Dec 2013
He was on his way to school.
He was only ten.
He was kidnapped and taken away from his home.
He was only ten.
He was beaten, abused, threatened and starved.
He was only ten.
He was handed a gun and taught how to shoot.
He was only ten.
He was forced into a war he never even knew.
He was only ten.
He killed people - women, children; he killed them because he was scared, scared of what would happen do to him if he didn't.
He was only ten.
He was only ten when his pen was replaced with a rifle, only ten.
Only ten when his rights became a fairy tale.
Only ten when survival was his lifeline.
Only ten when his soul died, and all that was left was only ten, ten years of empty nothingness.
He was only ten.
He was kidnapped and taken away from his home.
He was only ten.
He was beaten, abused, threatened and starved.
He was only ten.
He was handed a gun and taught how to shoot.
He was only ten.
He was forced into a war he never even knew.
He was only ten.
He killed people - women, children; he killed them because he was scared, scared of what would happen do to him if he didn't.
He was only ten.
He was only ten when his pen was replaced with a rifle, only ten.
Only ten when his rights became a fairy tale.
Only ten when survival was his lifeline.
Only ten when his soul died, and all that was left was only ten, ten years of empty nothingness.
A few years ago I did a History project about child soldiers in the DRC and other central African countries who were ina state of conflict. I investigated many shocking stories of boys, kidnapped from their home towns and forced into a war where they'd have to commit the most horrific atrocities. The boy's story which I have told in my poem at least has a happy ending, at the age of 12 he escaped forced slavery and is now a child activist for the United Nations against the practice of child soldiers. I still think their voices needed to be heard...
