A Decade of War in Iraq: The Images That Moved Them Most

Tyler Hicks, Oct. 20, 2002 A hopeful crowd had gathered outside the notorious Abu Ghraib prison following a broadcast announcing amnesty for a selection of prisoners. With the war mounting, Saddam Hussein had agreed to free some of the men as a goodwill gesture. In a few hours the waiting families had grown into a desperate mob that tore down the gates. Thousands, desperate to find their relatives, streamed into the massive complex. By dusk I was lost deep within Abu Ghraib, and came upon a frantic scene in an area where political prisoners were being held. The security here was heavier, but a portion of the cell block wall had been demolished. Guards stood between the prisoners and their liberators, swinging their clubs in all directions. Frantic prisoners were injured or crushed to death in the mayhem as dozens tried to squeeze through the narrow opening to freedom. This was the first time I'd seen a collective movement against Saddam Hussein's thuggish rule, though as history would show, this was not an end to the horrors this prison would witness.

Bruno Stevens, Feb. 12, 2003 The window of the Al Zahawi cafe in Rashid Street, named after a famous local poet and musician. Baghdad cafes are a trademark of this ancient city, places where men gather after prayer and play dominoes or blackjack with intense passion while drinking black or lemon tea or traditional arabic coffee (ka-wah). It was about 6 weeks before the war started that I took this image as a metaphor for the Iraqi population, a complex society whose people are framed by their own divisions and perspectives as well as having their fate determined by the outside world. To this day I believe that I somehow managed to encompass all those tensions and drama still to come in a single frame. I am in Baghdad at the moment, revisiting places and people from 10 years ago, and the Al Zahawi CafŽ is still one of my favorites.

Paolo Pellegrin, March 4, 2003 I entered Iraq unembedded with a car I had rented in Kuwait, stopping to photograph the fighting in Basra, a city in the South on the highway to Baghdad. The picture was taken near some sort of compound where there had been fighting between pro-Saddam fighters and British forces. There were several bodies of Iraqi fighters lying around. At one point, people started to appear on the streets to drag away particular bodies. As I understand, the woman in the foreground of the photograph was the mother of the deceased. They dragged him from the place he was killed, put him in the trunk of a waiting car, and drove off. When I look at this image ten years later, the first thing that comes to mind is the idea of loss. I see the photograph and think of the mother's loss. If I continue looking, that black veiled figure, in some strange sense, makes me think of death itself - shadowy and dark.

Joe Raedle, March 23, 2003 Ten years ago, I was in the desert of southern Iraq, documenting the lives of U.S. Marines from Task Force Tarawa 1/2 Charlie Company as they fought in the town of Nasiriyah at the start of the war. It was the first major battle these young Marines had encountered. They lost 18 fellow Marines and 14 more were wounded in the bloody fight. I saw these kids become men in a matter of hours. All the bravado, adrenaline and laughter that came with the first few days of driving across the desert to their objective -- which was to secure a bridge to provide a route for the rest of the invading forces -- changed with the chaos and carnage of combat. Anticipation was replaced by fear, confusion, yelling and the smell of gunfire and smoke. This picture of the wounded Marine seems so fleeting. But looking at it again 10 years later brings me right back to the moment when I was laying on the ground next to them as the battle crackled around.

Damir Sagolj, March 25, 2003 I shot this picture almost ten years ago, just about the time when it was obvious to me that a war - a real one fought between armies - was over. Dead bodies were all around the road to Baghdad. Who is the person in the picture that I took from atop an armored vehicle carrying U.S. Marines towards the Iraqi capital? I don't know. Not far from this man, there was the wreckage of a truck hit by something powerful. More bodies around, in different positions. All dead. It immediately got lost, the photo itself, amongst others full of emotions, blood and military action illustrating what would be celebrated as the liberation of a country from a tyrant. Somewhere near Nassiriya, this man was left to rot under the desert sun - and forgotten on my hard drive. Not long after, I realized that was probably my best frame from the short and bloody desert rally - a simple but powerful picture of an unknown man "of military age" killed and left in an ugly landscape among tank trails, surrounded by nothing but dust and the noise of war. After all, this is how I see the whole war thing - a dirty nightmare and ugly emptiness you are alone in. Dead or still alive, but alone.

