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MY SON THE FANATICBY HANIF KUREISHI

Surreptitiously, the father began goinginto his son’s bedroom. He would sit therefor hours, rousing himself only to seekclues. What bewildered him was that Aliwas getting tidier. The room, which wasusually a tangle of clothes, books, cricketbats, and video games, was becoming neatand ordered; spaces began appearingwhere before there had been only mess.

Initially, Parvez had been pleased: his sonwas outgrowing his teen – age attitudes.But one day, beside the dustbin, Parvezfound a torn shopping bag that containednot only old toys but computer disks,videotapes, new books, and fashionableclothes the boy had bought a few monthsbefore. Also without explanation, Ali hadparted from the English girlfriend who usedto come around to the house. His oldfriends stopped ringing.

For reasons he didn’t himself understand,Parvez was unable to bring up the subjectof Ali’s unusual behaviour. He was awarethe he had become slightly afraid of hisson, who, between his silences, wasdeveloping a sharp tongue. One remarkParvez did make – “ You don’t play yourguitar anymore “ – elicited the mysteriousbut conclusive reply, “ There are moreimportant things to be done.”

Yet Parvez felt his son’s eccentricity as aninjustice. He had always been aware of thepitfalls that other men’s sons had stumbledinto in England. It was for Ali that Parvezworked long hours; he spent a lot of moneypaying for Ali’s education as an accountant.He had bought Ali good suits, all the bookshe required, and a computer. And now theboy was throwing his possessions out ¡.The TV, video–player, and stereo systemfollowed the guitar. Soon the room waspractically bare. Even the unhappy wallsbore pale marks where Ali’s pictures hadbeen removed.

Parvez couldn’t sleep; he went more oftento the whiskey bottle, even when he was atwork. He realized it was imperative todiscuss the matter with someonesympathetic.

Parvez had been a taxi-driver for twentyyears. Half that time he’d worked for thesame firm. Like him, most of the otherdrivers were Punjabis. They preferred towork at night, when the roads were clearerand the money better. They slept duringthe day, avoiding their wives. They ledalmost a boy’s life together in the cabbie’soff ice , playing cards and setting uppractical jokes, exchanging lewd stories,eating take-aways from local “ balti “houses, and discussing politics and theirown problems.

But Parvez had been unable to discuss thesubject of Ali with his friends. He was tooashamed. And he was afraid, too, that theywould blame him for the wrong turning hisboy had taken, just as he had blamed otherfathers whose sons began running aroundwith bad girls, skipping school, and joininggangs.

For years, Parvez had boasted to theother men about how Ali excelled in cricket,swimming, and football, and what anattentive scholar he was, getting A’s inmost subjects. Was it asking too much forAli to get a good job, marry the right girl,and start a family ?. Once this happened,Parvez would be happy. His dreams ofdoing well in England would have cometrue. Where had he gone wrong ?.

One night, sitting in the taxi office onbusted chairs with his two closest friends,watching a Silvestre Stallone film, Parvezbroke his silence.“ I can’t understand it ¡” he burst out. “Everything is going from his room. An Ican’t talk to him anymore. We were notfather and son – we were brothers ¡.Where has he gone ?. Why is he torturingme ?.” And Parvez put his head in hishands.

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Even as he poured out his account, themen shook their heads and gave oneanother knowing glances.

“ Tell me what is happening ¡” hedemanded.

The reply was almost triumphant. They hadguessed something was going wrong. Nowit was clear: Ali was taking drugs andselling his possessions to pay for them.That was why his bedroom was beingemptied.

“ What must I do, then ?”

Parvez’s friends instructed him to watch Aliscrupulously and to be severe with him,before the boy went mad, overdosed, ormurdered someone.

Parvez staggered out into the early-morning air, terrified that they were right.His boy – the drug-addict killer ¡.

To his relief he found Bettina sitting in hiscar.

Usually the last customers of the nightwere local “ brasses,“ or prostitutes. Thetaxi-drivers knew them well and oftendrove them to liaisons. At the end of thegirls’ night, the men would ferry tem home,though sometimes they would join thecabbies for a drinking session in the office.Occasionally, the drivers would go with thegirls. “ A ride in exchange for a ride,” it wascalled.

Bettina had known Parvez fro three years.She lived outside the town and, on the longdrives home, during which she sat not inthe passenger seat but beside him, Parvezhad talked to her about his life and hopes,just as she talked about hers. They saweach other most nights.

He could talk to her about things he’d neverbe able to discuss with his own wife.Bettina, in turn, always reported on hernight’s activities. He liked to know whereshe had been and with whom. Once, hehad rescued her from a violent client, andsince then they had come to care for eachother.

Though Bettina had never met Ali, sheheard about the boy continually. That

night, when Parvez told Bettina that hesuspected Ali was on drugs, to Parvez’srelief, she judged neither him nor the boy,but said, “ It’s all in the eyes.” They mightbe bloodshot; the pupils might be dilated;Ali might look tired. He could be liable tosweats, or suden mood changes. “ O.K ?”

Parvez began his vigil gratefully. Now thathe knew what the problem might be, hefelt better. And surely, he figured, thingscouldn’t have gone too far ?.He watched each mouthful the boy took.He sat beside him at every opportunity andlooked into his eyes. When he could, hetook the boy’s hand, checking histemperature. If the boy wasn’t at home,Parvez was active, looking under the carpetin Ali’s drawer’s, and behind the emptywardrobe – sniffing, inspecting, probing. Heknew what to look for: Bettina had drawnpictures of capsules, syringes, pills,powders, rocks.

Every night, she waited to hear news ofwhat he’d witnessed. After a few days ofconstant observation, Parvez was able toreport that although the boy had given upsports, he seemed healthy. His eyes wereclear. He didn’t – as Parvez expected hemight – flinch guiltily from his father’s gaze.In fact, the boy seemed more alert andsteady than usual: as well as being sullen,he was very watchful. He returned hisfather’s long looks with more than a hint ofcriticism, of reproach, even – so much sothat Parvez began to feel that it was hewho was in the wrong, and not the boy.

“ And there’s nothing else physicallydifferent ?” Bettina asked.“ No ¡.” Parvez thought for a moment. “ Buthe is growing a beard.”

One night, after sitting with Bettina in anall-night cofee shop, Parvez came homeparticularly late. Reluctantly, he and Bettinahad abandoned the drug theory, for Parvezhad found nothing resembling any drug inAli’s room. Besides, Ali wasn’t selling hisbelongings. He threw them out, gavethem away, or donated them to charityshops.Standing in the hall, Parvez heard the boy’salarm clock go off. Parvez hurried into hisbedroom, where his wife, still awake, wassewing in bed. He ordered her to sit downand sep quiet, though she had neither

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stood up nor said a word. As she watchedhim curiously, he observed his son throughthe crack of the door.The boy went into the bathroom to wash.When he returned to his room, Parvezsprang across the hall and set his ear toAli’s door. A muttering sound came fromwithin. Parvez was puzzled but relieved.

