The Gang School.

A new private school has been established for secondary school students who want to pursue a career as gang criminals. I am hired by a newspaper that doesn’t want to expose its permanent writers to life-threatening situations, so I’m sent out to interview the headmaster.

-There’s been a lack of a school that teaches the basics of how to become a gang criminal, explains headmaster Urban Zetterlöv in a broad Gothenburg accent. He promises comprehensive teaching in everything from handling weapons and explosives, drug knowledge, money laundering, and basic criminal law to argot.

-Argot? I wonder.

-Being well-acquainted with the terms and concepts that are prevalent in the industry is crucial for being able to act credibly and rise through the ranks.

-Where do the students come from?

-Everywhere. Previously, it was just the youths from the suburban slums, but now we see a clear trend that even native Swedes from affluent areas long to become part of the criminal world. And that is truly positive.

-How so?

-I see it as a process of democratisation. Nowadays, all parents, regardless of socio-economic factors or demographics, have given up on trying to raise their children. No one bothers to take parental responsibility anymore. Some even hide behind the old cliché from the 60s that it’s society’s fault when children choose a criminal path, laughs Urban, pouring himself a bit more coffee.

-And you have no issues with starting a school that fosters crime and trains murderers?

-I see record numbers of young people longing for community and a purpose.

-And gang crime offers this?

-Oh yes. There is camaraderie, entrepreneurship, and big money for everyone.

-And violence and substance abuse…

-That exists in all workplaces, Urban interrupts me brusquely. Here we teach the youths to use Tramadol judiciously, so they can execute someone with both emotions and weapons under control.

-What a relief…

-I know. There’s a snobbery in the education system that has always irritated me. People dismissed the two-year vocational programmes when they came along too, but look at how many mechanics and nurses we got because of that. And this hunt for private schools continues despite the fact that most of them offer a better education than the municipal ones.

-So who owns the school?

-Two gang leaders who believe so strongly in this school that they have set aside their rivalries and are financing it together.

-So it’s blood money?

-Blood money? Urban says, looking at me wistfully. What is that? All revenue for criminal gangs comes from ordinary, decent Swedes who buy a bit of relaxation. It could be drugs, smuggled spirits, prostitutes, or other things that add a bit of sparkle to life.

I watch Urban as he comfortably starts devouring a blueberry muffin.

-But doesn’t it concern you that young people are dying in gang violence?

-Oh please, spare me, Urban says, licking his fingers. There are plenty of professions where the career is short. Ballet dancer, circus artist, astronaut, elite athlete, etc. The youths choose our school because they are passionate about becoming gang criminals; they are fully aware of the risks.

I conclude the interview by photographing Urban posing with an assault rifle in the teacher's room.

-What do you think of the headline: A GANG BANG SCHOOL? he says, laughing so hard that he accidentally fires a round into the plaster ceiling.

Mordor is just outside of Stockholm.

We were in the car, having just sold our house and moved into a new flat, when my wife looked at me thoughtfully and asked a question she hadn't asked in over 20 years.

-Shall we go to IKEA?

We'd agreed that I'd never have to go to IKEA again, because every time I did, it threatened our marriage. There was an exception to the rule last winter when I accompanied her to IKEA in Miami. I acted as a human forklift for my wife, who was furnishing a house in Florida, and I was a little tempted to see what the chipboard temple looked like in the USA. The experience was exotic, and strangely I felt a little proud as I wandered around looking at all the products with Swedish names, staff in Swedish colours and a pleasant homely feel. My wife noticed that I didn't have to take beta-blockers or wear a muzzle during the visit and must have thought I was cured.

-We need drawer inserts for our new kitchen, she continued, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Perhaps I agreed because we were debt-free and my body felt light as if it had been pumped full of helium. Maybe my judgement had been altered by the Miami experience, or maybe it was the promise that we would just go there to buy some drawer inserts and then head straight home.

-Okay, as long as we have the measurements for our drawers?

-Of course.

We made our way to Barkarby. Not very Miami, but more like a standard Swedish shopping centre on steroids. We parked in the IKEA car park and strolled in to do our business. Now, everyone knows that IKEA not only has a system for assembling its flat-pack items, but also for herding customers like cattle through the stores on their terms. So I was pleased to see the large signs generously indicating shortcuts to get us to our destination faster. Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that these shortcuts were impossible to find. I began to sweat profusely in the bedding section and clenched my fists so tightly that my blood stopped circulating in the kitchen section.