James Hill, March 25, 2003 The only real resistance to the Allied invasion of Iraq in March 2003 turned out to be the weather, and in particular the sand storm that engulfed the troops for a full day in the middle of the desert about a week into the advance. Many of the Marines were stuck in open vehicles and they tried best to protect themselves from the biting wind laced with sand, all except this one Marine who steadfastly munched on his Skittles. A few years later this image was on the front of a book about the war and the Skittles had to be photoshopped out because of copyright violations for having the branded sweets on the cover! Looking back on that day I sense how the fog of the storm was also something of a metaphor for the whole campaign that even now it is hard to decide, even after the departure of American troops, what were the rights and wrongs and successes and failures of the campaign.

Yuri Kozyrev, March 31, 2003 A Sheikh Maaruf cemetery worker carries a reusable casket to the storage house after the funeral of Nidal Ali Jasem, a lonely deaf and dumb woman killed in a rocket blast in the south of Baghdad. I was in Baghdad with a hundred journalists during "Shock and Awe." When the operation began on March 21st, the prospect of dropping thousands bombs and missiles was frightening for everyone on the ground. On the first night, in spite of the thunderous explosions not far from the hotel the journalists were staying in, we observed that the weapons were destroying the targets with accuracy. After a week of bombings, it was amazing to witness the Iraqis' remarkable resilience. Most people continued with their daily lives as bombs continued to fall around them. And of course there were airstrikes where many Iraqi civilians were killed. We were being watched by minders all the time, who gave us access to the events they thought were news: civilians affected by the bombing or a press conference at the Ministry of Information. We were not allowed to go anywhere near the military or the Republican Guard. They wanted us to report their side of the story - we couldn't just get into the taxi and travel around. It was late afternoon when my colleague, Sergey Loiko of the Los Angeles Times, our minder and I entered one of the oldest cemeteries in Baghdad. We didn't expect to see people there but there were some families who had brought the bodies of their relatives killed by airstrikes. A worker told us he had been busy all day long.

Jean-Marc Bouju, March 31, 2003 Ten years ago. I doubt the desert remembers the barbed wire and hooded, shackled prisoners. Does it at least remember the screams of a boy clinging to a father who mumbled words of comfort from beneath a black sandbag? I hope the desert, too, felt relieved when an American soldier cut off the plastic handcuffs, and the man could finally embrace his child. But this desert has seen so much since the beginning of civilization that I do not think this was a remarkable day. This is not even a particularly noticeable war in the context of Iraq's 5,000 years of history. But for me, this moment endures. The whole scene was surreal. This image was one of the last of my career. Three months later, I was disabled in a car accident. My daughter was the same age as the child in this photo. I look at her today and wonder what happened to that boy. I wonder why we were at war. What was accomplished? Ten years. An army of dead, wounded and mentally destroyed people. Maybe they, too, are wondering: why? I remember, and I wonder.

Christopher Morris, April 6, 2003 This is the day the unit of the 3rd Army Infantry Division that I was traveling with entered Baghdad. During the several weeks journey to the capital, it became quite apparent that we were not being greeted as liberators. Many of the troops kept going on about how we were bringing Iraqis freedom. I distinctly remember taking this image as they dragged the dead Iraqi off the road to dump him in an open pit and thinking to myself, at least now he is free.

Robert Nickelsberg, April 7, 2003 The Marines from 3/4 were 11 miles southeast of Baghdad and positioned to cross the Nahr Dyala bridge when one of their Amphibious Assault Vehicles took a direct hit from an artillery shell. I was standing around the corner of a building overlooking the river we were about to cross when the explosion occurred. I ran back to see what had happened. The Iraqis must've had a spotter somewhere close by as the shelling was accurate and the position was strategic. The injured Marine had been flattened by the explosion and near the vehicle when a heavy metal hatch cover landed on his legs. The two Marines inside the AAV were killed instantly. With a burst of adrenaline, the one Marine picked up his friend (weighing 40-50 pounds more with the body armor and ammunition) and ran him to a medical vehicle. Two days later the Marines from 3/4 entered Baghdad. They were positioned near the Palestine Hotel at Ferdous Square where they helped pull the Saddam Hussein statue down. I heard later the injured Marine suffered a fractured leg and a punctured eardrum. Four or five years later, I heard the other Marine had been injured in Iraq and was in serious condition at a hospital in Texas. War takes an enormous toll on all those who participate.

