"But can we make guns with it?"

3D printing needs to get away from this question.

For a particular type of entrepreneur, the first question asked about any innovation is: “Can we make weapons using it?” Self-styled crypto-anarchist and founder of Defense Distributed (DefDist) Cody Wilson, is one such individual. Recognising the potential of increasingly affordable 3D printing technology, not to mention his desire to "defend the civil liberty of popular access to arms," thus presumably spreading crypto-anarchy, the 25-year-old law student at the University of Texas made the plans for the gun available online.

Anyone familiar with Airfix kits will be familiar with the appearance of the component parts of the Liberator, minus the surplus plastic flash from popping them out of the sprue. Just 15 plastic elements make up the weapon, plus two metals ones – the firing pin and a single screw – including complex structures like springs. Designed to fire standard handgun rounds, the gun is also fitted with an interchangeable barrel to handle a broad spectrum of calibre rounds.

3D printers use a digital design to create a solid object by depositing tiny droplets of molten plastic layer upon layer until the shape is complete. They were originally the preserve of design studios and prototyping and testing laboratories, but now prices have dropped to £1,000 for a domestic model, purchasing one is no longer unattainable by the general public. DefDist distributing the gun plans meant anyone could print gun parts at home in less than an hour.

Wilson’s scheme created a stir in Europe, where gun control law in many countries makes weapon acquisition a deliberately bureaucratic process. However, the Liberator was skating on thin legal ice even in the US, where the Undetectable Firearms Act of 1988 makes it illegal to manufacture a firearm that is not detectable by walk-through metal detectors.

As a workaround, DefDist incorporates a 170g piece of steel into the body of its gun design, making it legal, but who is to say people who download the design to print their own would do the same? It may be argued that the gun’s inability to be detected using metal detectors is negated by the fact it uses a metal firing pin and regular ammunition, and modern airport scanners would detect the shape enclosed in clothing anyhow.

However, all arguments regarding its legal status became moot when, a week after its test firing results were made public, the US Department of State ordered DefDist to remove digital blueprints for the Liberator and to cooperate with an investigation to check whether the files comply with the International Traffic in Arms Regulations (ITAR).

The company complied with the order, and a disclaimer on DefDist's website now reads: "This file has been removed from public access at the request of the US Department of Defense Trade Controls. Until further notice, the United States government claims control of the information."

The order is believed to have come too late as the gun specs had already been downloaded 10,000 times between going online on 6 May and the issuing of the mandate.

DefDist took on pushing the boundaries of firearms law and freedom of information and lost. Plastic guns manufactured using 3D printers are significantly inferior to the real deal, which even those aiming to acquire one for nefarious purposes can get hold of much cheaper and more easily.

For now, the only significant role 3D printers hold in the weapons industry remains creating tangible prototypes for ergonomic testing and functionality trials such as wind-tunnel experiments.

Photograph: Getty Images

Berenice Baker is Defence Editor at Strategic Defence Intelligence.

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In the 1980s, I went to a rally where Labour Party speakers shared the stage with men in balaclavas

The links between the Labour left and Irish republicanism are worth investigating.

A spat between Jeremy Corbyn’s henchfolk and Conor McGinn, the MP for St Helens North, caught my ear the other evening. McGinn was a guest on BBC Radio 4’s Westminster Hour, and he obligingly revisited the brouhaha for the listeners at home. Apparently, following an interview in May, in which McGinn called for Corbyn to “reach out beyond his comfort zone”, he was first threatened obliquely with the sack, then asked for a retraction (which he refused to give) and finally learned – from someone in the whips’ office – that his party leader was considering phoning up McGinn’s father to whip the errant whipper-in into line. On the programme, McGinn said: “The modus operandi that he [Corbyn] and the people around him were trying to do [sic], involving my family, was to isolate and ostracise me from them and from the community I am very proud to come from – which is an Irish nationalist community in south Armagh.”