Even the staff struggled to give us clear directions on how to get straight to the kitchenware. Apparently there was a lift somewhere that would take us straight there, but where? My guess was that the lift never existed. I explained to my wife that these were Ingvar Kamprad's last words on his deathbed.

-No shortcuts, no lifts…

Trying to keep her spirits up, my wife led me through the store as if we had eaten bad oysters and were desperately looking for a toilet. Then suddenly we found ourselves in the kitchenware section. Eagerly, we started rummaging through the boxes and quickly realised that our new kitchen had completely different dimensions from IKEA's. Not a single tray fit. My blood pressure rose to the point where the veins on my forehead and neck were protruding like earthworms. We left as quickly as we could, and when I looked in the rear-view mirror on the way out of the car park, I could swear the whole place looked like Mordor from The Lord of the Rings.

-Never again, my wife said firmly.

I smiled, glad that my wife was on my side.

-Never again will I go to IKEA with you, she added.

The gay-card.

I belong to a generation that grew up when military service was compulsory for men in Sweden. Few of us looked forward to it, and those who were overly enthusiastic should perhaps have been weeded out just for that reason. Some felt a strong resistance and could apply for conscientious objection and still be of use in the Armed Forces. If the resistance was more ideological, you could refuse altogether and end up in prison instead. So the more convenient choice was to present yourself as a completely incompetent and useless human being. So hopeless that the Armed Forces would spit you out like a bad oyster and have you exempted. You could underperform at the physical test or buy a fake medical certificate for disabilities that made military service impossible. If that failed, you could try your luck with the Army psychologist.

-I dream of indiscriminately shooting into crowds and think genocide has gotten a bad reputation. By the way, can you electrocute the enemy's testicles during interrogation?

If you lacked the acting talent required to play the moron, there was one last resort. A foolproof way to avoid defending your country in the event of war: The gay card. At the time, it was considered completely unthinkable for a homosexual man to do military service. Almost as unthinkable was the idea that someone would voluntarily claim to be gay to avoid doing military service. I don't know, it's possible they thought that sexual orientation impaired the ability to shoot anti-aircraft guns, blow up bridges or fly fighter jets. But it's also possible they envisioned a soldier in a pink tutu, high heels and a grenade launcher slung over his shoulder, humming a Barbara Streisand song.

Or perhaps the Armed Forces assumed that an entire generation of soldiers would rather do prison time than national service together with homosexuals.

-How the hell are the lads supposed to shower in peace if a bunch of sissies are gawking at them?

We live in a time when almost nothing is going the right way, so we must cling to the memory of the small advances that civilisation has made. Nowadays, another hopeless group is also allowed to do military service - women.

The end justifies the means.

A group of environmental activists have asked for my help. After vandalising artworks with spray paint, throwing cakes at politicians, storming live TV broadcasts, gluing themselves to road surfaces in the city centre and on motorways, they're feeling a bit despondent. We meet in a basement in Gubbängen, where I arrive wearing Elvis's final stage outfit from Las Vegas. I bought it on eBay and felt this might be my first chance to wear it. The cape rests elegantly on my shoulders, but the sequinned jumpsuit is several sizes too large and is flapping about like excess skin after an extensive liposuction procedure. It's unclear whether the silence in the room is from embarrassment on their part or breathless admiration.

-What democratic avenues have you tried? I ask, straddling a chair backwards. The one who seems to be the group's leader clears his throat a bit.

-All of them. Petition-gathering, demonstrations, legal action against the state at various levels, writing opinion pieces, and participating in debates. Nothing works.

-You realise what that means, don't you? I say, taking off the tinted sunglasses. No one replies.

-That you don't represent the majority of the people.

A disgruntled murmur goes through the room and a woman raises her voice.

-But that's because people are blind and deaf. They haven't grasped the seriousness of it.

-Perhaps. But they may also think that you don't have the solutions to the problems?

-If no one gets involved, change will never happen, a young irritated man says.

-So a strong conviction trumps democratic rules?"

-Civil disobedience is sometimes necessary to get politicians to act.

-Okay. Have you considered shooting someone?

-Shooting? Are you out of your mind?

-I'm just trying to understand where you draw the line.

-No, we're not going to shoot anyone.

-Kidnap a person in power and post severed body parts to the media?

-No, you're so creepy, we don't do violence.

