Not far from me there is a raceway. The cars go round and round. Each car has its own driver, and spectators sit or stand taking it all in: the advertising boards decorating the bends, the screaming engines and the appeal of the sky, reflecting itself differently on the windshields of the cars shining mirror-ball-like rolling across the molten asphalt. 

On either side of the racetrack were two camps where people were gathered, separated by the thick strip of liquorice. On the last day of the week the cars, instead of racing, were rested and maintained.

Stonings took place here instead. Bodies were buried in the turf hands tied behind backs with plastic cable-ties and buried up to the chin. People on all sides of the heads in kaftans then poured down on the individuals with rocks. The same rocks were recycled every week. Rocks had been stained by the blood of former victims who'd been gashed open mercilessly by the same crowds buying the clothes, watching the races and likely now looking after the very children of those now perpetrating the stoning.