Quotes from Ishmael Beah

When I was a child, my grandmother told me that the sky speaks to those who look and listen to it. She said, In the sky there are always answers and explanations for everything: every pain, every suffering, joy, and confusion. That night I wanted the sky to talk to me.

I will not be alive to see the end of this war. So, to save a place in your memories for other things, I won't tell you my name. If you survive this war, just remember me as the old man you met. You boys should be on your way.

When I was very little, my father used to say, "If you are alive, there is hope for a better day and something good to happen. If there is nothing good left in the destiny of a person, he or she will die.

Most of the staff members were like that; they returned smiling after we hurt them. It was as if they had made a pact not to give up on us.

I was so happy that my mother, father, and two brothers had somehow found one another. Perhaps my mother and father have gotten back together, I thought.

I only liked talking to her because I felt that she didn't judge me for what I had been a part of; she looked at me with the same inviting eyes and welcoming smile that said I was a child.

The only thing that consoled him, for a few seconds at least, was when the woman who had embraced him, and now cried with him, told him that at least he would have the chance to bury them. He would always know where they were laid to rest, she said. She seemed to know a little more about war than the rest of us.

One man carried his dead son. He thought the boy was still alive. The father was covered with his son's blood, and as he ran he kept saying, I will get you to the hospital, my boy, everything will be fine. Perhaps it was necessary that he cling to false hopes, since they kept him running from harm.

There's a saying in the oral tradition of storytelling that when you tell a story, when you give out a story, it is no longer yours; it belongs to everyone who encounters it and everyone who takes it in.

I put my hands behind my head and lay on my back, trying to hold on to the memories of my family. Their faces seemed to be far off somewhere in my mind, and to get to them I had to bring up painful memories.

Even in the middle of the madness there remained that true and natural beauty, and it took my mind away from my current situation as I marveled at this sight.

Circumstances will change and things will be fine, just hold on a little more

It was a night filled with dreams of what was to come. Dreams were still possible here even though the paths to attain them weren't necessarily the best ones. But who can ever know what path to walk on when all of them are either crooked or broken? One just has to walk.

Poverty is worse than nightmares. You can wake up from nightmares.

The day seemed oddly normal. The sun peacefully sailed through the white clouds, birds sang from treetops, the trees danced to the quiet wind.

I lay in my bed night after night staring at the ceiling and thinking, Why have I survived the war? Why was I the last person in my immediate family to be alive? I didn't know.

I understand that through books one is able to journey. One is able to smell and taste and go into different worlds without actually leaving where you are, with your imagination. Imagination is more powerful than anything. For me, anywhere the imagination is fed, is sustained, is strengthened, then you are preparing that human being to deal with anything they face in life.

My conception of New York City came from rap music. I envisioned it as a place where people shot each other on the street and got away with it; no one walked on the streets, rather people drove in their sports cars looking for nightclubs and for violence.

This wasn't a place for illusions; the reality here was the genuine happiness that came about from the natural magic of standing next to someone and being consumed by the fortitude in his or her humanity.

I feel like each time I accept death, part of me dies.

I believe children have the resilience to outlive their sufferings, if given a chance.

Poverty has a great appetite for eating one's dignity, but Elimane was one of those people who fought to keep his, even when that was the only battle he was winning.

The traders standing nearby, or really most anyone doing just well enough to pay for the services of people like him, needed to be reassured that those they were considering hiring were in a state of sufficient wretchedness that they could be paid as little as possible for their labor, and never succeed enough to pull themselves up from that state. Thus, the boss men reassured themselves of their own importance. Pull-down-and-keep-down syndrome was how Elimane thought of it.

He didn't like remembering such things, but by now he was used to the way life was punctuated by such moments, which sent hooks into parts of the past one might prefer to forget.