I usually don't read memoirs. Something about reading the intimate details of another persons life always seems so voyeuristic to me. This memoir of a boy soldier was too compelling to overlook. I was standing in line at a Starbucks (go figure) and saw this memoir. After reading the excerpt entitled: New York City, 1998, I knew that my trip for a Venti 180 Skinny Latte was going to cost me $25.00.
The first third of the book is very graphic. So much so that I had to put it down a few times. I guess being given a gun and told to fight in a war would be graphic. I can barely wrap my brain around what the experience might be like for the men and women who do it for our country. The men and women that do it for our country are grown (or grown according the law). Ishmael Beah was 10 when he was given an AK-47 and told to fight for his country. It sickened me that adults in his life saw his need for food, safety and shelter as a means to carry out their wicked agendas. I asked so many times while reading his words, what I do not believe Beah had the time to ask during his experience. I asked: why? I asked: what was it all for? I believe the answers would have destroyed him at the time.
In a way, I understand Ishmael Beah's need to tell his story. It is a story that must be told. Him telling his story is the only way he would begin to live. Not just survive, but live. Beah's story is the only means for him to get justice for his family, justice for the other child soldiers that never made it out, justice for himself.
I will never understand how a human being can rob a child of their innocence and live with themselves. Doing so is the greatest evil.
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