Once this clue had been established, Parvezwatched him at other times. The boy waspraying. Without fail, when he was athome, he prayed five times a day.

Parvez had grown up in Lahore, when allyoung boys had been taught the Koran. Tstop Parvez from falling asleep while hestudied, the maulvi had attached a piece ofstring to the ceiling and tied it to Parvez’shair, so if his head fell forward, he wouldinstantly jerk awake. After this indignity,Parvez had avoided all religions. Not thatthe other taxi-drivers had any more respectthan he. In fact, they made jokes about thelocal mullahs walking around with theircaps and beards, thinking they could tellpeople how to live while their eyes rovedover the boys and girls in their care.

Parvez described to Bettina what he haddiscovered. He informed the men in the taxioffice. His friends, who had been soinquisitive before, now became oddly silent.They could hardly condemn the boy for hisdevotions.

Parvez described to Bettina what he haddiscovered. He informed the men in the taxioffice. His friends, who had been soinquisitive before, now became oddly silent.They could hardly condemn the boy for hisdevotions.

Parvez decided to take a night off and goout with the boy. They could talk thingsover. He wanted to hear how things were

going at college; he wanted to tell himstories about their family in Pakistan. Morethan anything, he yearned to understandhow Ali had discovered the “ spiritualdimension ,“ as Bettina called it.

Tp Parvez’s surprise, the boy refused toaccompany him. He claimed he had anappointment. Parvez had to insist that noappointment could be more important thanthat of a son with his father.

The next day, Parvez went immediately tothe street corner where Bettina stood in therain wearing high heels, a short skirt, anda long mac, which she would openhopefully at passing cars.

“ Get in, get in ¡” he said.

They drove across the moros and parked atthe spot where, on better days, their viewunimpeded for miles except by wild deerand horses, they’d lie back, with their eyeshalf-closed, saying, “ This is the life.” Thistime Parvez was trembling. Bettina put herarms around him.“ What’s happened ?”“ I’ve just had the worst experience of mylife.”

As Bettina rubbed his head Parvez told herthat the previous evening, as he and hisson had studied the menu, the waiter,whom Parvez knew, brought him his usualwhiskey-and-water. Parvez was so nervoushe had even prepared a question. He wasgoing to ask Ali if he was worried about hisimminent exams. But first he loosened histie, crunched a poppadum, and took a longdrink.

Before Parvez could speak, Ali made aface.“ Don’t you know it’s wrong to drink alcohol?” he had said.“ He spoke to me very harshly,” Parvez saidto Bettina. “ I was about to castigate theboy for being insolent, but I managed tocontrol myself.”Parvez had explained patiently that foryears he had worked more than ten hours aday, had few enjoyments or hobies, andnever gone on holiday. Surely it wasn’t acrime to have a drink when he wanted one?“ But it is forbidden,” the boy said.Parvez shrugged. “ I know.”

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“ And so is gambling, isn’t it ?”“ Yes. But surely we are only human ?”

Each time Parvez took a drink, the boywinced, or made some kind of fastidiousface. This made Parvez drink more quickly.The waiter, wanting to please his friend,brought another glass of whiskey. Parvezknew he was getting drunk, but he couldn’tstop himself. Ali had a horrible look, full ofdisgust and censure. It was as if he hatedhis father.

Halfway through his meal, Parvez suddenlylost his temper and threw a plate on thefloor. He felt like ripping the cloth fromthe table, but the waiters and othercustomers were staring at him. Yet hewouldn’t stand for his own son’s telling himthe difference between right and wrong. Heknew he wasn’t a bad man. He had aconscience. There were a few things ofwhich he was ashamed, but on thewhole he had lived a decent life.

“ When have I had time to be wicked ?”he asked Ali.

In a low, monotonous voice, the boyexplained that Parvez had not, in fact, liveda good life. He had broken countlessrules of the Koran.“ For instance ?” Parvez demanded.Ali didn’t need to think. As if he had beenwaiting for this moment, he asked hisfather if he didn’t relish pork pies ?.“ Well.” Parvez couldn’t deny that he lovedcrispy bacon smothered with mushroomsand mustard and sandwiched betweenslices of fried bread. In fact, he ate this forbreakfast every morning.Ali then reminded Parvez that he hadordered his wife to cook pork sausages,saying to her, “ You’re not in the villagenow. This is England. We have to fit in ¡.”Parvez was so annoyed and perplexed bythis attack that he called for more drink.

“ The problem is this,” the boy said. Heleaned across the table. For the first timethat night, his eyes were alive. “ You aretoo implicated in Western civilization.”Parvez burped; he thought he was goingto choke. “ Implicated ¡” he said. “ But welive here ¡.”“ The Western materialists hate us,” Alisaid. “ Papa, how can you love someonewhich hates you ?.”“ What is the answer, then,” Parvez saidmiserably, “ according to you ?.”

Ali didn’t need to think. He addressed hisfather fluently, as if Parvez were a rowdycrowd which had to be quelled orconvinced. The law of Islam would rulethe world; the skin of the infidel would burnoff again and again; the J e w s andChristers would be routed. The Westwas a sink of hypocrites, adulterers,homosexuals, drug users, and prostitutes.While Ali talked, Parvez looked out thewindow as if to check that they were still inLondon.“ My people have taken enough. If thepersecution doesn’t stop, there will bejihad. I, and millions of others, will gladlygive our lives for the cause.”“ But why, why ?” Parvez said.“ For us the reward will be in Paradise.”“ Paradise ¡”Finally, as Parvez’s eyes filled with tears,the boy urged him to mend his ways.“ But how would that be posible ?” Parvezasked.“ Pray,” urged Ali. “ Pray beside me.”Parvez paid the bill and ushered his boyout of there as son as he was able. Hecouldn’t take any more.Ali sounded as if he’d swallowed someoneelse’s voice.On the way home, the boy sat in the backof the taxi, as if he were a customer. “What has made you like this ?” Parvezasked him, afraid that somehow he was toblame for all this. “ Is there a particularevent which has influenced you ?.”“ Living in this country.”“ But I love England,” Parvez said, watchinghis boy in the rearview mirror. “ They letyou do almost anything here.”“ That is the problem,” Ali replied.

For the first time in years, Parvez couldn’tsee straight. He knocked the side of the caragainst a lorry , ripping of the wingmirror. They were lucky not to have been

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stopped by the police: Parvez would havelost his license and his job.Back at the house, as he got out of the car,Parvez stumbled and fell in the road,scraping his hands and ripping his trousers.He managed to haul himself up. The boydidn’t even offer him his hand.

Parvez told Bettina he was willing to pray, ifthat was what the boy wanted – if it woulddislodge the pitiless look from his eyes. “But what I object to,” he said, “ is beingtold by my own son that I am going t oHell ¡.”What had finished Parvez off was the boy’ssaying he was giving up his studies inaccounting. When Parvez had asked why,Ali said sarcastically that it was obvious.“Western education cultivates anantireligious attitude.”And in the world of accountants it wasusual to meet women, drink alcohol, andpractice usury.“ But it’s well-paid work,” Parvez argued. “For years you’ve been preparing ¡.”Ali said he was going to begin to work inprisons, with poor Muslims who werestruggling to maintain their purity in theface of corruption. Finally, at the end of theevening, as Ali went up to bed, he hadasked his father why he didn’t have abeard, or at least a mustache.

