After a decade of Darfur it’s time to stop appeasing Sudan’s criminal cabal

The number of victims continues to rise.

The UK has appeased some extremely dubious leaders of oppressive regimes over the years. Today, as we mark the tenth anniversary of the start of systematic ethnic cleansing, killing, rape and torture of Darfur’s population, it’s fair to say we have the measure of President Bashir. After all, he remains the only sitting head of state to be indicted by the International Criminal Court for genocide. This is a man – and a criminal regime – we should not do business with.

Yet Her Majesty’s Government continues to do so – from providing taxpayers money to train Sudanese military, police and security personnel to hosting trade delegations to boost UK economic links with the country. Just this month the UK participated in the Doha aid conference which aims to reconstruct war-torn Darfur – committing to continue the £25m the UK has provided yearly. Few would deny that Darfuri’s urgently need reconstruction funds and aid. But the Doha process works directly with the Khartoum regime – the same criminal cabal which continues to bomb Darfuri villages, ethnically cleanse civilians with the wrong religion and skin colour, and deny access to international humanitarian agencies.

This is not only an absurd waste of taxpayers’ money – it’s also insulting and totally disrespectful to Bashir’s victims. No one knows the true figure – the UN stopped counting in 2008 – but estimates suggest at least 200,000 people have so far been killed, with more than 2 million displaced. Just this week, renewed government air strikes and fighting between rebel forces and killed dozens and displaced many more. Working with the regime, on reconstruction, business, or human rights, gives it the international legitimacy it desperately craves, re-focusing attention away from the very reason why Darfur – and the rest of the country – needs our help. Bashir and his cronies have systematically destroyed the potential of an entire nation. Under his iron rule, Sudan has become a ruthless police state, extreme Sharia law is violently imposed, and the ruling party has worked consistently towards a unified pure Arab Islamist state. Millions of citizens have been killed, thousands are still in refugee camps across Sudan’s border with its neighbours, and the stability of the entire region continues to be shaken by his warmongering.

In 2006 William Hague, now Foreign Secretary, lamented that: ‘International attempts to stop the government in Khartoum from killing its own people have been thwarted by other countries more interested in pursuing their economic or political advantage than in promoting human rights.’ We aren’t the worst offender – but the UK insists on continuing to engage with the regime despite the fact they have not kept their word on any of the numerous – worthless – peace agreements they have signed.

The Darfur10 campaign – led by charities and NGO’s like Waging Peace – is a stark reminder to the UK and international community, that the conflict is far from over. Until we see real progress towards peace the UK must take a much more robust stance. This means pressuring the UN to finally implement its many resolutions – starting with freezing the finances of those who orchestrated – and profited – from the genocide and imposing travel bans for high-ranking officials. More importantly, no-fly zones would finally put a stop to government's gunships which continue to bomb Darfuri citizens, and an increased, more active peacekeeping force in the region could start to offer civilians protection from government sponsored violence.

Today should be an opportunity to remember the thousands of Darfuri civilians who have suffered because of this conflict. Yet the fact that the number of victims continues to rise ten years after it began is a sad indictment of the entire international community’s continuing appeasement of this abhorrent regime.

 

Two girls in Darfur, who lost their homes to the conflict. Photograph: Getty Images
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Lost in translation: what we lose when we leave the EU

From learning Irish to studying in Switzerland, my richest memories are all in Europe. What will happen to our creative culture after Brexit?

I’m rubbish at languages. Worse than rubbish, actually; hopeless. (You can ask my old German teacher, if you like. Sorry Frau Sarcher.) I don’t have the ear for inflection or the memory for grammar. I don’t have the patience for diligent vocab lists. I can barely spell in English, let alone in French.

So it was with some trepidation that I headed to West Donegal a few weeks ago to do an immersion course in Irish. I know: Irish, of all things, a language which is famed for sounding entirely unlike how it looks on the page and is spoken only by a small number of people, almost all of them in places I don’t live.

Well, I had to do it: I’m working on a novelist for my PhD who wrote in the language. But alright, fine, I also wanted to – wanted to at least grasp at the bones of the thing, even if I’d never be fluent.

I moved around a lot as a child, although always within the UK, and like a lot of people I know I never really had a proper and precise sense of origin. (Irish classes, replete with diaspora, handled this one fast: I am from here; now I live here.) I’m happy in most places, yet no geography has the ring of home. Yes, I’m undeniably English, but I always felt like I was looking at my own Englishness through glass.

