Where the fair is coming to town and the air is mountain crisp, but the ground is deadly...

 

From the 10-13^th September this year there will be a fair in London.

Over 25000 people will visit the fair, from dozens of countries.

 

What kind of a fair could attract such visitors?

 

Will there be carousels, candy floss, coconut shies?

 

No.

 

This fair is one of a different kind.

You see, once every 2 years the DSEi (Defence & Security Equipment International) Arms Fair happens at Londond ExCel centre. It is the world’s largest arms fair, allowing arms buyers and sellers to network and make deals.

 

Arms dealers from all over the world, from the worlds richest to the worlds poorest states, are invited to come together, network and make deals.
 

Weapons are sold to countries at war with each other.  Small arms, battleships, missiles, tanks, fighter jets, riot control equipment and more are all on offer. Some are sold to regimes that attack their neighbours or oppress and kill their own peoples. In previous years, fearless activists have found banned equipment such as torture devices and cluster bombs for sale.

 

Countries that are involved in humanitarian crises and human rights abuses are offered space, alongside delegations from countries who need aid to provide their people with education, healthcare and economic stability, but are invited to use their metaphorical credit cards in this store of horrors.

 

And, as if all of that isn’t scary enough, DSEi is subsidised by the British taxpayer.

 

British weapons are demonstrated to foreign buyers by soldiers provided by the Ministry of Defence.

 

The event is co-organised by the UKTI’s Defence and Security organisation, which helps British arms companies to make invites, export deals and also hosts guests.

 

And, at a cost of over £4 million The Metropolitan Police provide security for the event.

 

It all makes me sick.

 

It makes me sick because it reeks of everything that needs changing in this world.

 

It makes me sick because I am told that the Kingdom of God looks like people who ‘will beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore’ (Isaiah 2:4)

It makes me sick because I have shared table and broken bread with friends who have seen little ones blown up before their eyes by cluster ‘bomblets’ which look like toys to the eyes of small people who, despite their lands being ravaged, still live in hope of wonder and joy.

 Photo by Khristo Newall

 

It makes me sick because not that long ago I journeyed with peace-loving, peace-pursuing friends through Northern Iraq to hear the stories of and learn from the peoples there, and their faces are still imprinted on my heart.

 

It makes me sick because I still have vivid recollection of heading up into the mountains bordering Iran to meet with local villagers whose fields get shelled each harvest and planting season.

 

 

We went to hear their stories, to stand with them, to accompany them from the relative safety of the larger town back to their family lands in the mountains.

 

 

A deep mud track winds up the hillside leading to a solitary building, standing proud despite its many batterings.

 

The air is crisp and mountain fresh but the ground is deadly and land-mined.

 

This track is all that is safe to walk on. 

 

 

This track and the small orchard at the back of the hut, which Kaka Mahmoud and his sons have cleared of mines. But at no small cost, the wizened old man explains, pulling up the leg of his trouser and rapping his knuckles on the crude prosthetic limb that his woven cloth covers.
 

 

He shows us around the small areas of safety, showing us spent mines and safe places to walk, telling us tales of brothers blown up by these insidious hidden killers.

 

 

And we spend the night on that mountain top, drinking sweet tea and eating bread that his wife has stored in the pantry there.  We talk of what peace might be, of what it might look like for these lands and peoples to dwell in harmony and, from our place of privilege and relative ignorance, we seek to understand their stories and more of what it means to live in this tension.

 

There are jokes told around the fire.  The men find it hilarious when a couple of us wonder about how to navigate our way in the pitch mountain darkness through the treacherous land to the long-drop-toilet at the back of the hut.  They find it even more hilarious to sneak outside at break of dawn and wake us up to the sound of them shooting at rocks outside the hut with their rifle, declaring that the Iranian shelling has begun early.  The humour of a land in turmoil I guess.

 

But, around that fire and amongst the broken bread and sweetened tea, bonds were forged and truths were spoken.

 

It makes me sick because I have stood in the graveyards of Halabja and heard the stories of families choking on the poisoned air, gasping for survival.

 

 

I have walked the paths of a town decimated by chemical warfare and seen the ruins of a community still trying to rebuild its former beauty.

 

I have seen their faces and heard their stories and loved them for but a moment.

 

 

It is real.

 

This stuff is real.

 

And in September this year the weapons that cause such destruction will be pedalled on our doorstep.

 

And we must stop it.

 

We might not change their hearts, but we can make it harder for them to walk through those doors without having to face the reality of their trade.

 

We can look at their badges and learn their names and speak to them of other people who also have names.  Of Kaka Mahmoud and his sons, of little ones who once played in desert sands with their toys of destruction.

 

‘All it takes for evil to prosper is for a good person to do nothing.’

 

So, we should do something.

 

Go here:

 

http://www.stopthearmsfair.org.uk/say-no-to-the-arms-trade-in-2013/

 

or here:

http://www.elaaf.org/#about

 

or here:

http://www.caat.org.uk/events/national-gathering/

 

to find out more.

 

Because there are names and stories and families and hopes and dreams at stake.
 

 

It is real.