The people who risk their lives to clear minefields

A visit to a minefield begins with fundamental safety observations that can save lives. After all, when you’re just steps away from deadly buried explosives, you have to pay close attention.

Red stakes in the ground indicate danger. Anyone who keeps walking will run the risk of stepping on a mine. White stakes are clear and safe path signs. And the black stakes show where an anti-tank mine used to be, whose explosives have already been detonated.

The use of protective equipment is essential. It includes a helmet with a visor, which covers your face from ear to ear and just below your chin. The protective suit covers almost to the knees, protecting vital organs and arteries from the impact of any accidental explosion.

In the heat of the Lebanese summer, the equipment is sweltering. Mine clearance specialists start their work just after sunrise to take advantage of cooler temperatures.

They rest for ten minutes every hour. By the time the midday sun reaches its highest point, they are almost done with the day’s work. It is too dangerous to work when conditions can lead to a loss of concentration. Even a momentary slip can be fatal.

On December 3, 1997 (25 years ago), the Ottawa Treaty, as the Mine Ban Treaty is known, was signed – the international agreement that banned anti-personnel landmines, considered one of the most successful disarmament treaties of the world. To date, 164 countries have agreed to join.

Weeks before the treaty was signed, the Mines Advisory Group (MAG) won the Nobel Peace Prize for its work to ban landmines around the world.

The organization has been present in Lebanon since 2001. Landmine clearance is a huge operation and continues almost daily. This year alone, they will have cleared two million square meters of land and defused around 10,000 land mines.

In addition to dealing with cluster bombs in the Bekaa Valley and improvised explosive devices (IEDs) left by the Islamic State group in the northeast of the country, the main work involves clearing mines on the border between Lebanon and Israel.

The so-called Blue Line was drawn by the United Nations in 2000. It was intended to physically mark the withdrawal of Israeli forces from southern Lebanon.

In some parts, the Blue Line is a high wall, while in others it is a metal grid that allows you to look through it. Beneath the surface lies a 120km minefield designed to form an impassable barrier. There, about 400,000 land mines were deposited, some of them about one meter apart.

In the village of Arab Ellouaizi, the barrier that marks the end of Lebanon and the beginning of Israel is at the very end of a mined area. A meter or two beyond is an Israeli military tower, behind the gray concrete blocks. The hills in the distance are shrouded in mist.

This heavily mined terrain poses a danger to the large number of refugees moving from Syria to Lebanon. They want to live on the land and cultivate it, but they don’t know the risks.

Three-quarters of Arab Ellouaizi’s population are Syrian refugees trying to make a living hundreds of kilometers from home. And that brings up another vital reason to clear the area besides security.

Agriculture is the main activity in southern Lebanon and farmers are desperate for the land to be cleared so they can use it. Lebanon’s devastating financial crisis, coupled with food shortages caused by the war in Ukraine, means that growing crops is an increasingly urgent priority.

Abu Ghassan Awada has a plantation of peppers that are grown and ready for harvesting. Above them, peach trees grow over our heads. He remembers the sound of explosions at night when goats, sheep and foxes detonated mines. Because of this, he was unable to cultivate his land for years.

“I used to be a contract worker for other people,” he says. “But now I can hire people to work on my own land.”

Awada still dedicates time to maintaining and fixing the metal fence that marks the boundaries of his farm. Beyond her, a few meters away, the land is still an active minefield. He knows not to go there.

Some of MAG’s oldest employees have been part of the team for decades. A large poster with a cedar of Lebanon on the door of its headquarters shows their names and faces.

Hiba Ghandour is MAG’s program manager in Lebanon. She is also passionately dedicated to ensuring that more women participate in mine clearance work in addition to men.

“When I post our job openings, even adding a picture of a woman doing the job ensures we can reach everyone,” she explains.

One such woman is Suaad Hoteit. She started working four years ago and even met her fiancé while they were working the minefield together. She deftly removes her helmet from her head and describes her day at work.

“I take my detector, go out to the field and start looking,” she says. “When I find a mine, I call the supervisor to check it out. And at the end of the day, I blow it up.”

I’m surprised by the directness with which she talks about something so dangerous.

“It’s been four years, so it’s a daily routine,” he smiles. “My first year here, I was really scared. Now I understand the danger. And I work here because I want to show people that women can do anything. We are strong and independent.”

The kind of landmines that Hoteit is looking for still injure and kill many people, in 60 different countries. Around the world, there are about 15 deaths a day.

Haidar Maarouf Haidar was one of those people. He wears a special white elastic brace on his right hand. Haidar carefully removes the stand as he recalls the day a mine exploded while he was planting trees in his garden. The moment is still fresh in his memory, even though it was two years ago.

“Something suddenly exploded and I heard a sound, like in a dream,” he says. “I didn’t know what had happened. One moment I was bent over the ground and the next moment something suddenly happened. I was unconscious and when I woke up I couldn’t see my fingers. They were gone.”

Haidar turns his hand over to show what’s left of his fingers – just four stumps sticking out of his palm.

“My psychological state changed, that was the first thing,” he continues. “I worked every day, I used to do everything with my hands, breaking rocks and splitting wood with them. My body was active.”

“Now, if I use my hands, it feels like there’s an electric current in them. With my leg injuries, it’s difficult to walk. My life has totally changed. I can’t do any work anymore, except raising my children,” says Haidar.

international aid

After so much suffering, at least Lebanon is close to the finish line. As we gather in the Arab Ellouaizi minefield, MAG’s Hiba Ghandour wants to show us how far they’ve come.

“In Lebanon, we have cleared 80% of the contaminated land. We just need to keep moving forward and it is the support of our international donors that makes this possible,” she says.

Countries such as the United States, France, Norway, the Netherlands and Japan are at the forefront of financing landmine clearance. Help is critical, but the amount of money offered is dwindling. In Lebanon alone, it dropped from US$19.7 million (about R$103.8 million) in 2019 to a forecast of US$12.1 million (about R$63.8 million) in 2023.

It is difficult to predict how long it will take to clear the remaining 20% ​​of Lebanese minefields. The variation in available funds is one of the reasons. But new technologies also have a big influence on the estimated time frame.

Last year, a new rubble shredder dramatically accelerated the mine destruction process. It pulls out earth and hidden devices, shredding them before they explode. Sometimes they are detonated inside the machine and the thick shield contains the explosion.

The machine does not replace decommissioning specialists, as they can only work on flat ground. But it certainly makes the job go faster.

Some of the bigger bombs –the anti-tank mines– are also tackled in a special and innovative way. Mine clearance teams are now so close to the politically sensitive border between Lebanon and Israel that blowing up large mines risks causing damage to the border. That would not be good for the fragile relations between the two countries.

Therefore, special thermite sticks are inserted into the mines, still in the soil where they were deposited. The intense heat burns the explosives off without creating a huge explosion.

With the wild flames in front of him, Mohammed Atris caresses the fresh grass sprouts that cover his land. For decades, the land was useless, littered with mines. It was impossible to even walk on it.

“I was sad, depressed and frustrated,” he says. “I can’t describe the feeling of being unable to use the land we grew up on before it was mined and it became impossible to plant there. It was horrible.”

The vegetables he is growing were planted six weeks ago – just 24 hours after the land was declared cleared and handed back to him.

“I couldn’t wait. To everyone who made this happen, we thank you for your efforts,” says Atris.

Crouching down to pick up his new produce, he gently pulls the roots out of the ground and flashes a beaming smile.

This text was originally published here.