Mogadishu, a city of corrugated iron and bullet-pocked walls, has a way of swallowing stories. But the story of Ismael, a 22-year-old who spent his adolescence as a child soldier for the al-Shabaab militia, refuses to be silenced. Over sweet tea in a backstreet café, he tells me: “You had to kill, or be killed. There was no third option.”
Ismael was 12 when militants came to his village. They offered his family money and protection. They took him to a training camp where other boys, some as young as nine, were taught to strip AK-47s and recite propaganda. “They told us the infidels were animals,” he says, staring at his hands. “After a while, you believe it.”
The psychological transformation is chillingly familiar to those who study child soldiers. Dr. Aisha Nur, a psychologist at Mogadishu University, explains: “The brain of a child is highly adaptable. In survival mode, it rewires itself. Empathy becomes a liability. The ‘kill or be killed’ ethos becomes a sacred code. These children are not just victims but also perpetrators, and that duality is a heavy burden to shed.”
Ismael’s first combat was a raid on a government checkpoint. “I was terrified. But the older boys said if I didn’t shoot, they would kill me.” He fired. He saw a man fall. “After that, it became easier. You stop seeing faces.”
The war in Somalia has raged for decades, but the use of child soldiers has become a desperate tactic for a weakened al-Shabaab. The United Nations estimates that nearly 1,200 children were recruited in 2023 alone. For every Ismael who escapes, dozens more are indoctrinated.
Ismael fled after his commander ordered him to execute a captured soldier his own age. “He was crying. I saw my brother in his eyes. I couldn’t.” He ran through the night and surrendered to government forces. Now he lives in a rehabilitation centre, learning to read and write, but haunted by memories.
“The hardest part is forgetting,” he says. “I see the faces of the men I killed in my sleep. The teachers here say I will eventually make peace with it. But how can you make peace with murder?”
The rehabilitation centre, funded by international aid, offers therapy and vocational training. But resources are scarce. Many former child soldiers are stigmatised, seen as monsters by communities that suffered their attacks. “Society doesn’t forgive easily,” says centre director Ahmed Farah. “But these children are victims too. We have to break the cycle.”
Ismael dreams of becoming a mechanic. “I want to fix things, not break them.” His is a fragile hope, a flicker in a land that has seen too many blow out. As I leave the café, the call to prayer echoes across the city. Ismael lowers his head. For a moment, he looks like any young man anywhere. But then I see the scars on his hands and the hollow in his eyes. Somalia’s war may be forgotten by the world, but it lives on in the souls of its children.
