One Day the Soldiers Came - Charles London [109]
Keto’s an adult now too. Thousands of children in Lugufu camp took their secondary school graduation tests and thousands returned to the Congo ahead of the first free elections. Perhaps Keto was among them, a full-fledged citizen, a minor no longer, able not only to choose his own destiny but the destiny of his country, something previous generations had never fathomed. Keto was smart and could, more than likely, play the system well, perhaps become a Big Man, perhaps a doctor or a teacher. He could also be wallowing in that camp still, pining away the days in search of rescue, unable to wean himself from the habit of dependency on aid and unable to find a job in a nonexistent economy. No way to tell. My translator and I arranged to get him his treasured soccer ball after I left, and I heard later he was leading games on the dirt field near the school. That was the last I heard of him, calling out passes and field positions, guiding his team, even if there was no keeping tally of the points.
Christof did not return to the summer camp on Mount Igman; he stopped attending the Sunday program. In some neighborhood in Sarajevo he continued to work out his anger and his gentleness, figuring out which side of himself to follow. Bosnia seems poised for a hard time ahead, and young men with little money and a lot of rage could be the powder keg that sets off another war. As the most senior international official in Bosnia noted, the situation “can all too easily escalate into violence in a society where weapons are everywhere, alcohol plentiful, and the summer long and hot.” One likes to think that when the moment comes, Christof will remember the dog, Prijatelj, panting under the heavy sun on Mount Igman, that he will remember giving little Sofya a ride on his back, and how peacefully she slept with her arms around his neck. One hopes that he will join with other moderates and be a voice for cooperation. These decisions come from the fabric of a life, after all, and there is much sewn into the fabric of his life, of all their lives.
The riches each child of war carries into adulthood are forged from moment to moment; who they will be is built up quietly as events unfold, as they try to fathom the kindness they receive and the betrayals they feel, as they calculate their survival and learn who their friends are.
The young experience it all in war: the highs of human kindness and the lows of human cruelty. They are at both ends, giving and receiving, their stories unfolding without fanfare. Records are rarely kept on their movements and little notice is taken of their deaths unless it serves a political end. There is no prescription, no single way to ensure that children survive the hardships of war or flourish as adults but to eliminate wars altogether. Granted, for some children, the challenges they face in times of crisis can actually benefit them, help them build “character,” as I saw time and again among the children I met. But there is no way to know that they would not have flourished in peace-time as well, tackling the day to day challenges of living with the same energy and courage as they tackled survival.
If a society restores itself as part of the peace process, rebuilding its institutions and moral norms, if it includes the young in the dialogue of rebuilding and renewal, the odds for war’s children improve. Sometimes greater intervention will be needed—psychiatric care, physical therapy, job training, development aid, peacekeeping forces. Each culture and each conflict are unique, as is each child. They want different