A Long Way Gone

Ishmael Beah's new book - a hard-hitting account of child- soldiering in late 1990s Sierra Leone - is out; and apparently being sold in Starbucks (could someone with access to the coffee giant confirm…) Beah has a story that needed to be told, and I commend him for meticulously going back through the nightmare that was his youth and recounting, in lurid detail, his experiences fighting for a complex web of rebel alliances and counter alliances, vaguely understood even by the young combatants themselves. While Beah’s account is unique, I am sure it is not uncommon. Most, if not all of contemporary conflicts, particularly in Africa, are carried out by young boys (and girls) who have often been abducted, drugged, indoctrinated, and turned into killing machines. The suddenness with which Ishmael Beah regressed from a normal boy to a participant in Sierra Leone’s bloodletting is testimony to the impressionability of people in general, and young war victims in particular. The fortunate part of Ishmael’s story is that it basically has a happy ending; it is not without redemption. He was rehabilitated and settled in America, where he graduated from college and is doing momentous things. It remains to be seen if the others, the hundreds of thousands of other child soldiers, will have a happy ending or ever come to know redemption and deliverance from the forces that have abducted them. To Ishmael - well done, keep sharing your story. To Ann - thanks for the book.

An excerpt:

We walked into the arms of the forest, holding our guns as if they were the only thing that gave us strength. We exhaled quietly, afraid that our own breathing could cause our death. The lieutenant led the line that I was in. He raised his fist in the air and we stopped moving. Then he slowly brought it down and we sat on one heel, our eyes surveying the forest. I wanted to turn around to see my friends’ faces, but I couldn’t. We began to move swiftly among the bushes until we came to the edge of a swamp, where we formed an ambush, aiming our guns into the swamp. We lay flat on our stomachs and waited. I was lying next to Josiah. Then there was Sheku and an adult soldier between myself, Jumah, and Musa. I looked around to see if I could catch their eyes, but they were concentrated on the invisible target in the swamp. The top of my eyes began to ache and the pain slowly rose up to my head. My ears became warm and tears were running down my cheeks, even though I wasn’t crying. The veins on my arms stood out and I could feel them pulsating as if they had begun to breathe of their own accord. We waited in the quiet, as hunters do, our fingers gently caressing the triggers. The silence tormented me.

Also, please click here for Jeffery Gettleman's article in New York Times about child soldiers: The Perfect Weapon for the Meanest Wars.