“ I feel as if I’ve lost my son,” Parvez toldBettina. “ I can’t bear to be looked at as ifI’m a criminal. I’ve decided what to do.”“ What is it ?”“ I’m going to tell him to pick up his prayermat and get out of my house. It will be thehardest thing I’ve ever done, but tonightI’m going to do it.”“ But you mustn’t give up on him,” saidBettina. “ Many young people fall into cultsand superstitious groups. It doesn’t meanthey’ll always feel the same way.” She saidParvez had to stick by his boy.

Parvez was persuaded that she was right,even though he didn’t feel like giving hisson more love when he had hardly beenthanked for all he had already given.

For the next two weeks, Parvez tried toendure his son’s looks and reproaches. Heattempted to make conversation about Ali’sbeliefs. But if Parvez ventured any criticism,Ali always had a brusque reply. On oneocasión, Ali accused Parvez of

“ grovelling “ to the whites; in contrast,he explained, he himself was not “ inferior“; there was more to the world than theWest, though the West always thought itwas best.

“ How is it you know that ?” Parvez said. “Seeing as you’ve never left England ?.”Ali replied with a look of contempt.One night, having insured that there wasno alcohol on his breath, Parvez sat downat the kitchen table with Ali. He hoped Aliwould compliment him on the beard hewas growing, but Ali didn’t appear to noticeit.The previous day, Parvez had been tellingBettina that he thought people in the Westsometimes felt inwardly empty and thatpeople needed a philosophy to live by.“ Yes,” Bettina had said. “ That’s theanswer. You must tell him what yourphilosophy of life is. Then he willunderstand that there are other beliefs.”

After some fatiguing consideration, Parvezwas ready to begin. The boy watched himas if he expected nothing. Haltingly, Parvezsaid that people had to treat one anotherwith respect, particularly children theirparents. This did seem, for a moment, toaffect the boy. Heartened, Parvezcontinued. In his view, this life was all therewas, and when you died, you rotted in theearth. “ Grass and flowers will grow out ofmy grave, but something of me will liveon.”“ How then ?.”“ In other people. For instance, I willcontinue – in you.”At this the boy appeared a littledistressed.“ And in your grandchildren,” Parvez addedfor good measure. “ But while I am here onearth I want to make the best of it. And Iwant you to, as well ¡.”“ What d’you mean by make the best of it?” asked the boy.“ Well,” said Parvez. “ For a start …… youshould enjoy yourself. Yes. Enjoy yourselfwithout hurting others.”Ali said enjoyment was “ a bottomlesspit.”“ But I don’t mean enjoyment like that ¡”said Parvez. “ I mean the beauty of living.”“ All over the world our people areoppressed “ was the boy’s reply.

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“ I know,” Parvez answered, not entirelysure who “ our people “ were. “ But still –life is for living ¡.”Ali said, “ Real morality has existed forhundreds of years. Around the worldmillions and millions of people share mybeliefs. Are you saying you are right andthey are wrong ?.” And Ali looked at hisfather with such aggressive confidence thatParvez would say no more.A few evenings later, Bettina was riding inParvez’s car after visiting a client when theypassed a boy on the street.“ That’s my son,” Parvez said, his face sethard. They were on the other side of town,in a poor district, where there were twomosques.

Bettina turned to see. “ Slow down, then,slow down ¡.”She said, “ He’s good-looking. Reminds meof you. But with a more determined face.Please, can’t we stop ?.”“ What for ?.”“ I’d like to talk to him.”Parvez turned the cab round and pulledbeside the boy.“ Coming home ?” Parvez asked. “ It’s quitea way.”The boy shrugged and got into the backseat. Bettina sat in the front. Parvezbecame aware of Bettina’s short skirt, hergaudy rings and ice-blue eyeshadow. Hebecame conscious that the smell of herperfume, which he loved, filled the cab. Heopened the window.

While Parvez drove as fast as he could,Bettina said gently to Ali, “ Where have youbeen ?.”“ The mosque,” he said.“ And how are you getting on at college ?.Are you working hard ?.”“ Who are you to ask me these questions ?”Ali said, looking out the window. Then theyhit bad traffic, and the car came to astandstill.By now, Bettina had inadvertently laid herhand on Parvez’s shoulder. She said, “ Yourfather, who is a good man, is very worriedabout you. You know he loves you morethan his own life.”“ You say he loves me,” the boy said.“ Yes ¡” said Bettina.“ Then why is he letting a woman like youtouch him like that ?.”

If Bettina looked at the boy in anger, helooked back at her with cold fury.She said, “ What kind of woman am I that Ishould deserve to be spoken like that ?.”“ You know what kind,” he said.Then he turned to his father. “ Now let meout.”“ Never,” Parvez replied.“ Don’t worry, I’m getting out,” Bettinasaid.“ No don’t ¡” said Parvez. But even as thecar moved forward, she opened the doorand threw herself out – she had done thisbefore – and ran away across the road.Parvez stopped and shouted after herseveral times, but she had gone.

Parvez took Ali back to the house, sayingnothing more to him. Ali went straight tohis room. Parvez was unable to read thepaper, watch televisión, or even sit down.He kept pouring himself drinks.

At last, he went upstairs and paced upand down outside Ali’s room. When,finally, he opened the door, Ali waspraying. The boy didn’t even glance hisway.

Parvez kicked him over. The he draggedthe boy up by the front of his shirt and hithim. The boy fell back. Parvez hit himagain. The boy’s face was bloody. Parvezwas pant ing ; he knew the boy wasunreachable, but he struck himnonetheless. The boy neither coveredhimself nor retaliated; there was no fearin his eyes. He only said, through his splitlip, “ So who’s the fanatic now ?.” ∞

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The making, and unmaking, ofa child soldier

By Ishmael Beah - Sunday, January 14,2007

Sometimes I feel that living in New YorkCity, having a good family and friends, andjust being alive is a dream, that perhapsthis second life of mine isn't reallyhappening. Whenever I speak at the UnitedNations, Unicef or elsewhere to raiseawareness of the continual and rampantrecruitment of children in wars around theworld, I come to realize that I still do notfully understand how I could have possiblysurvived the civil war in my country, SierraLeone.

Most of my friends, after meeting thewoman whom I think of as my new mother,a Brooklyn-born white Jewish-American,assume that I was either adopted at a veryyoung age or that my mother married anAfrican man. They would never imaginethat I was 17 when I came to live with herand that I had been a child soldier andparticipated in one of the most brutal warsin recent history.