-Okay, then. Up on Fulufjället in Dalarna stands the world's oldest tree.

-Old Tjiko?

-Exactly! It's 9,550 years old and has been there since the Ice Age. It's seen mammoths, sabre-toothed cats and the first people to set foot on Swedish soil.

-So what does that have to do with anything?

-Cut it down!

Everyone looks at me in stunned silence as I stand up in my flapping outfit, pretending to hold a chainsaw and mimicking the sound of the engine.

-Just fell that thing.

-But that goes against everything we stand for, says an upset young man, rising to his feet. We can't kill a tree.

-That's what makes it so powerful. The world is falling apart, so you're just giving this old tree a merciful death. Old Tjiko shouldn't have to watch as humanity destroys itself and everything around it. Old Tjiko should be able to go with some dignity left. Maybe you can build a fire with the wood afterwards and stand in a circle, singing a song.

Here, I stand up and put one leg on the chair, bursting into song at the top of my lungs:

-We can't go on together, with suspicious minds. And we can't build our dreams on suspicious minds.

On my way home from the meeting, I felt exhilarated and pleased with my contribution. Like I finally filled out my stage clothes.

Miracle in Everyday Life.

The Catholic Church has decided to sharpen the definitions of miracles and reached out to me, asking if I wanted to participate in the work.

-Absolutely, I replied and was flown down to the Vatican City in Rome in Business Class. I felt honoured to be involved in the modernisation of an institution that otherwise excelled in resisting any kind of change. They asked if I wanted a choir boy in my hotel room when I arrived, but I politely declined, blaming it on a urinary tract infection. One wouldn't want to seem ungrateful and create a bad atmosphere.

-You are a critical outsider who can contribute with perspectives that we lack, said the man from the Vatican when we met early in the morning. I was led into a room with a gigantic oak table surrounded by a group of old men. The table was so polished that I could see up everyone's nostrils. The man leading the meeting had a red hat with slightly creased edges on top, like fins on a fish. Or perhaps it was a sundial?

-In our digital age, many try to bluff and manipulate miracles to gain attention. It undermines the credibility of the church and affects our ability to verify real miracles, he said, throwing his hands up in despair. The other men shook their heads in concern and exchanged looks of agreement.

-Let’s have some refreshments while we start working.

-Will there be choir boys with the coffee? asked a frail-looking man with a hint of hope in his voice.

-We'll save that for dinner, said the man with the red hat matter-of-factly.

I cautiously raised my hand, unsure if I could speak freely.

-Yes, Anders?

-If I understand correctly, do you mean today that a miracle is a Divine intervention, beyond the laws of nature, and should be extraordinary and perceptible by the senses?

-Yes, exactly.

-And now you want a more scientific approach?

I was met with completely blank stares.

-We always hire doctors to confirm medical miracles, said one of the old men.

-Yes, but they are your doctors, so they are hardly objective, right? If you were to evaluate miracles completely scientifically, it would be impeccable.

-Science cannot explain everything in this world, said the man with the red hat irritably.

-It can at least prove that no one can rise from the dead, walk on water, heal the blind and lame by laying on of hands and that statues cannot cry or bleed. You appear a bit ridiculous by believing in fairy tales. Isn't that why we are here today? The man with the red hat stared angrily at me and pointed towards the door.

-OUT! BLASPHEMER!

I left the meeting and thought it was a shame that I couldn't complete my reasoning that had led to the placebo effect. Where belief in a treatment or medicine can have positive effects even though the treatment or medicine is entirely ineffective. It's the miracle of our time. I passed a group of choir boys on the way out. They looked terrified, and then it hit me.

The creases on the red hat looked just like horns.

To throw away your life.

I hesitated for a second before turning the moving box upside down. Going to the dump and getting rid of old junk has always been delightful and cathartic. But now, when it was about everything I love, it was a bit more emotionally taxing. The books and authors that shaped and inspired me, the movies that touched me deeply, and the music that defined me. All the time and money I had invested in something that had turned into worthless pieces of paper and plastic that wouldn't fit in my future home.

Once I crossed that threshold, it was as if something broke inside me. Suddenly, nothing was sacred anymore, and I decided to throw away my wife, my children, my parents, siblings, and elderly relatives. But my wife and daughters were not on board at all and showed immense physical strength when I tried to cram them into the wood chipper. Pushing them into the incinerator container was also not an option; an employee at the station informed me that living beings are not to be recycled at all. I had to give up and tell the family I was joking and settled for throwing away all my photo albums, videotapes, and slides instead. Everything fell into the container's welcoming mouth like rain-heavy leaves.

