Our Children Are Killing Each Other

Not so very long ago I learned that there were at least two armies of children during the Crusades. These children led by children marched hundreds of miles through foreign territories to kill for a cause they believed in. If I remember correctly, one of the armies saw battle and what was left of them returned home as heroes. The other army was thwarted in their travels, returned home with their ranks decimated by hunger and starvation yet not having seen battle or killed any "infidels". I'm told they were greeted with derision, unwelcome in their families, shunned from society. I was stunned. I never learned this in school. I think I would remember!

The story rattled me. The massacre at Columbine High School, and others since, have rattled me. Our children are killing each other. Why? I want to know. How can this happen? How do we make it stop? I don't know the answers to these questions.

I was rattled again a few days ago when I finished a book called A Long Way Home by a former child soldier named Ishmael Beah, a child who did not choose to become a soldier, a child who was sucked into the militant chaos of Sierra Leone and lost his precious childhood. I cannot speak of the horrors he endured or perpetrated. He does that eloquently in his book, in his own words, in his own way. I do, however, want to share bits and pieces of prose from his book, pieces that touched me deeply.

This is his prologue:

"My high school friends in New York City have begun to suspect I haven't told them the full story of my life.
'Why did you leave Sierra Leone?'
'Because there was a war.'
'Did you witness some of the fighting?'
'Everyone in the country did.'
'You mean you saw people running around with guns and shooting people?'
'Yes, all the time.'
'Cool.'
I smile a little.
'You should tell us about it sometime.'
'Yes, sometime.' "

Snippets of prose from A Long Way Home:


"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."

Returning from their first ambush in which they wiped out an entire group of rebels: "The branches of the trees looked as if they were holding hands and bowing their heads in prayer."

During an ambush on a village: "The flames on the thatched roofs waved us off as they danced with the afternoon breeze, swaying as if in agony."

"Some nights the sky wept stars."

Thank you, Ismael Beah, for telling your story. It is both heartbreaking and heartwarming.

Welcome home.