I sit under a bush canopy with ex child soldiers from Liberia, and with our hands, we dig into buckets of rice and cassava leaf stew. There is something about eating food this communally that feels strange, but at the same time, comfortable.

A few feet away, a Liberian boy named Alex sings a song about Africa’s struggles and the power of one love. He tells me that back in Liberia he would sing to the boys in his military unit to help cope with being in the front line. His songs would distract them from what they had done, or worse, what they were going to do.

In the back of my mind I know that men who have committed atrocities surround me. Murder, looting, and rape—I can only imagine the extent of what really happened. But, in the last four months, never once have I felt unsafe or threatened. Ironically, these men exude vulnerability, even innocence. True, they have committed crimes; the society in which they live does not let them forget. But, these men are not monsters. If anything, they are victims. 

Candice with ex boy soldier in Liberia

Today, I have visited the Liberia Refugee Camp to interview some of the ex child soldiers for a student documentary. After setting up the camera and microphones, one of the men tells me that he wants his

face blurred and name changed because he risks being persecuted if his identity is revealed to the wrong person. Of course, we agree. 
He is the first person we film and suggests that we conduct the interview under the tall bushes at the back of the camp. During the war, the men spent most of their time under vegetation much like this, and being surrounded by a similar setting may help them more accurately recollect their stories.

My friend carefully and slowly delivers her questions as if almost afraid of the answer. I am holding the microphone and listening to his soft, raspy voice through bulky headphones.

The story starts in his village where rebel groups ravaged its people for food and supplies. He was seven at the time and ran as fast as he could into the forest, but the rebels still caught him. He lived with them for a few weeks and soon began to not just fear the rebel leaders, but also revere them. When the other leaders, some probably still boys themselves, thought it was time he experienced his first kill, they brought him to town. He sat on a rock while the two men drank dry gin and taunted a pregnant woman nearby. The taunting soon developed into an argument about whether the baby was a boy or a girl. The arguing stopped and they killed the woman so that they could open her stomach to reveal the baby’s gender. It was a boy. 

The silence between us is deep and I look at him. There was something strange in the way he delivered that story; it was as if he were not telling his own. His eyes glazed over, his face hardened, and he was using vocabulary that he would never normally use. His voice and entire body language from before was different. As he continued talking, I couldn’t help but think that he was reading words from some script.

We conducted three more interviews and they came out much the same. Raw, haunting, but at the same time, contrived. Later that day, we have an interview with an American girl who volunteers with these men and she says, “They have to detach themselves from their past in order to share them with us. In many ways, it is like reading out of a script. But, can you blame them?”

No, I guess not.