The bullet went through the little boy’s shoulder and out of his back.  He said he did not even feel the pain until he realized that the boy sprawled on top of him was dead.  He held his breath, although a scream was tearing at his chest, trying to escape from his mouth.  He said the first thing he wanted to do was cry for his mother but he knew if he did not pretend to be dead, the soldiers would shoot him again

The Congolese government troops fired at the group of young boys once more to make sure they were all dead.  By some miracle the boy lying on top of him shielded him from the deadly AK 47 fire.

The troops left the group of dead boys lying in the forest outside Goma where they had fallen. 

As part of a UN and UNICEF delegation to Goma in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, I met the boy some time after he was nursed back to health and put into a rehabilitation center.  I spent the afternoon with the boy and a number of ex-child soldiers who were being cared for by a non-profit group.

Recently I came across the name Sean D. Carasso after visiting his web site "falling whistles.com".   According to a powerful and moving narrative on his site, Sean had a life-changing experience with another group of ex-child soldiers during his visit to Goma, where he made the following journal entry.

“Many of us have heard the stories of child-soldiers. Invisible Children and stories such as A Long Way Gone have been groundbreaking in granting us glimpses into their tortured lives.

I had heard.  Known. Cared. I had even reacted and raged. But when these boys told me of the whistle blowers, the horror grew feet and walked within me.

Captured by Nkunda’s rebel army, the boys not big enough to hold a gun are given merely a whistle and put on the front lines of battle.

Their sole duty is to make enough noise to scare the enemy and then to receive – with their bodies – the first round of bullets.

Lines of boys fall as nothing more than a temporary barricade.

Those who try to flee are shot at from behind. The soldiers call it “encouragement” to be brave. Without a gun to protect themselves, the smallest boys are placed between the crossfire of two armies – forces fighting for reasons far beyond their ability to understand.

With falling whistles, their only choice is to feign death or face it.”

The ex-child soldiers I met with shared very similar stories to the ones Sean heard.  And like him, meeting kids who have walked through hell and managed to crawl out of the other side, shook me to the core.

I fought back tears all afternoon as we sat in a circle on the ground and shared stories and drew pictures in the journals I had brought for them.  The talk was pretty superficial until I exposed a painful event I had personally experienced with a child who was dying of cancer.  I told the boys about my little five year-old friend Rene who was at the end of her life and how I would visit her at the hospital.  I explained that I volunteer at the cancer hospital to comfort sick children.  I told them how one afternoon, as I sat with Rene, rocking her in my arms, she took a deep breath, said she loved me and passed away.  While sharing the story I began to cry.  One of the kids reached across and patted me on the shoulder.  Then another.  And another. A group hug ensued.

Then everything changed.

Once the children saw my tears and felt me open up to them, they did the same.  Story after story came pouring forth.  And with the stories came tears and pain in torrents.  And as the afternoon progressed and the stories were released from deep within these children, so too was some of their pain.  Harrowing stories were soon comforted by stories of bravery and finally the laughter came.

It started with a simple self-deprecating joke I shared.  The laughter was infectious.  Soon more funny stories were shared and the group was bellowing with laughter.  Seeing those kids, who had been through so much, laughing so hard is a sight I will cherish forever.

The sad thing is, these broken angels are just sweet kids who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and to see their pain-hardened little faces break into smiles is indescribable.

Sean had a very similar experience with the children he shared time with.  His final words say it all:

“As with us all, the boys gained freedom from sharing their stories. Tears turned to smiles and smiles to laughter. Little in our respective lives was similar, but storytelling is strange and powerful. Surrounded by angry and on looking guards, we found some small comfort in one another.”

As this year ends and another begins, I pray from deep within my soul for all children who are in pain and suffering terribly while we sit around warm hearths and enjoy holiday celebrations with our families.