In early 1993, when I was 12, I wasseparated from my family as the SierraLeone civil war, which began two yearsearlier, came into my life. The rebel army,known as the Revolutionary United Front(R.U.F.), attacked my town in the southernpart of the country. I ran away, along pathsand roads that were littered with deadbodies, some mutilated in ways so horriblethat looking at them left a permanent scaron my memory. I ran for days, weeks andmonths, and I couldn't believe that thesimple and precious world I had known,where nights were celebrated withstorytelling and dancing and morningsgreeted with the singing of birds and cockcrows, was now a place where only gunsspoke and sometimes it seemed even thesun hesitated to shine. After I discoveredthat my parents and two brothers had beenkilled, I felt even more lost and worthless ina world that had become pregnant withfear and suspicion as neighbor turnedagainst neighbor and child against parent.Surviving each passing minute was nothingshort of a miracle.

After almost a year of running, I, alongwith some friends I met along the way,arrived at an army base in the southeasternregion. We thought we were now safe; littledid we know what lay ahead.

1994: The First Battle

I have never been so afraid to go anywherein my life as I was that first day. As wewalked into the arms of the forest, tearsbegan to form in my eyes, but I struggledto hide them and gripped my gun forcomfort. We exhaled quietly, afraid that ourown breathing could cause our deaths. Thelieutenant led the line that I was in. Heraised his fist in the air, and we stoppedmoving. Then he slowly brought it down,and we sat on one heel, our eyes surveyingthe forest. We began to move swiftlyamong the bushes until we came to theedge of a swamp, where we formed anambush, aiming our guns into the bog. Welay flat on our stomachs and waited. I waslying next to my friend Josiah. At 11, hewas even younger than I was. Musa, afriend my age, 13, was also nearby. Ilooked around to see if I could catch theireyes, but they were concentrating on theinvisible target in the swamp. The tops ofmy eyes began to ache, and the pain slowlyrose up to my head. My ears becamewarm, and tears were running down mycheeks, even though I wasn't crying. Theveins on my arms stood out, and I couldfeel them pulsating as if they had begun tobreathe of their own accord. We waited in

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the quiet, as hunters do. The silencetormented me.

The short trees in the swamp began toshake as the rebels made their way throughthem. They weren't yet visible, but thelieutenant had passed the word downthrough a whisper that was relayed like arow of falling dominos: "Fire on mycommand." As we watched, a group of mendressed in civilian clothes emerged fromunder the tiny bushes. They waved theirhands, and more fighters came out. Somewere boys, as young as we were. They sattogether in line, waving their hands,discussing a strategy. My lieutenantordered a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG)to be fired, but the commander of therebels heard it as it whooshed its way outof the forest. "Retreat!" he called out to hismen, and the grenade's blast got only afew rebels, whose split bodies flew in theair. The explosion was followed by anexchange of gunfire from both sides.

I lay there with my gun pointed in front ofme, unable to shoot. My index fingerbecame numb. I felt as if the forest hadturned upside down and I was going to falloff, so I clutched the base of a tree withone hand. I couldn't think, but I could hearthe sounds of the guns far away in thedistance and the cries of people dying inpain. A splash of blood hit my face. In myreverie I had opened my mouth a bit, so Itasted some of the blood. As I spat it outand wiped it off my face, I saw the soldierit had come from. Blood poured out of thebullet holes in him like water rushingthrough newly opened tributaries. His eyeswere wide open; he still held his gun. Myeyes were fixed on him when I heardJosiah screaming for his mother in the mostpainfully piercing voice I had ever heard. Itvibrated inside my head to the point that Ifelt my brain had shaken loose from itsanchor.

I searched for Josiah. An RPG had tossedhis tiny body off the ground, and he hadlanded on a tree stump. He wiggled his legsas his cry gradually came to an end. Therewas blood everywhere. It seemed as ifbullets were falling into the forest from allangles. I crawled to Josiah and looked intohis eyes. There were tears in them, and hislips were shaking, but he couldn't speak. AsI watched him, the water in his eyes was

replaced with blood that quickly turned hisbrown eyes red. He reached for myshoulder as if to pull himself up. Butmidway, he stopped moving. The gunshotsfaded in my head, and it was as if my hearthad stopped and the whole world had cometo a standstill. I covered his eyes with myfingers and lifted him from the tree stump.His backbone had been shattered. I placedhim flat on the ground and picked up mygun. I didn't realize that I had stood up totake Josiah off the tree stump. I feltsomeone tugging at my foot. It was thecorporal; he was saying something that Icouldn't understand. His mouth moved, andhe looked terrified. He pulled me down, andas I hit the ground, I felt my brain shakingin my skull again, and my deafness gaveway.

"Get down," he was screaming. "Shoot," hesaid, as he crawled away from me toresume his position. As I looked to wherehe lay, my eyes caught Musa, whose headwas covered with blood. His hands lookedtoo relaxed. I turned toward the swamp,where there were gunmen running, tryingto cross over. My face, my hands, my shirtand my gun were drenched in blood. Iraised my gun and pulled the trigger, and Ikilled a man. Suddenly all the death I hadseen since the day I was touched by warbegan flashing in my head. Every time Istopped shooting to change magazines andsaw my two lifeless friends, I angrilypointed my gun into the swamp and killedmore people. I shot everything that moved,until we were ordered to retreat becausewe needed another plan.

We took the guns and ammunition off thebodies of my friends and left them there inthe forest, which had taken on a life of itsown, as if it had trapped the souls that haddeparted from the dead. The branches ofthe trees seemed to be holding hands andbowing their heads in prayer. In theswamp, crabs had already begun feastingon the eyes of the dead. Limbs andfragmented skulls lay on top of the bog,and the water in the swamp was stagnantwith blood. I was not afraid of these lifelessbodies. I despised them and kicked them toflip them and take their guns. I found a G3and some ammunition. I noticed that mostof the dead gunmen and boys wore lots ofjewelry on their necks and wrists.

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We arrived in the village, our base, withnightfall and sat against the walls ofhouses. It was quiet, and perhaps afraid ofthe silence, we began cleaning the bloodoff our guns, oiling their chambers, andshooting them into the air to test theireffectiveness. I went for supper that nightbut was unable to eat. I only drank waterand felt nothing. I lay on my back in thetent with my AK-47 on my chest and the G3I had taken from a dead rebel leaning onthe peg of the tent. Nothing happened inmy head. It was a void, and I stared at theroof of the tent until I was miraculouslyable to doze off. I had a dream that I waspicking up Josiah from the tree stump anda gunman stood on top of me. He placedhis gun against my forehead. I immediatelywoke up from my dream and beganshooting inside the tent, until the 30 roundsin the magazine were finished. The corporaland the lieutenant came in afterward andtook me outside. I was sweating, and theythrew water on my face and gave me a fewwhite capsules. They were the samecapsules that we'd all been given before wehad gone into battle, and to this day, I donot know what they contained. I stayed upall night and couldn't sleep for days. Wewent out two more times that week, and Ihad no problem shooting my gun.