The journey back from the dump was understandably a bit frosty, but I kept my spirits up and explained that this cleansing ritual was vital to me.

-My past is erased, like an intestinal lavage. All that remains is my genetic heritage and the future, I explained to ears that didn't want to listen.

When I recounted the episode to my friends (I omitted the attempted murder of my family, I don't think they would understand), they sat with their mouths agape and appalled. How could I? 

In reality, I had portrayed myself as more progressive than I am since I didn't mention that I had digitized everything before it went to the dump. So, in reality, I haven't thrown away my life at all. On the contrary, I have preserved it and made my past more accessible than ever. Up in the attic, it gathered dust in oblivion. Now it's in the cloud, ominously hovering over me around the clock. Always accessible and a constant reminder that I am an insignificant cog in the machinery of life until the internet implodes and dies under the pressure of humanity's collective stupidity.

Then everything disappears forever, and only then - maybe- we truly will be free.

The heart of the home.

After 30 years in the same house, my wife and I have decided to move. Without children or a dog, it's as if we live in a gigantic memorial park where we have to use 'find-my-iPhone' to locate each other.

We carefully chose a real estate agent and since then, we have done nothing but clean and style our home. First for a photo shoot and then for viewings when complete strangers will stroll around our home and hopefully be able to see themselves living there. The real estate agent came to inspect our work one day. He silently walked around the house with a critical gaze. He opened closets, peeked into bathroom drawers, visited the attic and storage spaces, and made small notes in a notebook.

-The large framed photo in the living room? he said with a concerned tone as we sat down at the kitchen table.

-Yes?

-What is that, it looks like a piece of meat?

-Christ, no! That's my wife's placenta from our first daughter, the Tree of Life, I replied enthusiastically.

The real estate agent's face whitened slightly as he glanced down at his notes.

-I think it would be best if...

-We ate it afterwards, my wife interjected. We sautéed it lightly in cold-pressed olive oil with some garlic and tarragon, then served it with pickles and salt and pepper. Such a beautiful moment and surprisingly tasty.

-Yes, almost like goulash but with a hint of liver, I added.

-I understand that it means a lot to you, but perhaps another painting won’t steal so much focus from the house itself, struggled the real estate agent.

-Well, you're the professional here. I don't want to end up like my own clients who are willing to pay for my services but aren’t willing to listen, I said, laughing.

The real estate agent gathered his strength before moving on to the next point on his list.

-The old man sitting in the guest room closet?

-Mr Wallén? Yes, he's a close family friend who has been with me since I was young. He was the gardener at my grandmother and grandfather's place on the outskirts of Stockholm.

-I think he might have to go, the real estate agent stated flatly.

-But he's been there since we moved in, I tried to explain.

-It can be perceived as offensive to have a stuffed person in the house, the real estate agent explained pedagogically and sought support from my wife.

-How can it be offensive to honour the memory of a beloved gardener? my wife wondered, tilting her head slightly. (Always a warning sign.)

-Homebuyers are often sensitive beings and very afraid of moisture, mould, and radon.

-I don't think there's radon in Mr Wallén, although he may have grown up in a home built with blue lightweight concrete on a glacial ridge and an exterior covered with asbestos tiles, so who knows? I chimed in.

-No, precisely.

-So what should we do with him? I asked worriedly.

-Maybe he can be in the tool shed until the viewings are over? the real estate agent suggested.

-Yes, he might be right, my wife said to me. He would probably feel at home among all the rakes and tools.

A little later, the real estate agent and I carried Mr. Wallén out through the kitchen door, across the lawn, and towards the tool shed. He was surprisingly heavy, and suddenly one of his legs broke off and we dropped him on the ground. The real estate agent stood there holding the leg, looking foolish.

-What the hell, I exclaimed irritably.

-He can probably be fixed, the real estate agent tried. And besides, he doesn't feel anything.

-No, but I feel something. Because he was my gardener and stood firmly on two legs his whole life.

Suddenly I sense that someone is staring at us from the driveway. It's a man and a woman with two little daughters, one of whom is crying silently. The real estate agent quickly composes himself.

-Welcome. We just need to remove the gardener and then I'll be right with you.

-He’s not included in the sale, I added and dragged Mr Wallén by his remaining leg towards the shed.