Little girl asks Ibrahim Traoré what God is, and his answer brings everyone to tears | HO

On a sun-drenched morning in Ouagadougou, the air at the local primary school buzzed with an energy that was both unusual and electric. Children in crisp white shirts and blue skirts darted through the hallways, their laughter echoing against the walls, while teachers did their best to maintain order. But this was no ordinary school day. President Ibrahim Traoré himself was visiting, as part of his initiative to connect with the nation’s youth and listen to their hopes, questions, and dreams.

Known for his resolute leadership and unwavering commitment to his people, President Traoré was, at that moment, simply a man sitting on a wooden chair in the schoolyard, surrounded by dozens of curious children. The event was meant to be informal—a conversation, not a ceremony. As the sun filtered through the acacia trees and the distant sound of traditional drums drifted in from a nearby festival, the president fielded questions about politics, economics, and the future of Burkina Faso.

Some children spoke with enthusiasm, others hesitated, but all were eager to impress the leader who had become a symbol of national resilience. Among them, a quiet girl named Amal sat with her hands folded in her lap, her large, expressive eyes taking in every detail. Her presence was unassuming, yet there was a gravity about her—a silent curiosity that seemed to set her apart.

Professor Sulleane, a respected teacher with gentle eyes and a calm voice, moderated the session, ensuring each child had a chance to speak. He was well-known in the community, not just for his dedication to education, but for instilling values of solidarity and perseverance in his students. The president, for his part, seemed at ease—smiling often, leaning in to listen, and answering each question with patience and sincerity. Still, there was a certain melancholy in his gaze, as if the burdens of leadership weighed heavily on him, even in this moment of joy.

It was then that Amal, after much quiet observation, timidly raised her hand. The teacher nodded, giving her the floor. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried across the courtyard: “Mr. President,” she began, eyes fixed on the ground, “I want to know—what is God?”

A hush fell over the schoolyard. For a moment, it seemed as if time itself had stopped. The question, so simple and so profound, caught everyone—including President Traoré—completely off guard. This was not a query about policy or progress, but about something deeper, something that transcended politics and touched the soul.

The president took a slow, deep breath. He realized immediately that no prepared speech, no political rhetoric, could answer this. He looked at Amal, her face illuminated by the soft morning light, and felt a surge of emotion. Memories flooded back—of his own childhood in a small village, of his mother, Fatum Mata, who had taught him about faith and love under the shade of a single lush tree. He remembered the hardships, the hunger, the nights spent questioning why life was so unfair, and the comfort of his mother’s words: “God is love, my son, and love is what keeps us alive.”

The silence stretched on. Some children began to fidget, while Professor Sulleane watched the president with a mixture of concern and respect. Another boy, Issa, whispered to Amal, “You’ve left him speechless.” But Amal only shook her head, her eyes never leaving the president.

Finally, President Traoré looked up, meeting Amal’s gaze. He saw not just a shy girl, but a child with a quiet confidence, unafraid to ask the hardest question. In that moment, he was no longer the leader of a turbulent nation. He was simply a man, confronted with the pure curiosity of a child.

He cleared his throat, searching for words that would do justice to the gravity of the moment. “God,” he began, his voice gentle, “is not something we can see or touch.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “But God is present in everything that moves us to do good, to love, to forgive.”

His voice trembled, betraying the emotion he was fighting to contain. “Maybe,” he continued, “God is the reason you asked this question today.”

The children murmured among themselves, reflecting on his words. Some seemed puzzled, others intrigued, but all were moved. Professor Sulleane smiled discreetly, recognizing that this was a lesson no classroom could ever teach.

The president went on: “When I see people working together for a better future, when I see children like you dreaming big, I see God.” His voice broke, and he made no effort to hide the tears that welled in his eyes. “God is not just one person. God is what connects us, what makes us want to be better.”

A girl named Awa, who had been silent until then, raised her hand. “But what if someone doesn’t believe in God?” she asked, her honesty taking everyone by surprise.

President Traoré smiled softly. “Even those who don’t believe can feel the power of kindness and goodness. Maybe that’s God, too—even if we don’t have the words for it.”

The atmosphere, though charged with emotion, became lighter. The children relaxed, some giggling at the unexpected turn of the conversation. The president looked at Amal, who was now smiling, as if she had found the answer she was searching for.

As the meeting drew to a close, President Traoré stood and walked over to Amal. He crouched down to her level and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You reminded me of something important today,” he said, his voice still trembling. “Thank you for your question.”

Amal blushed, but kept her gaze steady. “I just wanted to understand,” she replied simply.

Before leaving, the president addressed all the students. “Today, I learned as much as you did. Never stop asking questions, even if they seem difficult. That’s how we grow.”

He handed Amal a hardcover notebook. “Write your questions here,” he said with a wink. “One day, you might find your own answers.”

In the days that followed, the story of Amal’s question and the president’s answer spread across Burkina Faso. Newspapers reported on the event, praising the courage of a child to ask what adults often fear to confront, and the humility of a leader brought to tears by the innocence of youth.

For President Traoré, the encounter marked a turning point. He began to speak more openly about the importance of education, dialogue, and humanity in his public addresses. “Sometimes,” he told a reporter, “the most important answers come from the simplest questions.”

At the school, life returned to normal, but no one forgot that day. Amal became a symbol of courage among her classmates, her notebook filling with questions and reflections. Professor Sulleane often praised her for seeing the world with different eyes.

And for President Traoré, in moments of solitude, he often thought of Amal and the question that changed him. He realized that perhaps God truly resides in the innocence of a child who dares to ask—and in that realization, he found hope and lightness that would guide him forward.