In the training room for the Mine Action Agency in Soran, there’s a long table. It spans the room, covered by a collection of different mines from the area. They come from all over the world, many were made in countries now providing aid to the region. Italian, Russian and American explosives, now defective, serving as examples for deminers learning how to detect and clean Soran and the villages that surround it.

The display showcases mines from different time periods as well, some were manufactured and planted nearly half a century ago, some of the explosives remain in production to this day. Soran’s history remains buried in its soil. Now, the mines in Soran are embedded in the DNA of communities in the area. They have affected every generation still living there.

Mukhlis Sharif Sofi, the Operations Manager of the Agency walks down the table presenting the different types of mines and their origins. As his presentation continues, the table’s timeline arrives closer to the present day and the mines become more contemporary and advanced.  He begins with cruder models from the ‘60s and 70’s before arriving at plastic models, harder to detect, intended for tanks and larger vehicles.

His agency’s mission is slow-moving, and as time has passed the conversation has progressively evolved into one concerning economic viability as well as safety. “The demining process used to go very well, but in 2014 onwards, when the […] financial crisis erupted in our country, that’s why there were some shortcomings,” he explains.  “Otherwise there is faith and the process was going well, but because of coronavirus and financial problems, there were some problems in the demining process.”

But the publicly funded Mine Action Agency in Soran, has faced increasing skepticism from the citizens in area over time. Anxiety has boiled over into frustration, directed at the mines’ continued presence. Last Newroz, Arafat Haji, a 13-year-old living on an orchard in nearby Shiwan, lost his foot while getting food for his friends during the celebration.

The incident served as a perfect example for many of the issues with mines. Arafat wasn’t aware the area wasn’t cleared, there were no signs posted to indicate danger. The area where he nearly killed was in a valley, the mine had likely been washed downhill by the rain.

Growing up in Shiwan, Arafat had been educated about the mines in his area from an early age, “I have been scared of mines ever since I was a kid, because it’s a dangerous weapon and it’s hard to detect. And the places that have mines, they should put up signs so that people don’t go to those places.”

One of the team leaders of the agency, Sardar Fatah Sadq believes that it was likely there were signs in the area that Arafat was walking through. “Regarding permanent signage, all the minefields are marked, but the signs are metal, and people, teenagers take it and sell it.” He explains. “There are some minefields that are steep and there is a valley. Water accumulates, the mines move down to the lower side of the minefield. What happened in Shiwan the mine had moved down with water and that incident had happened the child was injured.”

But the incident displayed another problem with the area’s demining process. Arafat’s father, Ahmad Haji Bazit expressed frustration not just at the sluggishness of the demining process, but the lack of follow-up from the local authorities regarding his recovery has also added to his frustration with the situation.

“They mark one place, and that area, which is one kilometer, takes them seven years to clear. If it takes them seven years, there are seven more kilometers in that area, until they clear out that area thousands of others will be hit by mines,” he says.

“But the government is responsible. The mayor came, the head of the mine organization came, they said this is the last time we will mark this place, we will not let anyone else come close to where Arafat was injured by the mine. Until now, the mayor hasn’t come, the organizations haven’t, not the government, no follow-up. No one came. It was that moment when the incident happened, and that was it.”

Ahmed’s anger is echoed in other parts of the Soran area. In Jilia, another village nearby, a similar sentiments are expressed by Hasm Sad Sideq, grandson of Sideq Piro Ali. Sideq also lost his leg herding sheep over a decade ago on a nearby hill common for grazing. Now unable to speak for a very long time as his years have advanced, his grandson spoke on his behalf.

“His leg has doubled his hardship, he has a lot of pain daily because of his leg. Often standing on his leg for maybe 10 minutes he feels pain,” “That’s why he can’t go out of his house, he has to stay home, because [he can’t] stand too much on his leg because of his mine injury,” Hasm says. “He was damaged, psychologically and in every other aspect, my grandfather is a mine victim.“

Jilia’s landscape is similar to Shiwan’s. The entire area’s topography is mountainous, still vaguely green, despite the mid-summer drought. There are no roads leading to Sideq and Hasm’s farm that are particularly straight or flat. It’s a perfect landscape for raising livestock and agriculture, aside from the clear danger that remains scattered in the terrain.

“It’s a strategic area that people visit a lot to collect spring vegetables and raising livestock, but we can say this village isn’t even useful for itself because mines are planted all around this village,” Hasm explains. He points behind him and says there are still mines three kilometers away from where he and his grandfather are currently sitting.

“In this village we have both physical, material and even psychological loss, and the village we are in now there have been 17 mine victims, as well as over 30 people who have been injured by mines and have been handicapped.”

In efforts to demarcate the unsafe areas, the farmers in and herders in the village came together to construct a fence around the spots where there are still explosives. The money for the fence came out of the villagers’ own pockets, no aid was provided from any organization or governmental agency. Repairs must be done regularly on the fence at the risk of the villagers as well.

“Concerning the mines, the organizations and the Mine Action Agency have only been talk. Or they have played their role indirectly, they make reports and they answer village people in [Facebook] comments,” Hasm says.

Mukhlis Sofi acknowledges the cancerous effect of the mines on Soran’s economy. “The people, especially the villagers, they are close to those minefields they can’t use their lands, if they can use their lands, it can be very beneficial for agriculture, for tourism, and even for the government for community service projects.”

But he also notes that his agency’s efforts have reached a wall. Funding issues plague Soran’s demining agency. The staff shortages and lack of resources have taken an enormous toll on the organization. Most significantly, the contracts for the deminers at the agency have serious limitations. The contracts will not cover injury. Dangers like mines, or even other hazards such as falling down the side of accidents are at the expense of the miners. Contracts from injury may be cut to avoid extra expense.

Ayub Abdulla Hussein also serves on Sofi’s team, “I have been working here for 20 years as a deminer. I attended a team leader course in 2009 and I become the head of the department. Now I’ve been

working for 20 years at the Mine Action Agency, I have no rights,” he says. “I have a family […] I have no apparent rights whether I will get retired or not.”

On top of the financial shortcomings, the slow-moving nature of the demining is plagued by a lack of detailed knowledge as to where the mines are even located. During the regime change in 2003, the maps delineating the exact minefield locations were lost. There are 50 million square meters of contaminated with mines in Kurdistan. But even this is an approximation, it only accounts for registered areas, and there are still large tracts of land that haven’t been explored.

Ahmad Haji Bazit stands in his orchard, not far from where Arafat is sitting. For him and his family, the mines have come to represent more than just a pastime of intermittent conflict, but an ongoing systematic failure that has kept their risk real and close to his home for him and his son’s entire lives.

“Every year, every time, there are mine victims, whether it’s humans, animals, tourists,” he says. “This is always there for us.”