Kuni Takahashi, April 7, 2003 The Iraqi army partially destroyed the bridge, which connected a suburb of Baghdad with the city center in an attempt to stop U.S. troops from advancing. The U.S. Marines decided to push ahead and sent engineers first. They laid iron plates down to patch holes on the bridge and began shouting at their fellow Marines to cross. There was heavy gunfire, but I wasn't sure which direction it was coming from. I just ducked my head down and followed the Marines. It was one of the first encounters with the Iraqi army and it gave me a sense that the fighting would intensify. Fortunately, my guess was wrong and the Marines reached the center in three days and took down Saddam Hussein's statue.

Gary Knight, April 7, 2003 This photograph was taken moments after this position in the unfinished Baghdad suburb of Dyala came under artillery barrage. I had watched the shells 'walk' in and was lying in a depression in the ground on the other side of the wall on the right as the shells crashed in. It was like an earthquake - so loud and so terrifying waiting for them to hit. I have been shelled in many places over the years and it's the most terrifying thing. I always imagine I can outwit a man who can see me and is trying to kill me with something as small as a bullet, but with artillery, it's all a question of luck. I saw the turret of the APC fly into the air. When the barrage stopped and the violence was broken momentarily by silence, young men started to shout and scream. One Marine lay dead in the dirt and several others were badly wounded. There were many different reactions by the men to the death of their friend which are revealed in this simple photograph. One officer took control, indicating to others to move the body. The Marine on the right bowed his head - he was unable to look. On the left, another stood pigeon-toed, gazing off into the distance while others cleaned up and attended to the wounded. A Marine moved across with his head down as if he didn't want to be seen. Violence in war is like this - men don't respond the way one expects and a wide range of personal and complex emotional responses emerge. In that fragment of time, most had withdrawn into their own intimate space, even though they were part of a whole - a whole that was diminished by the loss of one. The Marines were comfortable that I took this picture, which surprised me at the time. Later, they told me that they were gratified that their experience of this war was being photographed. They said it validated their experience, both for themselves and for those who weren't there to share it with them - outsiders - people who don't know war. The photograph meant it could never be denied. A few weeks ago, I was told that the dead Marine had been killed by friendly fire - U.S. artillery that dropped short. This is what we were told originally, only to have it retracted the following day. The Marine was killed by shrapnel that flew out the back of the APC after the shell went through the open turret. If it had landed a foot away on either side, it would have killed or wounded everyone in the photograph. His terrible misfortune was our good luck. That's what it comes down to in the end.

Alex Majoli, April 8, 2003 An American soldier killed during the battle for Baghdad, 10 miles from the city's center. I basically hitch-hiked convoys and helicopters to get to Baghdad before the fall of Saddam. I ended up with this unit of Marines who were supplying munitions and meals to the front-line soldiers. I decided to stay with them. Being in the right place at the right time is a must for many journalists - I guess I was in the wrong place but at the right time.

Andrew Cutraro, April 8, 2003 I barely remember taking this photograph. I was totally unprepared for the physical and mental rigors of covering the Marines. I was exhausted and disoriented to a breaking point, so when I saw this scene, I thought I was hallucinating. The killing had picked up and become personal as the invasion force moved from the open desert into the urban areas. This photo was taken just outside Baghdad before it fell. The Marines were told to expect a bloody street-to-street fight for the capital and the men of Lima Co., 3/7 were steeling themselves for it.

Ron Haviv, April 9, 2003 As Baghdad began to fall, I had just left my embed and made my way to Firdos Square. As I traveled the streets I could see pockets of celebrations, with flowers being handed out, small Saddam statues coming down, along with continued street fighting and the beginning of looting. Marines - who had been asked at the behest of terrified journalists based in hotels in the square to provide security during the power vacuum - were arriving. Inside the square, a small group of Iraqis were trying to take down the large Saddam statue with ropes and sledge hammers. Once they realized the futility of their pursuit, they turned to the Marine commander and asked for help. He obliged and as the assistance was given, a U.S. Marine put an American flag over the face of Saddam. For many, this changed the image of liberation to one of occupation.

