David Zelu, not yet 16 years old, looks up, smiles, and stretches his arms to the sky where the sun is finally breaking through the clouds. The rain that has hammered on the wooden roof of the small hut he shares with four other teenagers has passed. Crows wheel overhead, and small thin children jump in puddles.

David is one of seven “bodyguards” of a senior officer of a rebel militia in the east of South Sudan, and so a “child soldier”, like thousands of others in his country, and tens of thousands more across Africa.

“It is tough in a warzone that’s true,” he says. “It is sad to lose your friends. But what can you do? If you don’t carry a gun round here you are nothing.”

There are children bearing arms in Central African Republic, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in Somalia, where they have been recruited by the al-Shabab Islamist movement and among the ranks of Boko Haram, the Islamic State affiliate, in Nigeria.

Then there is the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), which during a 20-year campaign of terror across Uganda and nearby states forced tens of thousands of children to fight, perform menial tasks and commit atrocities too. Though now a shadow of its former self, the LRA still has several hundred children fighting in its ranks.



But the chaos that followed South Sudan’s declaration of independence from Sudan six years ago has led to a surge in the number of children under arms. The world’s youngest country, racked by famine, disease, ethnic strife, corruption on an immense scale and war, now hosts the largest concentration of “child soldiers” on the continent, possibly in the world.

According to the UN, 18,000 child combatants have been recruited in the past four years in South Sudan. Most are still fighting.

The conventional image of the child soldier is a teen or pre-teen abducted by adult fighters, brainwashed, brutalised, and turned into a killer. This happened to tens of thousands of children during the savage civil wars in Liberia and Sierra Leone in the 1990s.

It is the story told by Dominic Ongwen, a former abductee and child soldier with the LRA who is on trial for war crimes at the international criminal court in The Hague. It has happened on a horrific scale in Nigeria in recent years.

But many child soldiers volunteer. “One of the biggest myths [about child soldiers] is that they are all forced to join an armed force, or even, that they are all abducted,” says José Luis Hernández, a South Sudan-based child protection officer with Unicef, the UN children’s fund.

James, 17, became a soldier when still in primary school, fighting with the Cobra Faction, an opposition militia in the east of South Sudan. He joined after government troops launched a crackdown on local communities in Jonglei state, which had demanded greater autonomy and a larger share of the oil-rich nation’s resources shortly after South Sudan gained its independence.

“I didn’t much like lessons. I got into trouble. Then the army came, and the schools were closed and bad things started happening … so I decided to go and fight,” says James.

With two other boys – Baba, 10, and his brother, Simon, 12 – James slipped away from his home in Pibor, a poor town in Jonglei, one night. Guided by a relative who was a Cobra Faction sympathiser, the trio made their way to the militia in the bush.

On arrival, the boys were given weapons, ammunition and a few hours training. At first they were excited. “I was happy when they gave me a gun,” says James. “I felt safe. I felt I could protect myself.”

Former child soldier Yangde washes at home in Pibor, South Sudan



But the boys soon found themselves thrown into frontline combat. A dozen former child soldiers interviewed in Pibor by the Guardian described the fear, confusion and shock of their first experience of war.

Many spoke of dreaming of their own deaths, or those of close friends and relatives. “I was feeling very bad, I was expecting to die,” says James.

The battles between the rebels and the government were chaotic, with ambushes, clashes in deep undergrowth, terrific noise and often heavy casualties. The former child soldiers described “piles” of corpses of enemy soldiers after clashes and comrades killed or wounded.

“Our officer was killed and because my friend was the senior bodyguard he ran to pick up his weapon and got shot too … I was hit in the foot,” says James.

Only the most rudimentary medical facilities existed. James’s foot was daubed with a poultice of leaves and bound with dirty rags. Others – even those who could have been saved by anyone with a basic knowledge of battlefield medicine and some proper dressings – died.

Baba, now 15, describes a clash with government forces. “They came at us in trucks and then jumped out. Everyone was firing … I was very afraid. The first time I fired my gun I shot off all my ammunition in one go. The soldiers were attacking our rear areas and people were being killed all around.”

The fighting slackened at nightfall, but in the early morning the Cobra Faction’s camp was bombarded by government artillery.

“All these bombs were falling from the sky,” says Baba. “There was just noise and flames. People were running everywhere, falling down. I fell down too. So did my brother. But he did not get up … We covered his body with leaves and left him there. I think of his face every day. He was my best friend. We did everything together.”

