I think I've mentioned before how hugely impacted I can be by the books I read. Often, I am so consumed by a story, character, or tone that it takes over my way of thinking and leaves me feeling a bit not myself for a few days (I find that the remedy is to read something strictly informational or comedic to shift myself back to normal). Maybe that’s the reason this particular book has sat on my shelves for ages. It is the true account of a child soldier fighting in the civil war in Sierra Leon. And every time I was about to begin it I thought “this is going to be incredibly powerful and moving . . . and it’s going to completely screw me up”.
Well, I was definitely right about the first part. The story is every bit as horrific, emotional, and triumphant as I imagined it would be. It chronicles a stolen childhood – riddled by death, fear, and war. It is utterly unimaginable. And for that reason, it didn’t affect me in the way I thought it might. I didn’t dream about the characters or the setting, the narrator’s tone didn’t impact my thought patterns, I didn’t even find myself thinking about it all that much when I wasn’t reading. This isn’t to say that it wasn’t a good book. I found myself unable to put it down on numerous occasions. The author’s prose is rich and descriptive, and I connected with his character (the younger version of himself) and his struggle. But it was like reading about the Holocaust. It can feel too cruel unreal. And I, sitting in my warm bed, completely safe and comfortable, cannot accurately picture a life spent in the African jungle - deprived a sleep, food, family - high on a combination cocaine and adrinaline, with only the purpose being killing and surviving.
I can sympathize. I can be horrified. But I cannot fully imagine that pain. Maybe that means I'm emotionally limited, or lacking imagination. Maybe you should read this incredible book and get back to me on how it affected you.
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