Rebel Raids

After that first week of going out on raidsto kill people we deemed our rebel enemiesor sympathizers of the rebels, our initiationwas complete. We stayed put at the base,and we boys took turns guarding postsaround the village. We smoked marijuanaand sniffed "brown brown," cocaine mixedwith gunpowder, which was always spreadout on a table near the ammunition hut,and of course I took more of the whitecapsules, as I had become addicted tothem. The first time I took all these drugsat the same time, I began to perspire somuch that I took off all my clothes. Mybody shook, my sight became blurred and Ilost my hearing for several minutes. Iwalked around the village restlessly. Butafter several doses of these drugs, all I feltwas numbness to everything and so muchenergy that I couldn't sleep for weeks. Wewatched war movies at night, Rambo "FirstBlood," "Rambo, First Blood, Part II,""Commando" and so on, with the aid of a

generator or a car battery. We all wantedto be like Rambo; we couldn't wait toimplement his techniques.

When we ran out of supplies, we raidedrebel camps in towns, villages and forests."We have good news from our informants"the lieutenant would announce. "We aremoving out in five minutes to kill somerebels and take their supplies, which reallybelong to us." He often made speechesabout how we were defending our country,how honorable we were. At these times, Iwould stand holding my gun and feelingspecial because I was part of somethingthat took me seriously and I was notrunning from anyone anymore. Thelieutenant's face evinced confidence; hissmiles disappeared before they werecompleted. We would tie our heads withthe green cloths that distinguished us fromthe rebels, and we boys would lead theway. There were no maps and no questionsasked. We were simply told to follow thepath until we received instructions on whatto do next. We walked for long hours andstopped only to eat sardines and cornedbeef with gari, sniff brown brown and takemore white capsules. The combination ofthese drugs made us fierce. The idea ofdeath didn't cross my mind, and killing hadbecome as easy as drinking water. Afterthat first killing, my mind had stoppedmaking remorseful records, or so itseemed.

Before we got to a rebel camp, we woulddeviate from the path and walk in theforest. Once the camp was in sight, wewould surround it and wait for thelieutenant's command. The rebels roamedabout; some sat against walls, dozing off,and others, boys as young as we, stood atguard posts passing around marijuana.Whenever I looked at rebels during raids,my entire body shook with fury; they werethe people who had shot my friends andfamily. So when the lieutenant gave orders,I shot as many as I could, but I didn't feelbetter. After every gunfight, we wouldenter the rebel camp, killing those we hadwounded. We would then search thehouses and gather gallons of gasoline,enormous amounts of marijuana andcocaine, bales of clothes, watches, rice,salt, gari and many other things. Werounded up any civilians — men, women,boys and young girls — hiding in the huts

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and houses and made them carry our lootback to the base. We shot them if theytried to run away.

On one of these raids, we captured a fewrebels after a long gunfight and a lot ofcivilian casualties. We undressed theprisoners and tied their arms behind theirbacks until their chests were tight asdrums. "Where did you get all thisammunition from?" the corporal asked oneof the prisoners, a man with an almostdreadlocked beard. He spat in thecorporal's face, and the corporalimmediately shot him in the head at closerange. He fell to the ground, and bloodslowly leaked out of his head. We cheeredin admiration of the corporal's action andsaluted him as he walked by. Suddenly, arebel hiding in the bushes shot one of ourboys. We dispersed around the village insearch of the shooter. When the youngmuscular rebel was captured, the lieutenantslit his neck with his bayonet. The rebel ranbefore he fell to the ground and stoppedmoving. We cheered again, raising ourguns in the air, shouting and whistling.

During that time, a lot of things were donewith no reason or explanation. Sometimeswe were asked to leave for war in themiddle of a movie. We would come backhours later after killing many people andcontinue the movie as if we had justreturned from intermission. We werealways either on the front lines, watching awar movie or doing drugs. There was notime to be alone or to think. When weconversed with one another, we talked onlyabout the movies and how impressed wewere with the way either the lieutenant, thecorporal or one of us had killed someone. Itwas as if nothing else existed.

The villages that we captured and turnedinto our bases as we went along and theforests that we slept in became my home.My squad was my family, my gun was myprovider and protector and my rule was tokill or be killed. The extent of my thoughtsdidn't go much beyond that. We had beenfighting for more than two years, and killinghad become a daily activity. I felt no pityfor anyone. My childhood had gone bywithout my knowing, and it seemed as ifmy heart had frozen. I knew that day andnight came and went because of thepresence of the moon and the sun, but I

had no idea whether it was a Sunday or aFriday.

Taken From the Front

In my head my life was normal. Buteverything began to change in January1996. I was 15.

One morning that month, a truck came tothe village where we were based. Four mendressed in clean blue jeans and white T-shirts that said "Unicef" in big blue lettersjumped out. They were shown to thelieutenant's house. It seemed as if he hadbeen expecting them. As they sat talking onthe veranda, we watched them from underthe mango tree, where we sat cleaning ourguns. Soon all the boys were told to line upfor the lieutenant who selected a few of usand asked the adult soldiers to take awayour guns and ammunition. A bunch of boys,including my friend Alhaji and me, wereushered to the truck. I stared back at theveranda where the lieutenant now stood,looking in the other direction, toward theforest, his hands crossed behind his back. Istill didn't know exactly what was going on,but I was beginning to get angry andanxious. Why had the lieutenant decided togive us up to these civilians? We thoughtthat we were part of the war until the end.

We were on the road for hours. I hadgotten used to always moving and hadn'tsat in one place idly for a long time. It wasnight when the truck stopped at a center,where there were other boys whoseappearances, red eyes and somber facesresembled ours. Alhaji and I looked at thisgroup, and he asked the boys who theywere. A boy who was sitting on the stoopangrily said: "We fought for the R.U.F.; thearmy is the enemy. We fought for freedom,and the army killed my family anddestroyed my village. I will kill any of thosearmy bastards every time I get a chance todo so." The boy took off his shirt to fight,and on his arm was the R.U.F. brand.Mambu, one of the boys on our side,shouted, "They are rebels," and reached forhis bayonet, which he had hidden in hisarmy shorts; most of us had hidden eithera knife or a grenade before our guns weretaken from us. Before Mambu could grabhis weapon, the R.U.F. boy punched him inthe face. He fell, and when he got up, hisnose was bleeding. The rebel boys drew

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out the few bayonets they had in theirshorts and rushed toward us. It was war allover again. Perhaps the naïve men whohad taken us to the center thought thatremoving us from the war would lessen ourhatred for the R.U.F. It hadn't crossed theirminds that a change of environmentwouldn't immediately make us normal boys;we were dangerous, brainwashed to kill.

One boy grabbed my neck from behind. Hewas squeezing for the kill, and I couldn'tuse my bayonet effectively, so I elbowedhim with all my might until he let go. Hewas holding his stomach when I turnedaround and stabbed him in his foot. Thebayonet stuck, so I pulled it out with force.He fell, and I began kicking him in the face.As I went to deliver the final blow with mybayonet, someone came from behind meand sliced my hand with his knife. It was arebel boy, and he was about to kick medown when he fell on his face. Alhaji hadstabbed him in the back. He pulled theknife out, and we started kicking the boyuntil he stopped moving. I wasn't surewhether he was unconscious or dead. Ididn't care. No one screamed or criedduring the fight. After all, we had beendoing such things for years and were all stillon drugs.

