The deadly legacy that Isis left behind

Mosul was one of the last strongholds of the self-proclaimed Islamic State. By mid-2017, its supporters had been encircled by Iraqi security services and coalition forces in the old city. The resulting heavy aerial bombardment, street battles and the use of improvised explosive devices (IEDs) in built-up urban areas were well-documented at the time, but the impact of war remains for those living and returning to the city.

In some areas of Mosul, life has returned to a sense of normality. Homes, shops and offices have been rebuilt. Men joke in the fish market and wolf down kebabs at 7am, traders arrange their stalls at dusk, and people sit on plastic chairs, smoking and drinking sweet tea.

But five years after the liberation of Iraq’s second largest city from Islamic State, significant areas have yet to recover.

Large areas on the west bank of the Tigris are still under a silent siege, gripped by the presence of explosive remnants of war (ERW) and landmines. Dusty tracks carve through mountains of rubble, graffitied with safety reminders. At sunrise de-mining teams arrive to begin another day of painstakingly scraping through the rubble with small trowels. The rattling of an armoured excavator cuts through the dawn chorus of dogs, howling at the ruins.

The effects of war have never gone away for Akram Shaker Saleem, aged 40, who has deep scars all over his body. He was injured by an IED in those final battles in August 2017, and five years later, every day is still a struggle. As Akram and his brother returned one morning to their homes in west Mosul to pick up their cars, they became one of thousands of victims of Islamic State’s indiscriminate violence. As he opened the boot of his car, Akram unknowingly triggered a detonator made from fishing line, rigged to cause maximum harm.

Recalling the story five years later, Akram said: “I was literally flying . . . Then I saw my guts were outside my body. And I didn’t know my brother had died in the explosion.” After major surgeries, he cannot use his right arm, work to provide for his three daughters, or afford his own rent. Akram now lives with his parents and receives no help from NGOs or the government. He said: “My injuries are that of an 80 year old . . . but I‘m just a young guy. I’m 40 years old. I want to wear trousers like you. But I can’t. I lost all of my youth.”

Elsewhere in the rubble a glimpse of daily life remains. A teapot, a rollerblade and a sandal protrude through the dust, five years after the liberation. Once mundane items, these relics of normal life were used by Islamic State to conceal triggers for IEDs all over the city. Devices purposefully designed to cause indiscriminate damage and instil fear.

Amir Sadullah Muhammad and his family left home for a year and three days during the war. Returning to his house aged 13, Amir was helping his family clear the rubble from their home when he picked up what he “thought was a toy”. It was an IED, and Amir lost his left eye in the explosion. Now he is vacant and speaks as little as possible while looking at the floor. He no longer goes to school, but sells toys, snacks and cigarettes from a small shop, surrounded by destroyed buildings and spends his spare time “just sitting around”.

Akram and Amir’s stories are not isolated incidents, but are constantly repeated as the city is cleared. Iraq has the most landmines in the world, according to the International Campaign to Ban Landmines (ICBL). A total of 3,225sq km of land is said to be affected, putting 8.5 million people at risk.

December 3, 2022 marks the 25th anniversary of the Ottawa Convention,a mine ban treaty, initiated by the ICBL. Since the agreement, 164 countries have signed up to ban the use, production, stockpiling and transfer of anti-personnel mines. However, according to the Landmine Monitor 2022 report, “Casualties from landmines and other explosive remnants of war (ERW) have been disturbingly high for the past seven years . . . Civilians represented most of the victims recorded, half of whom were children.”

One of the ICBL founding members, the charity Humanity and Inclusion, is working in Iraq to prevent more stories like Akram and Amir’s. They work not only on ERW clearance, but teach people about the risk of landmines, and help and represent victims. This includes physiotherapy, psychosocial support, and teaching families in their homes and at centres about the risk of mines.

Gary Toombs, global armed violence reduction specialist in land release at Humanity and Inclusion, described the level of contamination in Iraq as “staggering”. He said: “In the past we’ve cleared metres squared. Now we are looking at cities like Mosul. It’s three-dimensional, we’re trying to clear cubic metres. These trip wires are not just on the ground, they’re at deck height and head height.”

Artwork is also used to warn young people about the risks of mines. On the perimeter wall of a school in Tal Afar, Sinjar province, a series of murals advise children about the dangers, and what to do if they find a mine. Rural communities do not have the same level of support as those in the city but NGOs, such as Humanity and Inclusion, host explosive ordnance risk education sessions for families, teaching them how to spot and deal with ERW and landmines.

Muhammad Hussein Hassan, 50, and his family are fortunate to receive this training in their home in Al Salihiya village, near Tal Afar. The family of ten left when Isis reached the village nearby, and on their return Muhammad found “our area was full of explosives”. There are still warning signs about explosives around the perimeter of his house. Farmers like Muhammad face great difficulties growing wheat and rearing sheep in this environment. Muhammad said: “We want our sheep to eat and move freely. It also affects our agriculture here in the village. We want to harvest the area but we can’t because of the explosives.” An ERW exploded when another NGO, was bringing temporary shelters to the village.

In the same village, Mujbil Mizher Muhammad, a shepherd, lost both his legs while riding his donkey to tend sheep. His donkey stepped on an IED and died instantly, taking the force of the explosion and saving Mujbil’s life. He said: “The moment I was in the hospital, I saw my whole life stop. Everything was ruined because I lost my legs.” Humanity and Inclusion gave Mujbil prosthetic legs and physiotherapy sessions, enabling him to move around his home and courtyard. He can only leave home in a car because his wheelchair is unsuitable for the roads in the village.

Charities such as Humanity and Inclusion continue their work against a backdrop of ever-decreasing funding for the wider development NGO sector. The Landmine Monitor 2022 report warns that last year the sector received the lowest level of funding since 2016. The total programme budget for aid to Iraq is set to be cut by 80 per cent between 2019 and 2024.

In the UK, Jeremy Hunt, the chancellor, ruled out any increase in the aid budget and said it would be frozen at 0.5 per cent until the economy improved. There were hopes that a target of 0.7 per cent of GDP, which NGOs say is vital to supporting their work, would be reinstated.

Spending on overseas aid may be questioned when there are significant and material domestic pressures, as is happening in the UK now. International problems can appear distant. But for Akram, Amir and Muhammad, the return home and to normal life presents challenges that are far from hypothetical.

In the Al Maydan area of the old city, a piece of art stands out in the rubble. The colourful mural by the artist Dilaan Hussein, known as “Mahmood”, is called When are we going back? It depicts a girl in a blue dress, who is holding a teddy bear and walking away from the viewer to symbolise “looking into the dark, rather than to the future”. She is surrounded by mortars. For Dilaan, “it symbolises the missing hope. The mortars around the girl mean that even now, after the war, the area is not clean and nobody can come here. Nobody cares”.