Jerome Delay, April 9, 2003 What can I say - I almost missed the moment. I was with my pal Alexandra Boulat running around the other side of town photographing the looting of government buildings. Many Saddam statues had been toppled before, but for some reason, this one became iconic. Looking at it now wakes up a few ghosts. Two days earlier, the Americans shot at the Palestine hotel and killed two friends. Two who had given six months of their lives to cover history from the other side. Two for whom the war has not ended, and never will. Two we could not save. Jose Couso died from his wounds. Taras Protsyuk died in my arms.

David Guttenfelder, April 10, 2003 At the start of 2003 I spent three months in Iraq, controlled by strict Iraqi minders, watching the build-up to the war, and nervously waiting for the invasion to come to our feet in Baghdad. But on the days that the capital city fell, I was not in Bagdad but instead in the south covering the Brits taking Basra. I was what they called a "unilateral" journalist. Not back at the Palestine Hotel with ministry of info minders. Not embedded or attached to advancing U.S. troops. For me, being unilateral meant driving around in a truck filled of food and fuel tanks somewhat aimlessly in a lawless place, stopping when we could to photograph the chaos. Before dusk, we'd search for somewhere safe to park and sleep for the night. I'd heard the news on the radio about the Saddam statue being pulled down in Firdos Square in Baghdad. I felt really far from the epicenter of the story somehow. Basra felt more like the desert. My colleague, the writer Tini Tran, and I passed this slow-moving wagon dragging something behind it on a dusty road. We did a double take. Was that a head? We turned around and she drove along side these guys pulling the head from a locally toppled and decapitated statue. I shot a picture or two from the truck window. I felt then like it didn't matter where I was in the country. Things were happening and changing all around us. Surprising pictures were everywhere.

Antonin Kratochvil, April 12, 2003 For me, it's about the effect war has on kids. Made during the early weeks of the war, these kids were playing war on the battlefield in the city of Umm Qasr. You could hear the battle of Basra raging 60 klicks away.

James Nachtwey, April 22, 2003 The invasion had just ended but the war was just beginning when the Shiites made a sacred pilgrimage to Karbala. Tens of thousands gathered at a mosque dedicated to a martyred saint. In a frenzy of religious devotion, long processions of chanting men paraded through the streets flagellating themselves with chains or cutting their heads with knives. In the midst of the chaos, a group of women wearing chadors stopped to pray in front of the mosque, and a weathered hand extended in devotion became the eye of the storm.

Timothy Fadek, May 14, 2003 I'll never forget how hot it was, above 110 F. I had been working in the sun for hours and was just about to sit down and rest when I heard a man crying. His cries were so loud and agonized that it stopped everyone in their tracks. The man had just identified the remains of someone in his family. Holding the bag containing the skull, bones and clothing, he climbed into a small bus. This was at the site of newly discovered mass graves in Al-Mahawil, a town about 80 miles south of Baghdad and adjacent to the ruins of ancient Babylon. 3,000 bodies had already been dug from the ground, the remains collected in plastic bags. Families were searching for items - identity cards, scraps of clothing and other clues - to help identify their loved ones, victims killed during the 1991 Shia revolt against Saddam Hussein's regime. Looking back, there's no doubt in my mind that the war was a tragic, catastrophic mistake. Yet, it's important to remember that Saddam Hussein did indeed rule by sheer terror and medieval brutality, and this photo is proof of that. Is Iraq better off without Saddam? Despite nearly 10 years of US occupation and continuing violence, many Iraqi's are not so sure and neither am I.

Thomas Dworzak, July 2003 Early in the war, U.S. troops would still drive around Iraqi neighborhoods in open humvees. Later, everything became increasingly distanced, protected, locked away behind bulletproof windows. And I would almost entirely focus on photographing the Americans, since I hardly ever met any Iraqis.

