Olivia: Most of us think of our childhood memories as a source of comfort. But what happens when your most vivid memories are of things you were forced to do with a gun in your hand at age 13? When killing becomes as easy as drinking water? Jackson: Wow. That’s a chilling thought. It completely flips the script on what childhood is supposed to be. It’s not about scraped knees and first crushes; it’s about survival at its most brutal. And it’s hard to imagine how a person ever comes back from that. Olivia: That's the terrifying reality at the heart of Ishmael Beah's memoir, A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier. Jackson: And this isn't just any memoir. It was a massive bestseller, translated into over 40 languages. Beah himself, after being rescued by UNICEF, went on to become a human rights advocate, speaking at the UN. He lived this, and then found a way to tell the world about it. Olivia: Exactly. And his story forces us to confront some incredibly difficult questions about what it means to be human. Before he was a soldier, Ishmael was just a kid obsessed with American rap music. Jackson: Right, that’s one of the most striking things at the beginning of the book. He’s not some abstract victim; he’s a kid who loves Naughty by Nature and LL Cool J. He and his brother and their friends formed a little rap group. Olivia: They did. In 1993, 12-year-old Ishmael, his brother Junior, and a friend named Talloi leave their village, Mogbwemo, to walk sixteen miles to the town of Mattru Jong for a talent show. They’re so excited they don’t even tell their parents they’re leaving. Jackson: It’s the kind of impulsive, adventurous thing any kid would do. The stakes feel so low, just a talent show. Olivia: And that’s the paradise that gets lost. While they’re in Mattru Jong, waiting for the show, the news arrives. Their home village has been attacked by rebels. The war, which had been a distant rumor, is suddenly at their doorstep.

Jackson: And they decide to go back, right? To find their families. Olivia: They try. And the walk back is a descent into hell. They encounter a stream of refugees fleeing the violence, and the stories are horrific. But it’s what they see that changes everything. A man sits by a van, his entire family shot to death inside. He just keeps repeating, "They are all gone." Jackson: Oh, man. Olivia: Then they see a father carrying his dead son, trying to get him to a hospital that no longer exists, whispering, "Everything will be fine." And a woman carrying her dead baby on her back, not even realizing the child is gone. These are the images that burn away their childhood. Jackson: That's an impossible thing for a 12-year-old to see. How do you even process that? It’s beyond trauma; it’s the complete destruction of your understanding of the world. Olivia: You don’t process it. You just run. They realize they can't go back to their village, so they are forced to become wanderers, constantly fleeing, always hungry. Beah talks about a saying an old man in his grandmother’s village used to repeat: "We must strive to be like the moon." Jackson: What does that mean? Olivia: It means to always be on your best behavior, to be good to others, because the moon is always appreciated. It’s a beautiful piece of wisdom. Jackson: But how do you hold onto a saying like that when the world is literally burning down around you? When you’re seeing things that prove goodness doesn’t save you? Olivia: That’s the central tragedy. You can’t. The boys become suspicious figures themselves. They’re a group of young boys traveling alone, and villagers, terrified of rebels who use child soldiers, see them as a threat. They are captured, tied up, and threatened with drowning. Jackson: Just for being boys, for being survivors. Olivia: Exactly. They’re only saved because one of the villagers recognizes them from their rap performances. Their love for hip-hop, this symbol of their lost innocence, literally saves their lives. But that innocence is gone. They are constantly hungry, stealing food to survive. In one heartbreaking scene, they steal two ears of corn from a five-year-old boy. Jackson: That’s a devastating detail. It shows how far they’ve fallen from the kids who just wanted to be in a talent show. Hunger and fear have completely rewired their morality. Olivia: Completely. And holding onto that ideal of being "like the moon" becomes impossible. Because after fleeing the rebels, Ishmael doesn't find safety. He finds the army. And the army has a very different set of lessons for him.

Jackson: This is the part of the book that is just so hard to fathom. How do you turn that kid, the one who loved LL Cool J, into a killer? Olivia: The book lays it out with chilling precision. After being separated from his brother, Ishmael and his new group of wandering boys are found by government soldiers and taken to a fortified village called Yele. At first, it feels safe. But the rebels are closing in, and the army needs more bodies. Jackson: And they turn to the children. Olivia: The lieutenant, a man named Jabati who, ironically, is also a fan of Shakespeare, gives a speech. He tells the villagers and the boys that the rebels killed their families, and this is their chance for revenge. He says, "This is your time to revenge the deaths of your families." He makes it a choice: fight with us, or leave the village with no food, no protection. It’s no choice at all. Jackson: So he’s weaponizing their grief. Olivia: Precisely. And then the training begins. It’s a systematic process of dehumanization. They’re taught to visualize the enemy when they practice stabbing banana trees with bayonets. But the most effective tools are the drugs. Jackson: Right, he talks about "brown-brown." What is that? Olivia: It's a mixture of cocaine and gunpowder. They’re also given marijuana and white capsules, probably amphetamines. The drugs numb their fear, give them boundless energy, and make them feel invincible. They watch war movies constantly—Rambo, Commando. They start to mimic the characters. Jackson: So it's a cocktail of drugs, revenge, and... war movies? It sounds like a deliberate, almost scientific process of erasing a person. Olivia: It is. And it works. Ishmael describes his first battle. He’s terrified, frozen. He sees his friends, Josiah and Sheku, killed right in front of him. And then, he says, his mind "snapped." He starts shooting, killing without thinking. Afterwards, he writes, "Killing had become as easy as drinking water." Jackson: That line is unforgettable. The ease of it. It’s the ultimate sign that the boy he was is gone. He’s been successfully turned into a weapon. Olivia: A very effective one. He even wins a contest among the boys for who can slit a prisoner’s throat the fastest. His prize? He’s promoted to Junior Lieutenant. They celebrate with more drugs and more war movies. Jackson: It’s a completely inverted moral universe. The more brutal you are, the more you’re rewarded. Is there any coming back from that? Once killing is as easy as drinking water, can you ever unlearn it?