Needless to say, the Labour leader’s office has continued to deny any such thing, but while we may nurture some suspicions about his behaviour, McGinn was also indulging in a little airbrushing when he described south Armagh as an “Irish ­nationalist community”. In the most recent elections, Newry and Armagh returned three Sinn Fein members to the Northern Ireland Assembly (as against one Social Democratic and Labour Party member) and one Sinn Fein MP to Westminster. When I last looked, Sinn Fein was still a republican, rather than a nationalist, party – something that McGinn should only be too well aware of, as the paternal hand that was putatively to have been lain on him belongs to Pat McGinn, the former Sinn Fein mayor of Newry and Armagh.

According to the Irish News, a “close friend” of the McGinns poured this cold water on the mini-conflagration: “Anybody who knows the McGinn family knows that Pat is very proud of Conor and that they remain very close.” The friend went on to opine: “He [Pat McGinn] found the whole notion of Corbyn phoning him totally ridiculous – as if Pat is going to criticise his son to save Jeremy Corbyn’s face. They would laugh about it were it not so sinister.”

“Sinister” does seem the mot juste. McGinn, Jr grew up in Bessbrook during the Troubles. I visited the village in the early 1990s on assignment. The skies were full of the chattering of British army Chinooks, and there were fake road signs in the hedgerows bearing pictograms of rifles and captioned: “Sniper at work”. South Armagh had been known for years as “bandit country”. There were army watchtowers standing sentinel in the dinky, green fields and checkpoints everywhere, manned by some of the thousands of the troops who had been deployed to fight what was, in effect, a low-level counter-insurgency war. Nationalist community, my foot.

What lies beneath the Corbyn-McGinn spat is the queered problematics of the ­relationship between the far left wing of the Labour Party and physical-force Irish republicanism. I also recall, during the hunger strikes of the early 1980s, going to a “Smash the H-Blocks” rally in Kilburn, north London, at which Labour Party speakers shared the stage with representatives from Sinn Fein, some of whom wore balaclavas and dark glasses to evade the telephoto lenses of the Met’s anti-terrorist squad.

The shape-shifting relationship between the “political wing” of the IRA and the men with sniper rifles in the south Armagh bocage was always of the essence of the conflict, allowing both sides a convenient fiction around which to posture publicly and privately negotiate. In choosing to appear on platforms with people who might or might not be terrorists, Labour leftists also sprinkled a little of their stardust on themselves: the “stardust” being the implication that they, too, under the right circumstances, might be capable of violence in pursuit of their political ends.

On the far right of British politics, Her Majesty’s Government and its apparatus are referred to derisively as “state”. There were various attempts in the 1970s and 1980s by far-right groupuscules to link up with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and other loyalist paramilitary organisations in their battle against “state”. All foundered on the obvious incompetence of the fascists. The situation on the far left was different. The socialist credentials of Sinn Fein/IRA were too threadbare for genuine expressions of solidarity, but there was a sort of tacit confidence-and-supply arrangement between these factions. The Labour far left provided the republicans with the confidence that, should an appropriately radical government be elected to Westminster, “state” would withdraw from Northern Ireland. What the republicans did for the mainland militants was to cloak them in their penumbra of darkness: without needing to call down on themselves the armed might of “state”, they could imply that they were willing to take it on, should the opportunity arise.

I don’t for a second believe that Corbyn was summoning up these ghosts of the insurrectionary dead when he either did or did not threaten to phone McGinn, Sr. But his supporters need to ask themselves what they’re getting into. Their leader, if he was to have remained true to the positions that he has espoused over many years, should have refused to sit as privy counsellor upon assuming his party office, and refused all the other mummery associated with the monarchical “state”. That he didn’t do so was surely a strategic decision. Such a position would make him utterly unelectable.

The snipers may not be at work in south Armagh just now – but there are rifles out there that could yet be dug up. I wouldn’t be surprised if some in Sinn Fein knew where they are, but one thing’s for certain: Corbyn hasn’t got a clue, bloody or otherwise. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser