Approximately 30 of us sat around in a circle, cramming into whatever seat was left. Where I sat, I admit that it was rather uncomfortable. But the promise of a story far worth my discomfort was at hand, and I could not stand to forfeit the opportunity.
So, some squirming, others comfortably lodged into the seats of the magda lounge, we nevertheless stayed willingly put as Michele Chikwanine, a former child solidier of the African Congo, told his story.
He was five when it happened.
The African Congo was a war zone during the early 1990's. Yet, the soccer field still found children on it's face. Among them, Michele Chikwanine, who accepted the danger alongside of embracing his love for soccer, playing with a few friends, one of which his best friend Kevin. Contrary to his father's wishes, the day was past 6. Yet, that it was nothing new, he was mischievous by nature: in school, he always sat int the back of the room for more targets for his spitballs, he tried to do opposite of what his father told him, which explains the fact that he is still out at 6 pm.
Army trucks, carrying upon it rebel soldiers, rolled silently by. The children noticed it, but did nothing. Army trucks were a common sight. There was no need to fear them. That is, until the army trucks stopped and began unloading the rebel soldiers. Slightly anxious now, the children still continued to play soccer, determined to continue with their game.
A gun sounded.
A gun firing is a most frightening sound, even if it was commonly heard in those days. Michel, more than a little taken by surprise, flattened himself onto the bare ground. It was often taught to the children, he recalled, to lie motionless onto the ground when a gun fires. For once, he obeyed, and so did, he noticed, his friends. Neither did he know, at such a young delicate age, that two of them will never get up again.
A rebel soldier, so tall, tall as the sky was tall, strode up to where he lay.
At this point, Michele knew that this was a joke. Yes, someone was playing a harmless joke on him. So, a small wee five year old child jumped up, stood up tall and yelled up to the tall rebel soldier in the hope that he would hear: "MY NAME IS MICHELE CHIKWANINE, I AM FIVE YEARS OLD. MY DAD IS 7 FT. 250 LBS AND HE'S GOING TO PUNISH YOU!".
And the soldier laughed.
Laughed. And his laugh grew with Michele's passing realization that this was no joke after all. Hey, these guys were serious! It was then that he grew worried.
One by one, like plain cargo, the children were loaded into the army trucks. By now frightened, Michele sat in tears. Images of the earlier day flashed by, of his father, telling him to be home by 6. Or else.
He begged them to let him go. They didn't understand! His father was 7 ft. tall, 250 lbs and he would kill them (and very possibly him) if they didn't let him go. His efforts were awarded with laughter.
The children were unloaded into the base. All of them frightened, not knowing what to expect. And there was Michele, trying not to think of his giant father, with a giant hand, grasping his small face and demanding to know why he was not home before 6. Bohze moi.
The rebel soldiers went round to the children that shrunk from them. One of them stood before Michele. Forcefully, without warning, the rebel soldier grasped his tiny wrist in his ruthless hands. Then he cut the wrist.
The forcefulness of the pain took Michele's breath away. All around him, he could hear it. Children screaming as their wrists were knifed apart, the blood drooling from the fresh wound. The rebel soldier then took a bit of powder that Michele would only later find out was gunpowder mixed with cocaine and smothered the wound with it. It was then bandaged without care as he was blindfolded.
Blinded, he felt something being shoved into his weak hands. Something heavy. He dropped it. Again, it found it's way into his hands with a small wedge that somehow fit his index finger well. The rebel ordered him to pull it.
Maybe he would not have pulled. Maybe he would have had second thoughts. But the cocaine was already settling in. His senses were completely clouded. Sweating, crying, senseless and completely without his control, he pulled it.
A gunshot fired, the back force sending him reeling onto his heels. It was a force like nothing he had felt.
The blindfold was removed. Shaking the dark away, he stared in disbelief at what lay before him.
It was Kevin.
Blood came from under him, forming first a river, than a pool, than a lake, than an ocean. Confused and unable to yet fully grasp what he was seeing, Michele ran in tears up to his friend and shook him, begging him to wake up. Neither did he know, at such a young delicate age, that Kevin never will wake up.
"You've killed your best friend," the rebel soldier said, simply. "Your family will never accept you anymore. We're the only family you have left."
Ravaged with guilt and believing that his family will refute him if he dares return, Michele became a child soldier. He was given a gun to kill people whose faces he will never forget, one of which, a pregnant woman, others people whom he had grown close to, all aimed to turn his 5 year old self into a senseless, guilt ravaged, killing machine for nothing but the purpose of war.
But Michele was lucky.
Two weeks after he was first abducted, the rebel soldiers announced a mission, to rush into a village and kill. The children responded with screams of delight and guns firing into the sky. They rushed into the village, senseless killers, shooting whatever moved.
But not Michele.
At the first possible opportunity, he leapt into the nearby woods and ran.