Olivia: That’s the question the last part of the book explores. And the answer is that it’s an incredibly long and painful road. After two years of fighting, Ishmael and some other boys are unexpectedly taken from the army by UNICEF workers and brought to a rehabilitation center in Freetown. Jackson: A rescue. Finally. Olivia: But they don't see it that way. To them, it’s a betrayal. Their squad was their family, their gun was their protector. These civilians, in their clean clothes, are taking them away from the only life they know. The rehab center is chaos. Boys from the army are housed with boys from the rebel side, and they immediately try to kill each other. A massive brawl breaks out, and several boys are killed. Jackson: So the war just continues inside the walls of the place meant to heal them. Olivia: Exactly. And they’re all going through intense drug withdrawal, which makes the violence worse. They attack the staff, they destroy property. Ishmael describes how the staff’s kindness just made them angrier. Jackson: Wait, why would kindness make them angry? That seems so counter-intuitive. Olivia: Because in their world, kindness was weakness. Power was violence. When the staff would say things like, "It's not your fault," the boys heard it as an insult. They were proud of what they had done; it was their source of identity and power. To be told it wasn't their fault was to be told they were just helpless children again, and they couldn't accept that. Jackson: That’s a fascinating psychological knot. They’re clinging to the very identity that destroyed them because it’s the only one they have left. So how does anyone break through that? Olivia: Through relentless, unconditional compassion. For Ishmael, the breakthrough comes from a nurse named Esther. She doesn't push him. She just shows up, day after day. She brings him a Coca-Cola. She learns he likes rap music, so she gets him a Walkman and a Run-D.M.C. cassette. Jackson: The music from his old life. Olivia: A tiny thread back to the boy he was. And slowly, he starts to talk to her. He tells her the most horrific stories, thinking it will scare her away. He tells her about getting shot and having the bullets dug out of his foot with a bayonet, without anesthesia. But she doesn't flinch. She just listens. And she keeps telling him, "It is not your fault." Jackson: And eventually, he starts to believe it. Olivia: Eventually. It’s a slow, agonizing process. He’s plagued by nightmares. In one, he dreams of his family, but they are surrounded by headless, bleeding bodies. He’s beginning to process the trauma. Esther becomes his surrogate sister, the first real family he’s had since the war. Jackson: It’s interesting, I’ve read that some people have questioned the timeline of his story—whether he fought for two years or maybe a shorter period. But listening to this, it feels like the psychological truth is what's most powerful. The journey from A to B to C—from innocent boy to killer to a healing young man—is so profound, the exact duration almost feels secondary to the reality of the transformation itself. Olivia: I think that’s a key point. The book is a memoir, which is a story of memory, and traumatic memory is notoriously complex. What Beah captures is the experience of that transformation, and the emotional and psychological truth of it is undeniable. His journey is a testament to the fact that even after the most profound dehumanization, the human spirit can, with help, find its way back.

Jackson: It’s an incredible arc. The stolen innocence, the manufactured monster, and then the hard-won fight to become human again. Olivia: Beah's story shows us that our humanity isn't a fixed point. It’s not a given. It can be systematically dismantled, piece by piece, with drugs, ideology, and violence. But it also shows that it can be rebuilt, with incredible effort and, crucially, with compassion from others. Esther didn't heal him with medicine; she healed him by offering him a safe place to put his pain. Jackson: And by giving him back a piece of his identity with that Walkman. It’s like she was reminding him that the boy who loved music was still in there somewhere, buried under the soldier. Olivia: Exactly. The book is a powerful argument for the resilience of children, but it’s not a simple, feel-good story. It’s a warning about how easily children can be manipulated in conflict, and a call for the kind of patient, long-term support needed for their recovery. Jackson: It makes you wonder about the stories we don't hear. Beah was one of the lucky ones who got out and could tell his story. What does it mean that there are thousands more who never get that chance? Olivia: It means stories like this are more important than ever. They bear witness for those who can't. Jackson: A heavy but necessary read. It stays with you. Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.