Geert van Kesteren, Aug. 4, 2003 In the unbearable heat of August 2003 I was at another prison. It stank of piss and sweat. There were the prisoners, like animals in the dirt behind barbed wire, guarded by soldiers with cudgels. The commander thought it was a disgraceful scene, but he didn't know where else he could hold the detainees. Things could be worse, however. You should be there when I hand over these people to the base in Tikrit for questioning. Then the soldiers jab their boots in the prisoners' backs to yank the handcuffs as tight as possible around their wrists. I don't want to know what else is going on there. This was during the period when the atrocities in Abu Ghraib were being perpetrated. Months later, in December, U.S. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfield had the audacity to say that the prisoners in Iraq were treated "very, very well." The questions about the whys and wherefores of the war begin to sound louder and clearer, and no longer just in Iraq.

Stephanie Sinclair, Aug. 21, 2003 Few of us who had been on the ground for the invasion and the first months of the occupation fully believed the rose-tinged opinions that the US had, in fact, succeeded in winning the war and Iraqi hearts and minds during the reconstruction. But, maybe naively, I hadn't expected the complete implosion of Iraqi society so quickly either. When the UN headquarters in Baghdad was attacked on such a large scale it became instantly clear that in addition to losing hearts, minds, and lives, the US had begun to lose control, and perhaps, even more importantly, a sense of perspective about what they were up against. Many of us began to wonder if they'd ever had one to begin with.

Kate Brooks, Sept. 29, 2003 An estimated 125 people were killed in a car bombing at the Tomb of Imam Ali in Najaf. The attack targeted a prominent Shi-ite cleric and occurred as the faithful were leaving after Friday prayers. It was the single most violent incident I have ever witnessed in my 15-year career as a photojournalist. When I think back on that day in 2003, I always remember the Iraqi man holding a dismembered leg in the middle of the street, staring at me with a questioning gaze as if I was supposed to know what to do. Ten years later the photograph I took of him is still considered too graphic to publish. My bewildered colleague (who had been helping pull bodies from the rubble) and I caught sight of each other through the crowd - the man with the leg stood between us. Neither of us has ever forgotten that moment or the carnage, terror and confusion we felt, saw and recorded that day. Hysterical men sobbed in the midst of the chaos while others tried to hit me out of rage for being an American. I kept shooting and moving while an Iraqi police shielded me.

Mike Kamber, Oct. 27, 2003 This was the morning everything changed for me. U.S. combat troops were due to return home in a month and I'd been sent to Iraq to cover the "return to normality," as an editor put it. Joao Silva and I were standing around when an enormous explosion shook our house. The bombing turned out to be a mile away. We were first journalists on the scene and found the Red Cross destroyed by a truck bomb; dozens were killed. As we photographed, other explosions went off around the city. I thought this soldier's face said it all, the shock that there was to be no "return to normality."

Mauricio Lima, Jan. 28, 2004 When I think about Iraq, I think about Ayad Ali Brissam Karim. Driving around in Baghdad, I found Ayad with his father Ali (a former Republican Guard soldier during the '91 Gulf War) holding an ophthalmologist prescription and begging at the entrance of the Green Zone. Ali was trying to take his son abroad for treatment, injured at their farm during an airstrike in April 2003. It was heartbreaking when I first saw him. I decided immediately to shoot a story about his daily life. This school headshot is the only portrait Ayad had from before his injury. He stopped studying because his friends continually made fun of his facial burns. Almost two years later, I learned that an American family had been so touched after seeing his story published in The Washington Post, that they decided to bring Ayad to the U.S. for cornea treatment.

Khalid Mohammed, March 31, 2004 Going to Fallujah has always been tough - it is a daily hell. I can smell the death on that day, the way people's eyes did not welcome me, the strange faces, the bodies hanging from the bridge. This was not a movie; it was a nightmare. I believe when you see someone dying and just stand watching, a part of you dies. War is ugly - all monsters, all victims.

Stanley Greene, March 31, 2004 I needed to go to Iraq. I pushed for it. Nobody would send me - and no one was letting me embed. The invasion happened without me, and I thought I was going to miss it. Sure enough, the war was officially over as per George W. Bush. Soon, it became clear to me that I had time. This war was far from over, and worse, we were far from having won. The technology failed to get us a quick and clear victory and now we had to get down and dirty. I was gonna do it like they did it back then, during that other down and dirty war - on film with a Leica. I wanted to cover Iraq the way my heroes covered Vietnam and Beirut. We'd gone to Fallujah to meet with insurgents, to photograph a weapons cache. Instead they took me to a couple of charred bodies: "Spies." Blackwater contractors. Seeing those dead burnt bodies really shocked me. Back at the hotel, I sat down and cried. I'd lost something that day and knew I was never going to get it back.