But if the boys had joined the militia voluntarily, leaving was impossible. “They told us that if we tried to go anywhere without permission they would find us and kill us, or take our family’s cattle. If we disobeyed anything, even just an order to bring water or any little thing, we were beaten or made to stand in the sun for hours, or put in prison. We knew what would happen if we tried to leave,” says George, 15, who spent 18 months with the Cobra Faction.

Other boys describe potential “deserters” being shot, or subjected to brutal punishment.

Former child soldiers await a distribution of goats as part of a programme to support children formerly associated with armed groups



“Even if I had the courage, it was not possible [to escape]. How would I find my way?, asks James. “How would I survive in the bush? I could not contact my family, so who could help? It was impossible. I put it out of my mind. And with all the fighting, I barely thought about it.” He spent three years with the militia.

Between 2015 and last year, Unicef negotiated the release of 1,900 child soldiers in South Sudan, one of the largest such demobilisations ever. James, Baba and hundreds of others walked out of the bush, handed back their weapons and uniforms, and returned to their families.

The release was a milestone for those trying to fight the intractable problem of child soldiers. “It showed something could be done,” says one UN official involved.

For Anna Koren, 35, a farmer in Pibor, it was simply a miracle that her sons came home after four years with the rebels. “There was no news. We knew there was fighting everywhere. We just prayed. God is the only one to bring them back,” says Koren.

Unicef now runs a programme to reunite the soldiers with their families, offering counselling as well as assistance with schooling and skills, and providing material help to desperately poor families.

Pupils copy notes from a blackboard at the Pibor boys’ school



Many of the boys who have been “in the bush” are irrevocably changed. Most talk of having nightmares, and their teachers and parents describe their anger and spasms of violence.

Some have taken part in atrocities against civilians, says Lukas Mangole, a team leader with Grassroots Empowerment and Development Organisation (Gredo), an NGO supported by Unicef that mentors former child soldiers.

“After an ambush or heavy losses the commanders blame local villagers for betraying them. The smaller children are selected to beat and torture people while they are interrogated. Raids for food can be very brutal too,” says Mangole.

Some have killed too – though in the chaos of combat it is often impossible to be sure who has fired a deadly shot. James carried a “Pika” – a more lethal weapon than the standard assault rifle used by the other children.

“I fired my gun with the others at the enemy, and when they retreated we found lots of them dead on the ground. But was it me? I don’t know,” he says.

Former child soldiers receive a distribution of goats

The reintegration programme for the children faces profound challenges. It is underfunded and dangerous. Seven Gredo staff died in an ambush this year.

The former fighters learn carpentry and mechanics, but there are few opportunities to practice either craft. The secondary school that the older boys should attend is shut for lack of teachers. Many know friends or even relatives who are still fighting.

Former child soldiers take part in a leatherwork skills session and play football at the Pibor youth centre

Tit-for-tat cattle raiding – with thousands of armed adolescents and young men fighting with automatic weapons – is endemic. This means the traditional “warrior culture” remains deeply embedded locally, with few alternative role models for young people. Several of the former child soldiers freed last year died defending their villages during a cattle raid by another tribe in February.

“They’ve seen their fathers fight and so view it as the only way to gain prestige or honour within the community,” says Hernández.

Most of the released child soldiers swear they will never pick up a gun again, but there is a constant risk of being recruited again. For many going back to the bush is a last resort – only an option if things don’t get better in Pibor.

David Zelu was among those released by rebel groups last year. Three months later, he rejoined the militia, which is observing a fragile truce. He now spends his days with other young fighters in the group’s compound of rudimentary huts in Pibor, training and foraging for food.

Fighting and rains have severed the poor roads linking Pibor to Juba, the capital, 200 miles away. The helicopters that arrive every other day are the only link to the outside world. A short distance away from the faction’s small encampment, aid workers try to keep malnourished infants alive.

“I had nothing once I left [the militia]: no food, no job, no school. I had no choice,” says David.

Former child soldier Tomodho at his home in Pibor

Rebel commanders say they are forced to recruit children. “In your country, the children have schools, a home, food. Here it is not like that. So all have risen in arms, young and old, to achieve something better,” says Nyeland, David’s commanding officer.

James Jowang, a political officer with the faction, offers another explanation. “Here, in our country, there is no age for fighting,” he says. “If you are old enough to carry a weapon, you are old enough to be a soldier.”