We continued to stab and slice one anotheruntil a bunch of MPs came running throughthe gate toward the fight. The MPs fired afew rounds into the air to get us to stop,but we were still fighting, so they had topart us by force. They placed some of us atgunpoint and kicked others apart. Sixpeople were killed: two on our side andfour on the rebel side.

As MPs stood guard to make sure we didn'tstart another fight, we, the army boys,went to the kitchen to look for food. We ateand chatted about the fight. Mambu told usthat he had plucked an eye out of the headof one of the R.U.F. boys, and that the boyran to punch him, but he couldn't see, sohe ran into the wall, banging his head hardand fainting. We laughed and picked upMambu, raising him in the air. We neededthe violence to cheer us after a whole dayof boring travel and contemplation aboutwhy our superiors had let us go.

That night we were moved to arehabilitation center called Benin Home.

Benin Home was run by a local NGO calledChildren Associated With the War, in Kissyneighborhood, on the eastern outskirts ofFreetown, the capital. This time, the MPsmade sure to search us thoroughly beforewe entered. The blood of our victims andenemies was fresh on our arms andclothes. My lieutenant's words still echoedin my head: "From now on, we kill anyrebel we see, no prisoners." I smiled a bit,happy that we had taken care of the rebelboys, but I also began to wonder again:Why had we been taken here? I walked upand down on the veranda, restless in mynew environment. My head began to hurt.

Relearning Boyhood

It was infuriating to be told what to do bycivilians. Their voices, even when theycalled us for breakfast, enraged me somuch that I would punch the wall, mylocker or anything nearby. A few daysearlier, we could have decided whetherthey would live or die.

We refused to do anything that we wereasked to do, except eat. At the end ofevery meal, the staff members and nursescame to talk to us about attending thescheduled medical checkups and the one-on-one counseling sessions that we hatedat the minihospital that was part of BeninHome. As soon as the live-in staff, mostlymen, started telling us what to do, wewould throw bowls, spoons, food andbenches at them. We would chase themout of the dining hall and beat them. Oneafternoon, after we had chased off severalstaff members, we placed a bucket over thecook's head and pushed him around thekitchen until he burned his hand on aboiling pot and agreed to put more milk inour tea. During that same week, the drugswere wearing off. I craved cocaine andmarijuana so badly that I would roll a plainsheet of paper and smoke it. Sometimes Isearched the pockets of my army shorts,which I still wore, for crumbs of marijuanaor cocaine. We broke into the minihospitaland stole some painkillers — white tabletsand off-white — and red and yellowcapsules. We emptied the capsules, groundthe tablets and mixed them together. Butthe mixture didn't give us the effect wewanted. We got more upset day by dayand, as a result, resorted to more violence.

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We began to fight one another day andnight. We would fight for hours for noreason at all. At first the staff wouldintervene, but after a while they just let usgo. They couldn't really stop us, andperhaps they thought that we would getthis out of our systems. During these fights,we destroyed most of the furniture andthrew the mattresses out in the yard. Wewould stop to wipe the blood off our lips,arms and legs only when the bell rang formealtime.It had been more than a month, and someof us had almost gone through thewithdrawal stage, even though there werestill instances of vomiting and collapsing atunexpected moments. These outbreaksended, for most of us, at the end of thesecond month. But we now had time tothink; the fastened mantle of our warmemories slowly began to open. Weresorted to more violence to avoidsummoning thoughts of our recent lives.

Whenever I turned on the faucet, all I couldsee was blood gushing out. I would stare atit until it looked like water before drinkingor taking a shower. Boys sometimes ranout of the hall screaming, "The rebels arecoming." Other times, the younger ones satweeping and telling us that nearby rockswere their dead families.

It took several months before I began torelearn how to sleep without the aid ofmedicine. But even when I was finally ableto fall asleep, I would start awake less thanan hour later. I would dream that a facelessgunman had tied me up and begun to slitmy throat with the zigzag edge of hisbayonet. I would feel the pain that theknife inflicted as the man sawed my neck.I'd wake up sweating and throwingpunches in the air. I would run outside tothe middle of the soccer field, sit on a stoneand rock back and forth, my arms wrappedaround my legs. I would try desperately tothink about my childhood, but I couldn't.The fighting memories seemed to haveformed a barrier that I had to break inorder to think about any moment beforethe war. On those mornings, I would feelone of the staff members wrap a blanketaround me, saying: "This isn't your fault,you know. It really isn't. You'll get throughthis." He would then pull me up and walkme back to the hall.

Past and Present

One day after I'd been in Benin Home formore than three months, I was sent to theminihospital for a checkup. The nurse onduty was named Esther. I had met heronce before when I was sent to theminihospital after cutting my handpunching a window. Esther wore a whiteuniform and a white hat. Her white teethcontrasted with her dark, shiny skin, andwhen she smiled, her face glowed. She wastall and had big brown eyes that were kindand inviting. She must have been about 30,which I thought was too old.

That day, before Esther examined me, shegave me a present, a Walkman and a Run-DMC tape. I used to listen to rap music alot before the war and loved it because ofits poetic use of words. I put theheadphones on and didn't mind beingexamined because the song had taken holdof me, and I listened closely to every word.But when she began examining my legsand saw the nasty scars on my left shin,she took my headphones off and asked,"How did you get these scars?"

"Bullet wounds," I casually replied.

Her face filled with sorrow, and her voicewas shaking when she spoke: "You have totell me what happened so I can prescribetreatment." At first I was reluctant, but shesaid she would be able to treat meeffectively only if I told her what happened,especially about how my bullet woundswere treated. So I told her the whole storynot because I really wanted to but becauseI thought that if I told her some of thetruth of my war years, she would be afraidof me and would cease asking questions.She listened attentively when I began totalk:

During the second dry season of my waryears, we were low on food andammunition. So as usual, we decided toattack another village, which was a three-day walk away. We left our base thatevening, stopping once a day to eat, drinkand take drugs. Each of us had two guns,one strapped to our backs, the other heldin our hands. On the evening of the thirdday, the village was in sight.

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Surrounding it, we waited for thelieutenant's command. As we lay inambush, we began to realize that the placewas empty. We were beginning to suspectthat something was amiss when a shot wasfired from behind us. It was clear now: wewere being ambushed. We ended up in afight that lasted more than 24 hours. Welost several men and boys. When we finallyseemed to have captured the village, webegan to look around for anything we couldfind. I was filling my backpack withammunition from a hut when bullets beganto rain on the village again. I was hit threetimes in my left shin. The first two bulletswent in and out, and the last one stayedinside. I couldn't walk, so I lay on theground and released an entire round of themagazine into the bush where the bulletshad come from. I remember feeling a tinglein my spine, but I was too drugged to reallyfeel the pain, even though my leg hadbegun to swell. The sergeant doctor in mysquad dragged me into one of the housesand tried to remove the bullet. Each timehe raised his hands from my wound, I sawmy blood all over his fingers. My eyesbegan to grow heavy, and I fainted.