Maya Alleruzzo, April 17, 2004 He died in the field and they wheeled his body straight to the morgue of the Combat Support Hospital in the Green Zone where I was embedded for the day. "You need to see this," someone whispered to me. It was something in his voice - I didn't ask anything and just followed him to the morgue. Two medics, a doctor and a chaplain were there, silently tending to the body of a young sergeant who had been killed instantly under fire near Baghdad. I thought I should ask if I was really allowed to be there. I thought I should ask if anybody minded. But no one said anything to me, so I tried to be silent and work quickly. That month - April, 2004 - was the deadliest to date for Americans since the invasion. They were used to it by now. But for them, it seemed to me that each death was still a solemn ritual - slow, deliberate, almost tender. It wasn't the gravity of his injuries that struck me - where his face had been, there was nothing - it was the things they took out of his pockets. There was a blue tube of ChapStick, a checkbook, a wallet holding a portrait of the soldier with his family. Finally, the medic, Scott Gillis removed the man's wedding ring, wearing it on his own ring finger for safekeeping until it could be bagged and sent home to his wife, who did not even know she was a widow yet.

Muhammed Muheisen, April 26, 2004 Looking at the image ten years later, it still feels as if it was yesterday. I remember the fear that I felt when I captured the picture and the excitement of covering my first war at the age of 22. I remember a crowd gathering at the site and the various sounds of people screaming and running. The man on top of the Humvee was shouting Allahuakbar, Allahuakbar. I also remember the fear of being caught in the middle if U.S troops arrived and would start shooting to disperse the crowd. Lastly, I remember the anger I saw on the face of the man on top of the Humvee the moment he saw me and decided to run after me. I had to flee the site immediately since photographers in that period used to be attacked and kidnapped.

Adrees Latif, May 23, 2004 U.S. I returned to Iraq in 2004 shortly after four military contractors were ambushed and later hung from a bridge crossing the Euphrates. This time around my embed would be with Marines responsible for monitoring a perimeter around Falluja. The modern act of journalists embedding with the U.S. military was still a fairly new concept and I soon would learn that on the ground my cameras and images were not seen as an ally. On May 13, 2004 a vehicle in our convoy hit a roadside Improvised Explosive Device (IED) and I exited our Humvee to photograph the unfolding events. As I made my way towards the site of the impact, a Marine stood within a few arm's lengths in front of my lens. I moved to the left to dodge his presence but he too followed. I moved towards the right to get a clear view of the carnage and realized he was pointing a handgun to my face. The look in his eyes and the expression on his face would make me put my camera down and walk away. Ten days later the Marines would be ambushed along the same stretch of road. This time I stayed back and photographed what I could.

Robert King, June 5, 2004 A soldier with Battery B, 3rd Battalion, 112th Field Artillery, Army National Guard of Lawrenceville, N.J. cries as the 1st Cav extract the body of Army Spc. Ryan E. Doltz. Army Spc. Doltz was killed along with Sgt. Humberto Timoteo after an IED exploded under their vehicle during a patrol in Sadr City. This image was taken a few days after I escaped from being kidnapped in Fallujah. The kidnapping and the threat of being killed was an overwhelming experience that effected me both mentally and physically. Instead of packing it up and exiting this current theater of war, I decided to double down and continue working. By doing so I was able to deal with the physiological impact of the kidnapping in a healthy and productive manner. The image still haunts me, and at times, members of Battery B, 3rd Battalion, 112th Field Artillery, Army National Guard, have reached out to thank me for my work. It brings closure to this horrific tragedy where American heroes gave the ultimate sacrifice to their country.

Moises Saman, July 2004 I took this photograph a year after the fall of Saddam Hussein. I was driving around the sprawling slum of Sadr City, formerly known as Saddam City, when in a back alley I noticed a young man trying to tame this majestic white horse. The scene was at once mesmerizing and jarring because the animal seemed so out of place. Looking back at this memory, the photo represents to me the opulence of Saddam's reign, and the struggles of the Iraqi people to regain a sense of control with what remained from the former regime.