I’m aware this might be the most English thing of all.

After my BA, I was awarded a grant to do research in Switzerland, and after that given a grant to do an MA, and everything changed. Suddenly, I was travelling across the continent, able to afford solo trips on the Eurostar to Paris and long months in a sticky Swiss summer, sending photos of the suspiciously clear rivers and cuckoo clocks back to England. In my early 20s, this became my home: always feeling slightly out of place, as ever, but willingly and joyfully so, stumbling through language after language. A whole world of pleasant unfamiliarity opened up on the continent.

A Swiss professor I met said that the very impossibility of translation is its greatest gift, because it reveals native quirks. I’m not sure I fully became a person until I started translating myself in those European summers – until I had to give an account of myself, as an English woman and as a person, out there in the world. Which is why, this morning, I found myself close to tears on the Tube.

I’m no more informed than you are as to why exactly Leave had such a good result. It might have been the headlines, or the promises of NHS funding, or simply long, dulled anger finding an outlet, however counter-intuitive.

But it was undoubtedly something else, too: an opportunity to wield power.

Feeling part of a movement is a seductive thing. This was a campaign entirely run in the negative, by both sides. I mean that in the most literal sense: not that there was no “positive” option, but that there was no option that offered a yes in relation to Europe – only a no more, thanks or a continuation of the same. Remain had no chance of promising us more. Leave, at least, could try, and even if it didn’t quite all ring true, it still offered action over inaction.

Getting ready for work this morning, I couldn’t get the words of sociologist and broadcaster Laurie Taylor out of my head. A few years ago, I went to a lecture he gave on popular culture, and saw him tell an audience of academics what he knew from growing up in Liverpool, and from watching the Dockers’ Strike: that turkeys will vote for Christmas if there’s a chance to stick two fingers up at the middle class while they do it.

That’s trite, perhaps, but less trite than pretending voters necessarily bought every promise from Leave. True, not everyone knew the ins and outs of trade negotiations, but most people were able to twig that Boris Johnson isn’t exactly a working class hero. As tends to be the case, there’s very little to be gained from calling the electorate stupid.

If the same communities that voted Leave are also those likely to be hit the hardest by a Brexit-induced economic downturn, they are also those who might reasonably have wondered: what have we got to lose?

Well, who knows. I’ll speak responsibly and say that I’m worried about EU funding to Cornwall (whose council is already scrabbling to secure a promise for alternative funds, after the population there voted Leave); about the medium-term prospects for the UK markets; about how we will handle cross-border security initiatives both in these isles and across the continent. I’m worried because I know where the money came from to regenerate Northern cities, and it wasn’t a Conservative government.

But I’ll also speak with feeling and say that something less tangible has been eroded. British culture is watchful and insecure, sarcastic and subtle; it has a class system awkwardly incomprehensible to outsiders and a sense of humour loved for being the same.

And the thing that makes it all beautiful, the Midas touch that takes the British bundle of neuroses and double-edged banter and endless, endless griping about the weather and turns it to gold, is openness – however grudgingly given. I won’t pretend we ever enjoyed a Halcyon age where we welcomed immigrants whole-heartedly. It would be an insult to history and those who fought to come here. But we are a mongrel country, in spite of our intentions, and most people, most of the time, cope. It is at the moments where we shrug and decide we’re not too fussed about difference, actually, that we shine most strongly.

Over and above the economy, even over the personal fear I have for European friends and lovers of friends and parents of friends, I worry about the loss of culture we may have triggered by choosing this course; what a Keynesian might call the “negative output gap” of creativity. We won’t ever be able to know precisely how much talent and creative joy we’ve effectively just told to fuck off, because you can’t measure pop songs or novels or new dishes like you can expenditure.

But that doesn’t mean that right now, across the country, hundreds of small stories forged from difference aren’t being foreclosed. A hundred little acts of friendship, or love; a hundred chances to look at Britishness through someone else’s eyes. The essential richness of being forced to translate ourselves, and receive others’ translations in turn, is being lost from our future. And our culture will undoubtedly be a little the worse for it.

Stephanie Boland is digital assistant at the New Statesman. She tweets at @stephanieboland