In a development that will surely jolt the gin-and-tonic circuit from Hampstead to High Wycombe, a former child soldier in Somalia has laid bare the harrowing ‘kill or be killed’ ultimatum that defined his childhood. The revelation comes as British aid workers, clutching union jacks and sterilised flasks of PG Tips, plead for peace in a conflict that has all the elegance of a bar brawl at closing time.
Let us first applaud the sheer chutzpah of the universe, which continues to serve up tragedies like canapés at a Tory fundraiser: little morsels of horror that we can nibble on between bouts of outrage over railway delays. The ex-soldier, now a young man with eyes that have seen more than most septuagenarians, spoke of a world where the choice was simple: kill or be killed. A philosophy, one might note, that would make even a City banker blush. ‘You go out, you shoot, or they shoot you,’ he said, his words a stark machete through the treacle of international diplomacy.
British aid workers, those magnificent fools who believe that peace is a viable alternative to drone strikes and sanctions, have set up a chorus of entreaties. ‘We need dialogue,’ they cry, as if dialogue were a commodity traded on the FTSE. ‘We need a ceasefire,’ they plead, as if the warring factions had suddenly discovered the joys of Sudoku. The audacity is remarkable: here are people who think that the solution to a conflict rooted in clashing warlords, clan loyalties, and the global arms trade is a good, old-fashioned chinwag.
Meanwhile, the British government sits on its hands, presumably because the alternative might involve a firm stance, which would upset the delicate balance of our moral superiority. We send aid, we send sympathy, we send sternly worded tweets. But we do not send troops, because that would be meddling, and meddling is only acceptable when it involves oil or a decent golf course.
Let us not forget the context: Somalia is a country where the phrase ‘failed state’ is not a metaphor but a job description. It is a land where pirates have a more coherent business model than the government, where militant groups offer a benefits package that includes eternal glory and a guaranteed 72 houris. In such a place, the ‘kill or be killed’ ethos is not a pathology but a rational choice. It is the logical conclusion of a world that has decided that children are acceptable collateral damage as long as the quarterly GDP figures don’t suffer.
As I sip my gin (Gordon’s, with a hint of remorse), I wonder: what would it take to break this cycle? Would a celestial memo do? Perhaps a sternly worded letter from the Queen? Or maybe just a collective realization that a child with a gun is a failure not of that child, but of every adult who ever held a clipboard, passed a resolution, or voted for a warmonger.
The British aid workers, bless their organic-cotton socks, will continue their plea. They will hold candlelit vigils and write op-eds about the ‘human cost of conflict.’ They will do everything except acknowledge that the war might be perpetuated by the very people who profit from it: arms dealers, politicians, and smug talking heads on news programmes.
So here’s to another day in the greatest show on earth, where children are given rifles instead of textbooks, and where our response is a collective shrug wrapped in a cry for peace. We are the audience, and we are complicit. Pass the tonic.