Ran. That was all that he did. For three days and three nights, without food nor drink, the five year old boy ran. He never looked back, fearing that if he did, a rebel soldier will meet his sights; never stopped running, the image of his father, 7 ft. tall, 250 lbs, demanding why he was not home before 6, driving him. He must be home. And he must be home on time (Sorry I just had to add this, but does anyone see a Lassie Come-home in here?)
On the third day, the land opened into a clearing. Wading into the clearing, he heard a gun fire. Distressed, for fear the rebel soldiers were here, he flattened himself onto the grasses, unmoving, staying in that position for an hour.
To be continued
Army trucks, carrying upon it rebel soldiers, rolled silently by. The children noticed it, but did nothing. Army trucks were a common sight. There was no need to fear them. That is, until the army trucks stopped and began unloading the rebel soldiers. Slightly anxious now, the children still continued to play soccer, determined to continue with their game.
A gun sounded.
A gun firing is a most frightening sound, even if it was commonly heard in those days. Michel, more than a little taken by surprise, flattened himself onto the bare ground. It was often taught to the children, he recalled, to lie motionless onto the ground when a gun fires. For once, he obeyed, and so did, he noticed, his friends. Neither did he know, at such a young delicate age, that two of them will never get up again.
A rebel soldier, so tall, tall as the sky was tall, strode up to where he lay.
At this point, Michele knew that this was a joke. Yes, someone was playing a harmless joke on him. So, a small wee five year old child jumped up, stood up tall and yelled up to the tall rebel soldier in the hope that he would hear: "MY NAME IS MICHELE CHIKWANINE, I AM FIVE YEARS OLD. MY DAD IS 7 FT. 250 LBS AND HE'S GOING TO PUNISH YOU!".
And the soldier laughed.
Laughed. And his laugh grew with Michele's passing realization that this was no joke after all. Hey, these guys were serious! It was then that he grew worried.
One by one, like plain cargo, the children were loaded into the army trucks. By now frightened, Michele sat in tears. Images of the earlier day flashed by, of his father, telling him to be home by 6. Or else.
He begged them to let him go. They didn't understand! His father was 7 ft. tall, 250 lbs and he would kill them (and very possibly him) if they didn't let him go. His efforts were awarded with laughter.
The children were unloaded into the base. All of them frightened, not knowing what to expect. And there was Michele, trying not to think of his giant father, with a giant hand, grasping his small face and demanding to know why he was not home before 6. Bohze moi.
The rebel soldiers went round to the children that shrunk from them. One of them stood before Michele. Forcefully, without warning, the rebel soldier grasped his tiny wrist in his ruthless hands. Then he cut the wrist.
The forcefulness of the pain took Michele's breath away. All around him, he could hear it. Children screaming as their wrists were knifed apart, the blood drooling from the fresh wound. The rebel soldier then took a bit of powder that Michele would only later find out was gunpowder mixed with cocaine and smothered the wound with it. It was then bandaged without care as he was blindfolded.
Blinded, he felt something being shoved into his weak hands. Something heavy. He dropped it. Again, it found it's way into his hands with a small wedge that somehow fit his index finger well. The rebel ordered him to pull it.
Maybe he would not have pulled. Maybe he would have had second thoughts. But the cocaine was already settling in. His senses were completely clouded. Sweating, crying, senseless and completely without his control, he pulled it.
A gunshot fired, the back force sending him reeling onto his heels. It was a force like nothing he had felt.
The blindfold was removed. Shaking the dark away, he stared in disbelief at what lay before him.
It was Kevin.
Blood came from under him, forming first a river, than a pool, than a lake, than an ocean. Confused and unable to yet fully grasp what he was seeing, Michele ran in tears up to his friend and shook him, begging him to wake up. Neither did he know, at such a young delicate age, that Kevin never will wake up.
"You've killed your best friend," the rebel soldier said, simply. "Your family will never accept you anymore. We're the only family you have left."
Ravaged with guilt and believing that his family will refute him if he dares return, Michele became a child soldier. He was given a gun to kill people whose faces he will never forget, one of which, a pregnant woman, others people whom he had grown close to, all aimed to turn his 5 year old self into a senseless, guilt ravaged, killing machine for nothing but the purpose of war.
But Michele was lucky.
Two weeks after he was first abducted, the rebel soldiers announced a mission, to rush into a village and kill. The children responded with screams of delight and guns firing into the sky. They rushed into the village, senseless killers, shooting whatever moved.
But not Michele.
At the first possible opportunity, he leapt into the nearby woods and ran.
Ran. That was all that he did. For three days and three nights, without food nor drink, the five year old boy ran. He never looked back, fearing that if he did, a rebel soldier will meet his sights; never stopped running, the image of his father, 7 ft. tall, 250 lbs, demanding why he was not home before 6, driving him. He must be home. And he must be home on time (Sorry I just had to add this, but does anyone see a Lassie Come-home in here?)
On the third day, the land opened into a clearing. Wading into the clearing, he heard a gun fire. Distressed, for fear the rebel soldiers were here, he flattened himself onto the grasses, unmoving, staying in that position for an hour.
To be continued
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