I do not know what happened, but when Iwoke the next day, I felt as if I had nailshammered into the bones of my shin andmy veins were being chiseled. I felt somuch pain that I was unable to cry outloud; tears just fell from my eyes. Theceiling of the thatched-roof house where Iwas lying on a bed was blurry. My eyesstruggled to become familiar with mysurroundings. The gunfire had ceased andthe village was quiet, so I assumed that theattackers had been successfully drivenaway. I felt a brief relief for that, but thepain in my leg returned. I tucked my lips in,closed my heavy eyelids and held tight tothe edges of the wooden bed. I heard thefootsteps of people entering the house.They stood by my bed, and as soon as theybegan to speak, I recognized their voices.

"The boy is suffering, and we have nomedicine here to lessen his pain. Everythingis at our former base." The sergeant doctorsighed and continued. "It will take six daysto send someone to get the medicine andreturn. He will die from the pain by then."

"We have to send him to the former base,then," I heard my lieutenant saying. "We

need those provisions from that base,anyway. Do all you can to make sure thatthe boy stays alive," he said and walkedout. "Yes, sir," the sergeant doctor said. Islowly opened my eyes, and this time Icould see clearly. I looked at his sweatyface and tried to smile a little. After havingheard what they said, I swore to myselfthat I would fight hard and do anything formy squad after my leg was healed.

"We will get you some help," the sergeantdoctor said gently, sitting by my bed andexamining my leg. "Just be strong, youngman,"

"Yes, sir," I said, and tried to raise my handto salute him, but he tenderly brought myarm down.

Two soldiers came into the house, took meoff the bed, placed me in a hammock andcarried me outside. The treetops of thevillage began to spin around as they carriedme out. The journey felt as if it took amonth. I fainted and awoke many times,and each time I opened my eyes, it seemedas if the voices of those who carried mewere fading into the distance.

Finally we got to the base, and thesergeant doctor, who had come along,went to work on me. I was injected withsomething. I was given cocaine, which Ifrantically demanded. The doctor startedoperating on me before the drugs tookeffect. The other soldiers held my handsand stuffed a cloth into my mouth. Thedoctor stuck a crooked-looking scissorsliketool inside my wound and fished for thebullet. I could feel the edge of the metalinside me. My entire body was racked withpain.

Just when I thought I had had enough, thedoctor abruptly pulled the bullet out. Apiercing pain rushed up my spine from mywaist to the back of my neck. I fainted.

When I regained consciousness, it was themorning of the next day, and the drugs hadkicked in. I reached my hands down to myleg and felt the bandage before I stood upand limped outside, where some soldiersand the sergeant were sitting. "Where ismy weapon?" I asked them. The sergeanthanded me my G3, and I began cleaning it.I shot a couple of rounds sitting against a

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wall, ignoring the bandage on my leg andeveryone else. I smoked marijuana, ate andsnorted cocaine and brown brown. Thatwas all I did for a few days before we wentback to the new base we had captured.When we left, we threw kerosene on thethatched-roof houses, lighted them withmatches and fired a couple of RPGs into thewalls. We always destroyed the bases weabandoned so that rebel squads wouldn'tbe able to use them. Two soldiers carriedme in the hammock, but this time I had mygun, and I looked left and right as wetraveled the forest path.

At the new base, I stayed put for threeweeks. Then one day, we heard that arebel group was on its way to attack ourvillage. I tightened the bandage around myshin, picked up my gun and followed mysquad to ambush them. We killed most ofthe attackers and captured a few whom webrought back to base. "These are the menresponsible for the bullet holes in your leg.It's time to make sure they never shoot atyou or your comrades." The lieutenantpointed at the prisoners. I was not sure ifone of the captives was the shooter, butany captive would do at that time. Theywere all lined up, six of them, with theirhands tied. I shot them in their shins andwatched them suffer for an entire daybefore finally deciding to shoot them in thehead so that they would stop crying. BeforeI shot each man, I looked at him and sawhow his eyes gave up hope and steadiedbefore I pulled the trigger. I found theirsomber eyes irritating.

When I finished telling Esther the story, shehad tears in her eyes, and she couldn'tdecide whether to rub my head, atraditional gesture indicating that thingswould be well, or hug me. In the end shedid neither but said: "None of whathappened was your fault. You were just alittle boy, and anytime you want to tell meanything, I am here to listen." She staredat me, trying to catch my eye so she couldassure me of what she had just said. Ibecame angry and regretted that I had toldsomeone, a civilian, about my experience. Ihated the "It is not your fault" line that allthe staff members said every time anyonespoke about the war.

I got up, and as I started walking out of thehospital, Esther said, "I will arrange a full

checkup for you." She paused and thencontinued: "Let me keep the Walkman. Youdon't want the others to envy you and stealit. I will be here every day, so you cancome and listen to it anytime." I threw theWalkman at her and left, putting my fingersin my ears so I couldn't hear her say, "It isnot your fault."

After that, whenever Esther would see mearound, she'd smile and ask me how I wasdoing. At first I detested her intrusions. Butslowly I came to appreciate them, evenlooked forward to them. It was like this atthe center; most boys found a staffmember whom they eventually began totrust. Mine was Esther.

Over the next few months, I started to visitEsther occasionally at the minihospital,which was just across the dirt road fromthe dorm that I shared with more than 35boys. During that time, Esther got me totell her some of my dreams. She would justlisten and sit quietly with me. If she wantedto say anything, she would first ask, "Wouldyou like me to say something about yourdream?" Mostly I would say no and ask forthe Walkman.

One day Esther gave me a Bob Marley tapeand a really nice notebook and pen andsuggested that I use them to write thelyrics of the songs and that we could learnthem together. After that I visited Esther atthe minihospital every day, to show herwhat I had written. I would sing her theparts of songs I had memorized.Memorizing lyrics left me little time to thinkabout what happened in the war. As I grewcomfortable with Esther, I talked to hermainly about Bob Marley's lyrics and Run-DMC's too. She mostly listened.

One night, close to my fifth month at thecenter, I fell asleep while reading the lyricsof a song. I startled awake after having adream that involved lots of people stabbingand shooting one another, and I felt alltheir pain. The room I stood in filled withtheir blood. In the dream, I then wentoutside to sit at dinner with my father,mother and two brothers. They didn't seemto notice that I was covered with blood.

It was the first time I dreamed of my familysince I started running away from the war.The next afternoon I went to see Esther,

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and she could tell that something wasbothering me. "Do you want to lie down?"she asked, almost whispering.

"I had this dream last night," I said lookingaway. "I don't know what to make of it."

She came and sat next to me and asked,"Would you like to tell me about it?" I didn'treply.

"Or just talk about it out loud and pretend Iam not here. I won't say anything. Only ifyou ask me." She sat quietly beside me.The quietness lasted for a while, and forsome reason I began to tell her my dream.

