The view over Tifariti, in the freezing morning air, is one of beautiful desolation, of unbroken sheets of red sand. But this calm hides a morbid legacy: the ground here is laced with about seven million landmines and thousands of unexploded munitions. Landmine Action (LMA), a UK-based organisation, is here to deal with the ordnance. I'm here with sound-man Brendan Butler to film a documentary about their work.

Tifariti - deep in the Western Sahara some 2,000 km south-west of Algiers - is the capital of what people here call the "Liberated Zone". When Morocco annexed Western Sahara in 1975 following Spain's ill-planned decolonisation, they were met with armed resistance from the Polisario Front, the independence movement of the indigenous Sahrawi population.

In 1976, the Polisario declared the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) as their government-in-exile in the eastern portion of Western Sahara under their control. Though the violence ended in a 1991 ceasefire, the Polisario Front continues to demand independence for all of Moroccan-controlled Western Sahara.

The United Nations calls it Africa's last colony. Others simply call it "The Forgotten Conflict". It is a land in limbo, not Algeria, not Morocco and not Mauritania, but something in between.

Morocco laid the mines before the 1991 ceasefire along an immense wall of sand that separates its territory from the Polisario-controlled area to stop anyone from crossing. Our focus is an ambitious programme run by LMA to train 12 Sahrawi staff as explosives disposal operators who will help deal with the scourge.

Dangerous and thankless

Every day, they face a series of practical tests of their skills. On my first morning, I watch as - one by one - the men pull on their flack jackets and protective visors, and huddle over a safety fuse to prepare a small detonation. I can see their hands shake with nerves and their eyes flit around looking for answers as Aslan Mintaev, the course instructor, stands by silently taking notes.

It's difficult to understand why someone would choose a job like this: dangerous, isolated and thankless. Mata Mulana, a man in his early-forties with kind, drooping eyes, feels it is his duty to take part in the training. "It's very important for our people," he says modestly. "You feel you're directly helping people and they can see that you are making their lives safe."

It is my third visit to Western Sahara, and nothing has changed. The U.N. still insists there should be a solution, and negotiations between Morocco and the Polisario remain stalled. The Sahrawi are growing more and more impatient. Perhaps this training, and the entire mission surrounding it, is their way of finally playing a role in their own future, a chance to see tangible results after decades of waiting.

Everything out here, in such harsh conditions, is a challenge. But the Sahrawi are used to challenges. Azedin, a young, round-faced man with a childish smile, is training in satellite imagery with LMA's Gabriela Friedl. He was born in Moroccan-controlled Layounne in 1976, but after joining the uprising against Moroccan control, he had to contact the Sahrawi underground to smuggle him across the heavily-mined border and into the "Liberated Zone." He tells the story with careful deliberation, still smiling, but I can see the shadow of trauma across his boyish face.

The international staff have their own challenges to deal with. Night after night, Programme Manager Zlatko Gegic and I stay awake until the early morning, talking for hours. At work, he's a generous but cynical man, a relentless perfectionist who demands the same from his colleagues. In private, he reveals a surprising sentimentality.

He still remembers well his early days of landmine clearance, before he moved into training. He remembers walking into a mine field in his native Bosnia to rescue three children, only to find their bodies shredded and indistinguishable. He tells me how painful it is being away from his own family. Zlatko has two children of his own, and he recently missed his daughter's birthday.

A sense of pride

The reason for all these sacrifices becomes clearer on graduation day, when Zlatko proudly presents the trainees with their certificates. They line up to shake hands with the President of the Sahrawi Republic and the Commander of the U.N. mission in the Western Sahara. The team has been building up to this day for months, but I can't help thinking that, with training now over, this day is only the beginning of their real mission here.

The ceremony brings a moment of optimism to the camp. But on the drive back to Tindouf - a military town across the border in Algeria and the closest airport to Polisario-controlled Western Sahara - I'm quickly reminded of the political realities. The Sahrawi are tired of politics. Many have given up on the U.N., and I've met numerous young men and veterans of the guerrilla war who demand a return to armed conflict.

During a break in the long off-road journey, the driver asks why - as a Palestinian - I'm not in Palestine fighting. "This is my fight," I say, pointing to my camera. I look over at Abdeslam Omar Lahsen, our fellow passenger and President of the Association for the Families of Sahrawi Prisoners and the Disappeared, and I can tell he's heard this all before.

"Sometimes only armed struggle works," he replies quietly, squinting into the sun. "Politics doesn't work. Look at us. We signed the cease-fire 16 years ago and we're still waiting."

It reminds me of SADR President Abdelaziz's ominous words at the 2006 Independence Day celebrations: "We would like to warn that the situation is becoming more difficult and dangerous..."

Picture captions:
Abba Mustafa wires a detonator. He is part of a team who will take over clearance operations from LMA.
LMA's Zlatko Gegic shows how to search for unexploded ordnance.
All photographs by Saeed Taji Farouky

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