The United States and Somalia are among the last remaining countries to ratify an international treaty banning the use of anti-personnel mines. It’s estimated that between 15 000 and 20 000 people are killed or maimed by landmines every year. Kenyan long distance runner, Paul Tergat, came face to face with the tyranny of landmines in south Sudan. Here are extracts from his diary.
October 13
7am: Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Nairobi. By this time in the morning, I’m normally clocking up the miles on my training run through the Ngong forest.
11am: Straight into a security briefing.
12.30pm: Planning on lunch, but I can’t turn down an opportunity to join a flight to airdrop food aid into Sudan. It’s all routine for the five-man crew already on their third food drop of the day.
2.15pm: The plane’s huge back doors are wide open and all I can see is the savannah below me. In a matter of seconds, over eight tonnes of food sacks hurtle past me and plunge into the gaping green void. I’ve run in front of 100 000 people at the Olympics, but this is adrenalin of a different sort.
4pm: Touchdown, and within minutes the plane is being reloaded with its next consignment of food.
October 14
8am: Our convoy stops at the police checkpoint where an armed escort awaits us.
9am: At the Sudanese border our papers are checked. One of the officials has lost his right hand to a landmine. Outside, I see at least two more young men, struggling around on crutches. I’ve been in Sudan for a day, and evidence of the devastating impact of landmines is already limping past me. For a professional athlete, it is a devastating sight.
9.15am: As soon as we leave the border post, the only signs of modern development are the worst: guns. They are everywhere, especially among the young men and boys looking after their cattle.
10am: At Narus, we are taken to the local branch of the Sudan Peoples Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A). There, I am introduced to more young men whose misfortune in life has been to step on a landmine.
The case of Marco Loki is all too typical. He tells me that he was doing no more than herding cattle through the bush when he trod on a mine. His life was turned upside down. Unlike other amputees I met, he had no prosthetic leg and was hobbling around bravely on crutches.
World Food Programme local boss Joseph Lual tells me there may be a ceasefire in southern Sudan, but ”there is no ceasefire for landmines”.
12.30pm: Kapoeta was the scene of vicious fighting between government forces and the SPLM/A. There is scarcely a building which has not been damaged by mortar or artillery fire. A group of South Africans are carrying out the hazardous job of clearing Kapoeta of mines. Mines are everywhere. As both sides in the war advanced and retreated during battles for the town, they laid mine after mine.
Two anti-tank mines are exploded while I shelter in a Casspir truck. The detonation is massive, thudding into our chests and sending debris high into the air. It’s hard to imagine anyone within 100 metres surviving such a blast.
2pm: I change into my training kit for a gentle jog through Kapoeta. The stretch of road is flanked by bombed out buildings and rusting tanks. It’s a surreal experience, a long way from the streets of Athens and this summer’s Olympic marathon run.
When I train in Kenya, I can run pretty much wherever I want; in Kapoeta, to leave the road could mean the end of my career, or my life. It’s overwhelmingly sad to understand the limits of life in a place haunted by landmines.
5pm: It’s been a long two days, not as physically demanding as training for the marathon, but draining in other less definable ways. But the suffering of southern Sudan’s landmine victims puts all else into perspective.
My legs have been the making of my life.
That the evil of some should force others to live without them is a tragedy which should make us all angry.