Child Combatant

Out for lunch at 2pm ... my first meal of the day. I couldn't possibly complain though. On the contrary: I feel as though I should fast for a few weeks. Still, the fried chicken was good. What wasn't so good was that a bunch of white people appeared out of nowhere. I kind of wanted them to go away ... until I remembered that I'm white too.

After lunch we picked up Sidibay, a fifteen-year-old boy who had been a child combatant. To save a little time, I interviewed him as we drove, but I wished I could have taken an entire week with him. No; I wish I could have taken him home with me. His candor and gentle heart surprised and touched me. I asked Sidibay why he joined the rebels at such a young age; it seemed impossible to fathom that a little boy could commit such atrocities—but his answer made sense: His parents had been murdered during the war when he was just three, and, as soon as he was able, he tried to make sense of his loss and regain some power by joining the only stronghold he could see. He was glad for the war because without it he would have no place to go, no hope.

When the war ended, Sidibay didn't know what to do. He was selected to be in a school for displaced children and was shocked to discover that he liked it. He pressed into his studies, and found new hope, real hope. "I want to be an international lawyer for justice someday," he told me proudly. "I'm working very hard."