CONGO: As the Democratic Republic of Congo votes on a new post-war constitution, Edmund Sanders visits a transit camp for former child soldiers in Goma.
The soccer field sits on top of a bed of broken lava rocks, and most boys play barefoot or in flip-flops because they have no shoes. Volleyball matches in the same yard ended when a jagged stone punctured the ball.
But the rough ground doesn't distract a dozen boys from the pleasure of the game. They laugh, tumble and wrestle for the ball amid a spray of black rock and dust. Their only job at this makeshift camp in northeastern Congo is to act like children and try to forget a past of guns, war, beatings and rape.
"I never chose that life," said former child soldier Mandevu Mujambo, a rail-thin 16-year-old who was abducted six years ago by the Congolese Rally for Democracy, or RCD, a Rwanda-backed militia that was battling government forces. "They killed my father and brothers and forced me to fight."
By the time he was 11, Mandevu said, he'd become a killing machine. "I can't even tell you how many people I've killed," he said. "So many. I was one of their best shooters. Better than some of the grown-ups."
His militia service ended when his commander shot him in a fit of rage, permanently crippling him. He was rescued by hospital authorities and brought to this transit centre in the lakeside city of Goma, one of several dozen half-way houses set up to help traumatised Congolese children rejoin society.
Mandevu is one of about 35,000 children forced to become fighters over the last decade in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Under international pressure to halt the use of child soldiers, the country, formerly known as Zaire, has demobilised an estimated 11,000 youths, leaving as many as 24,000 still trapped in servitude to one of the dozen major armed groups in the northeast. Despite a government ban, even the national army continues to recruit young people.
Habi Mana (16) was abducted by Mai Mai tribal fighters when he was 11 and then traded to the RCD militia before joining the Congolese army this year. "I'm 18," the boy dutifully lied when asked his age during a patrol outside Goma. The rifle that hung over his shoulder reached to his knees.
Asked if Habi was too small to be an effective fighter, his commander, Lieut Byamungu Padiri, confirmed the boy's actual age, but said with a shrug: "The army needs as many soldiers as we can get."
The government has launched a nationwide campaign against the use of child soldiers, including public-awareness posters and new laws. "But as far as I know, no one has ever been punished for using a child soldier," said Bernard Kitambala, manager of child-protection officers at Unicef's Goma office. "Until that happens, they are going to keep doing whatever they want."
A few children join armed groups voluntarily because militias or the army offer their only hope for food and shelter. But the vast majority are snatched from roads, farms, schools and markets and sent to training camps where they are taught to fire guns, steal and serve as valets for officers, washing clothes and carrying equipment.
Most are beaten and many are raped by the men, child-welfare advocates say. Some girls are also kept as sex slaves, but most of the soldiers are boys.
"They told me if I tried to escape, they would kill me and my family," said Mbarusha Habyarima (13), who was kidnapped with his brother this year while farming. Because of his small size, Mbarusha was trained to work as a thief, sneaking into homes and shops to steal food, mattresses, boots and clothes.
While still at the training camp, his brother tried to run away. Militiamen shot him in the back.
"I was too afraid to even cry," Mbarusha said. "I didn't want them to suspect me. I just kept training." Mbarusha was eventually demobilised and sent to the camp with its worn tents and dilapidated wooden shacks atop hardened lava from a 2002 volcanic eruption.
There's space for up to three dozen boys, who typically spend two or three months there before being reunited with their families. It's a time to decompress, learn to live without a gun and perhaps pick up some new skills, such as farming, carpentry or welding.
For camp administrators, it's also a chance to observe children for antisocial behaviour or violent tendencies that might require hospitalisation.
"They've all been through so much," said Francoise Aradjabu, the camp's deputy director. "Nearly all the kids have engaged in killing. Many have raped and stolen. They've been abused themselves. We try to show them how to move from their old life to a new life."
Children arrive with a host of physical and emotional problems, including malaria, worms, syphilis, depression, anger and uncontrollable crying. Worst of all, Aradjabu said, is the guilt many feel over their part in the killings and other crimes.
"When we killed from far away, it didn't bother me," Mandevu recalled. "They used to make us smoke pot before a fight. We didn't really know what we were doing. It felt normal." But one day he inspected a battlefield and saw bodies up close, some of them no older than he was. He felt overwhelming shame and rage.
"They were human beings, like me," he said. "I killed for nothing. We were used for nothing. I wish I could ask for forgiveness from the people I killed."
Half a dozen camp counsellors work individually with the children to help them understand that they are not to blame. "We try to build trust, but it's not easy to get the kids to talk about it," said counsellor Joel Kiramba. "It's a deep secret inside them."
About 90 per cent eventually reunite with their families, but some cannot because their parents have been killed or can't be found. Mandevu's mother is ill and unable to take care of her son, so he has had to remain at the camp for almost two years.
"Others are afraid to go back home," Aradjabu said. Often after children are abducted, they are required to attack or steal from their families and villages to break their ties with home.