At first she just listened to me, and thengradually she started asking questions tomake me talk about the lives I had livedbefore and during the war. "None of thesethings are your fault," she said, as she hadrepeated sternly at the end of everyconversation. Even though I had heard thatphrase from every staff member — and hadalways hated it — I began that day tobelieve it. That didn't make me immune tothe guilt that I felt for what I had done. Butit somehow lightened my burdensomememories and gave me strength to thinkabout things. The more I spoke about myexperiences to Esther, the more I began tocringe at the gruesome details, eventhough I didn't let her know that. I stilldidn't completely trust her. I only likedtalking to her because I felt that she didn'tjudge me for what I had been a part of;she looked at me with the inviting eyes andwelcoming smile that said I was still a child.

One day during my fifth month at BeninHome, I was sitting on a rock behind theclassrooms when Esther came by. She satnext to me without uttering a word. Shehad my lyrics notebook in her hand. "I feelas if there is nothing left for me to be alivefor," I said slowly. "I have no family, it isjust me. No one will be able to tell storiesabout my childhood." I sniffled a bit.

Esther put her arms around me and pulledme closer to her. She shook me to get myfull attention before she started. "Think ofme as your family, your sister."

"But I didn't have a sister," I replied.

"Well, now you do," she said. "You see, thisis the beauty of starting a new family. Youcan have different kinds of familymembers." She looked at me directly,waiting for me to say something.

"O.K., you can be my sister — temporarily."I emphasized the last word.

"That is fine with me. So will you come tosee your temporary sister tomorrow,please?" She covered her face as if shewould be sad if I said no.

"O.K., O.K., no need to be sad," I said, andwe both laughed a bit.

Rejoining the Civilian World

Soon after, a group of visitors from theEuropean Union, the United Nations, Unicefand several NGOs arrived at the center in aconvoy of cars. At the request of the staff,we boys had prepared a talent show forthem. I read a monologue from "JuliusCaesar" and performed a short hip-hop playabout the redemption of a former childsoldier that I had written with Esther'sencouragement. After that event, the headof the center asked me to be thespokesman for Benin Home and to speakabout my experiences.

I was at the beginning of my seventhmonth at Benin Home when one of the fieldagents, Leslie, came to tell me that he wasresponsible for "repatriating" me — theterm used to describe the process ofreuniting ex-child soldiers with their formercommunities. My family was dead, but Iknew that my father had a brother whom Ihad never met who lived somewhere inFreetown. Leslie said he would try to findhim, and if he couldn't, he'd find me afoster family to live with.

One Saturday afternoon about two weekslater, as I chatted with Esther at theminihospital, Leslie walked in, smilingwidely. "What is the good news?" Estherasked. Leslie examined my curious face,then walked back to the door and openedit. A tall man walked in.

"This is your uncle," Leslie proudlyannounced.

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The man walked over to where I wassitting. He bent over and embraced melong and hard. My arms hung loose at mysides.

What if he is just some man pretending tobe my uncle? I thought. The man let go ofme. He was crying, which is when I beganto believe that he was really my family,because men in Sierra Leone rarely cried.

He crouched on his heels next to me andbegan: "I am sorry I never came to see youall those years. I wish I had met you beforetoday. But we can't go back now. We justhave to start from here. I am sorry for yourlosses." He looked at Leslie and continued:"After you are done here, you can comeand live with me and my family. You aremy son. I don't have much, but I will giveyou a place to sleep, food and my love." Heput his arms around me.

No one had called me "son" in a very longtime. I didn't know what to say. Everyone,it seemed, was waiting for my response. Iturned to my uncle, smiled at him and said:"Thank you for coming to see me. I reallyappreciate that you have offered me to staywith you. But I don't even know you." I putmy head down.

"As I said, we cannot go back," he replied,rubbing my head and laughing a little. "Butwe can start from here. I am your family,and that is enough for us to begin likingeach other."

I got up and hugged my uncle, and heembraced me harder than he had the firsttime and kissed me on my forehead. Webriefly stood in silence before he began tospeak again. "I will visit you everyweekend. And if it is O.K., I would like youto come home with me at some point, tosee where I live and to meet my wife andchildren — your family." My uncle's voicetrembled; he was trying to hold back sobs.He rubbed my head with one hand andshook Leslie's hand with the other.

As my uncle promised, he came to visitevery weekend. We would take long walkstogether, and they gave me a chance toget to know him. He told me about whatmy father was like when he was a child,and I told him about my childhood. Ineeded to talk about those good times

before the war. But the more I heard andtalked about my father, the more I missedmy mother and brothers too.

About a month or so later at Benin Home,Leslie told me it was time for me to go livewith my uncle. I was happy, but I was alsoworried about living with a family. I hadbeen on my own for years and had takencare of myself without any guidance fromanyone. If I distanced myself from thefamily, I was afraid that I might lookungrateful to my uncle, who didn't have totake me in; I was worried about whatwould happen when my nightmares tookhold of me. How was I going to explain mysadness, which I was unable to hide whenit took over my face, to my new family,especially the children?

I lay in my bed night after night staring atthe ceiling and thinking, Why have Isurvived the war? Why was I the lastperson in my immediate family to be alive?I went to see Esther every day, though,and would say hello, ask how she was andthen get lost in my own head thinkingabout what life was going to be like afterthe center. At night, I sat quietly on theveranda with my friends. I wouldn't noticewhen they left the bench that we all sat on.

When the day of my repatriation finallycame, I walked to the minihospital buildingwhere I was to wait, my heart beating veryfast. My friends Alhaji and Mambu and aboy named Mohamed were sitting on thefront steps, and Esther emerged, smiling.Leslie sat in a nearby van waiting to takeme to my new home.

"I have to go," I said to everyone, my voiceshaking. I extended my hand to Mohamed,but instead of shaking it, he leapt up andhugged me. Mambu embraced me whileMohamed was still holding me. Hesqueezed me hard, as if he knew it wasgoodbye forever. (After I left the center,Mambu's family refused to take him in, andhe ended up back on the front lines.) At theend of the hug, Alhaji shook hands withme. We squeezed each other's hands andstared into each other's eyes, rememberingall that we had been through. I never sawhim again, since he continually moved fromone foster home to another. Esther steppedforward, her eyes watery. She hugged metighter than she ever had. I didn't return

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her hug very well, as I was busy trying tohold back my tears. After she let go, shegave me a piece of paper. "This is myaddress," she said. "Come by anytime."

I went to Esther's home several weeks afterthat. But my timing wasn't good. She wason her way to work. She hugged me, andthis time I squeezed back; this made herlaugh after we stood apart. She looked mestraight in the eyes. "Come and see menext weekend so we can have more time tocatch up, O.K.?" she said. She was wearingher white uniform and was on her way totake on other traumatized children. It mustbe tough living with so many war stories. Iwas living with just one, mine, and it wasdifficult. Why does she do it? Why do theyall do it? I thought as we went our separateways. It was the last time I saw her. Iloved her but never told her.

Ishmael Beah is the author of "A Long WayGone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier," which will bepublished next month by Sarah Crichton Books,an imprint of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, and fromwhich this article is adapted. He now lives inBrooklyn.