it. Why should I get excited?” Afraid? Of course, but “I grew up with the war, like most Afghans,” he says. After the Russians and their carnage came the mutually hostile warlords, who turned the rest of the country into rubble and ashes, and after them the Taliban. He strokes the Russian pistol in its holster which is attached to his bulletproof jacket, pulls up one of his trouser legs above the knee, and points to a scar running from shin to ankle. “Souvenir of a mine.” Up to now he has survived 10 Taliban ambushes. He describes his life as a state of suspension, and keeps telling himself there must be better things. “I’m young still. My dream is to be a journalist.” Some day.

Nine hours and several scary moments later, the convoy is back in camp. No dead or wounded. A good day. It’s already dusk, as Tommy returns to his hut and lies down on a bunk to read the political biographies he loves: Gandhi, Clinton, or Ahmed Shah Masud, Lion of the Panjshir. Sometimes he writes poetry, which he keeps in a loose-leaf binder, “to keep my soul fresh” as he says. Then the air is ripped apart by a shrill whistling sound, followed by three explosions. A siren wails. Camp Altimur is being bombarded with grenades again. Dust swirls up and settles on the army tents like a shroud.