A former child soldier rescued at age 12 has come a long way
Since taking on a part-time administrative role in the newsroom this year, my time spent reporting on the field has been cut back. Instead, building on breaking news stories has kept me in office, at my desk (along with prepping annual leaves, filling appraisal forms, and other admin work). Most interviews were done over the phone, with little face to face interaction. On November 5 though, I did feel compelled to share one of my stories on social media. It was my encounter with Mohamed Sidibay; a former child soldier from Sierra Leone. At just 25, his story — though wrought with heartache — is one that overcame tragedy. It was worth posting about.
As soon as the article went live online and the print edition landed on my desk, I snapped a pic, copied the story link and went straight to the Instagram app on my phone. “It’s meeting people like Mohamed that make me love my job!” I captioned the carefully edited photo. It showed Mohamed’s beaming smile in the foreground, with the Khaleej Times header still clearly recognisable in the background.
I sat down with Mohamed for just 20 minutes, but I still find myself playing back the voice recording of our chat. I’ve relayed the meeting to many friends and family too.
Greeting each other with a handshake and smile, Mohamed’s voice was soft and low, and his eyes sad when our conversation started. I’d researched him. I knew his background. The questions I had to ask were going to be raw; that made them tough for me to ask and tough for him to answer. But he answered in great detail. He wanted every part of his horrific childhood documented. He later said it was his way of shaming and bringing light to the actions of governments around the world that fail children; more so a government that failed him.
As the last person to hold the Sidibay name, Mohamed watched his whole family — mother, father, brother and sister — murdered in front of his eyes. He survived not out of pity from his family’s merciless killers, but because he was seen as useful. Old enough to hold a gun, he was handed an AK-47, which, when positioned vertically, stood nearly as tall as him.
“I was five-years-old when the rebels came in and murdered my whole family. Then they gave me a gun and forced me to follow them,” he told me, keeping eye contact throughout. The conversation started off intense.
A few minutes into our chat, I recalled an interview I had some years back with a former drug addict. As I probed him to go back to the time when drugs consumed his life, his counselor ushered me out the door for a quick brief. He urged me not to dig too much into his past as it could run the risk of him relapsing.
I was there as a reporter. My focus was on getting a good story. My line of questioning wasn’t sympathetic to his situation; but really, it should have been.
That little nudge from the counselor stuck with me. So when Mohamed, sitting just inches from my face, started recalling that brutal image of seeing his family being wiped out, his eyes blood shot, I stepped out of my reporter role and just became someone who was there to listen. I put down my phone too. I usually use it to quick-type interviews in real-time, but Mohamed deserved my full attention. This wasn’t some sensational news story. It was his life story and given his past; a boy tortured, raped and left homeless by the very soldiers he was forced to kill for, it was a miracle he was sitting in front of me, a privilege.
When I asked him about life before the Revolutionary United Front rebels killed his family, my intention was to stoke memories of happier times in his childhood. But the words didn’t form.
“The older I’ve gotten, my memory of life before the war has faded. The strongest memories I have is about my life after five-years-old, and that is unfortunate,” he answered.
Homeless and with the army for four years — from the age of five to nine — Mohamed told me all he remembers is that he “survived”. And then oddly, he termed his situation as “lucky”. That was an answer I struggled with. Everything about his early years seemed grossly unfair. They were unfair! But the fact that he survived, when his brother, sister, mother, father didn’t, that to him, meant he was lucky. It was a point of view I didn’t understand, but I accepted it out of respect. Who was I to question him.
Saved by a priest and taken to the US aged 12, he said education saved him. And today, Mohamed — the once five-yearold that wielded an AK-47 as tall as himself — is an education activist advocating for children’s right to quality education. He was in town as part of the Dubai Cares’ ‘Education Through Empowerment’ initiative.
He didn’t choose to turn his justified anger to hate, he turned it into change for others. That is a courage few could boast of.
That interview with Mohamed has been a standout for me in 2018 – and throughout my six years at Khaleej Times. Opportunities to meet people like that do not come around often. He is a man that lived a life so turbulent it seemed impossible to survive. Yet my job as a reporter let me hear his story. While journalism is all about making an impact, what made this encounter different was the impact Mohamed left on me.
At age 5, Mohamed watched the murder of his mother, father, brother and sister. He survived because he was seen as useful. Old enough to hold a gun, he was handed an AK-47 and told to follow them