By Zlata Filipović, on behalf of the members of the Network of Young People Affected by War (NYPAW):
Ishmael Beah (www.beahfound.org) born in Sierra Leone is the author of A Long Way Gone, Memoirs of a Child Soldier. He lives in the USA.
Kon Kelei (www.cmsf.nl) born in Southern Sudan is a spokesperson for War Child Holland. He lives in the Netherlands.
Grace Akallo, born in northern Uganda is the co-author of Girl Soldier: A Story of Hope for Northern Uganda’s Children. She lives in the USA.
Shena A. Gacu (www.chinakeitetsi.info) formerly called China Keitetsi, was born in Uganda and is the author of Child Soldier: Fighting for my Life. She currently lives in Denmark.
Zlata Filipović, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia is the author of Zlata’s Diary: A Child’s Life in Wartime Sarajevo. She lives in Ireland and works on documentary films.
Emmanuel Jal (www.emmanueljal.org) born in Sudan, is a hip hop singer and founder of Gua Africa, dedicated to educating children affected by war and poverty in sub-Saharan Africa. He lives in the UK.
I remember trying to write a book report when I heard the first gunshots of my life; sounds that no child, anywhere in the world, should ever hear. I tried hard to concentrate on my homework assignment, worried what the teacher might say the next day. That was the last book report I did for almost two years of my life during the conflict in Bosnia.
My school in Sarajevo was bombed and closed, and in place of the literature classroom wall was an enormous hole from a bomb blast. I left some neatly written essays in the cupboard that was blown apart. I never knew what happened to my teacher—I never saw her again.
We know what emergencies are: we have felt them on our skin, they crept into our lives, blew them away, sliced them, fragmented them. They stole our innocence, humanity, childhood, families. In all of our cases, conflicts stole one of our basic rights as children and young people—the right to education. That was the first thing that went when the horrors began. The closure of schools was a sign that something was very wrong.
One day our pens were dropped, notebooks abandoned, benches deserted. Rooms that were once covered with our drawings, lingering with giggles and passed notes became empty. The fear of being called up to the board to solve a math problem and the excitement of discovering the magic of writing were gone. Learning how to play, how to pull a pen across paper and how to leave a permanent mark in this world was snatched from us. Instead, our schools became shelters, places where humanitarian aid was distributed. Schools transformed into bombed-out ghost buildings, vandalized spaces, storerooms for weapons, demarcations of enemy zones and front lines.
Locked inside my house, terrified of the outside world where death could snatch you at anytime, I read endlessly, trying to continuously develop myself. Then one day, some young women from my neighbourhood started a “war school.” We did not have real classes, but we met occasionally when the days were relatively quiet and we could be children again for a while. These young women could not bear to watch the children waste away: they gave us their time and generously shared their imagination, creativity and knowledge with us. I will never forget them and what they did for us—I can only hope that confronted by similar circumstances, I would be as generous and take on the noble task of teacher.
Daily, children like me, like us, around the world, go into cellars and hiding places, into refugee camps or into the army. With them goes the future of their countries and of the world. They die, they are maimed, traumatized, broken—all of them future leaders, civil servants, scholars, fathers, mothers and teachers.
Some children are lucky enough to have survived or escaped. Yet, after the conflict has ended, as with any trauma, the recovery period is a long one. It happens through many different processes, but it is education that builds a future for fragmented lives and countries, for broken youths and destroyed homes.