Kael Alford, Aug. 21, 2004 For several weeks in July and August 2004, the Sadr militia and U.S. forces fought a pitched battle in Najav, Iraq. Sadr militia fighters seized control of the city and radiated through the medina in concentric circles from the exquisite shrine of Imam Ali, the symbolic heart of Shiite Islam in Iraq. Fighters of all ages came from throughout the country, including some from Iran, to engage the U.S. forces. I managed to cross the front lines with a handful of journalists to cover the battle from the Sadr fighters' positions and learn their point of view on the battle. At edge of the medina, along the boulevards where American tanks had room to prowl, fighters would fire at the tanks with small arms and shoulder-launched rockets, then retreat into the maze of the old city. Snipers from both sides guarded that front line. That's where we came across the body of this elderly man killed the night before by a high-powered shot to the head. A citizen of Najaf who lived nearby covered the elderly man's body with his own cloak, the gauzy, black cotton traditional to the south of Iraq. It was a poignant gesture of respect. We didn't know the identity of the man and couldn't confirm how he'd died, though the man who covered his body said it had been an American sniper. The irony of that particular battle was that even though the American forces took far fewer casualties and easily outgunned the Sadr militia with their war planes, tanks and heavy artillery, by the time a ceasefire was negotiated, the Sadr movement, with its anti-American platform claimed a moral victory by defending the shrine from U.S. forces and holding them at bay. They gained a huge political following in the process.

Luis Sinco, Nov. 2004 Marine Lance Corp. James Blake Miller was with the First Marine Battalion, 8th Regiment, during the assault on the insurgent stronghold of Fallujah. His life was forever altered in the crucible of battle. Filthy and exhausted, he lit a cigarette. Arabs have two sayings: "Insha-Allah" (God Willing) and "Maktub" (It Is Written). Someday, somewhere in between, we may find truth.

Andrea Bruce, 2004 Draped in black abayas, over 500 women, mostly widows, led a march in Sadr City against the violence that plagued their neighborhood and country. Suicide bombings and mass graves were common. People were disappearing. Even still, Iraqis were testing their new found freedom to protest. But a protest led by women, voicing their hatred of all violence caused by all sides, was rare. Their chants were fierce and angry. Then celebratory. Then exhausted. As if discovering their voice and using it made them see the cost so much clearer.

Ashley Gilbertson, Nov. 13, 2004 Of all the images that I made in the six years I spent working in Iraq, this is the photograph that best represents my experience of war. The anonymous nature of the picture speaks to how we fight war. The shadow of the Marine on the wall is merely a symbol: of American force and of policies made in Washington and carried out in the Middle East. When insurgents kill U.S. forces, they are not trying to murder Demarkus Brown, a young man from a small town whose parents loved him more than anybody else in the world. They were hoping to kill the symbol, to damage American ideals. The insurgent on the ground with his face covered by a sweater is as impersonal as the MarineÕs shadow. When the American military fights their enemy, they become just that: the enemy. Aiming through his rifle's iron sights, a soldier isn't seeing Mohammad Rezzaq, a father with four children waiting at home, he only sees AQI (al Qaeda in Iraq) or a Mahdi army fighter. To personalize killing would make it far more difficult to pull the trigger and perhaps impossible to wage war on a large scale. Rendering 'The Other' anonymous is how we bring ourselves to fight.

Lynsey Addario, Nov. 2004 In November 2004, a reporter and I were granted almost unprecedented access to the theater hospital in Balad, where dozens of American troops were being treated as they came out of battle during the siege of Fallujah. For five days, I photographed young, virile American men being brought in to the emergency arena, in varying states of consciousness and with all types of injuries. They were treated by a medical staff that barely slept or ate, and many were then forwarded on to the American base in Ramstein, Germany for more advanced treatment. In Balad, they improvised: yellow school buses were used to transport the injured, and cargo planes were converted into flying hospitals, laden with injured strapped in stretchers to the floor of the plane.

Ed Kashi, Jan. 17, 2005 After four trips to Iraq to cover the invasion and subsequent conflict between March 2003 - April 2004, I realized the necessity and importance of telling the story of American troops returning injured from the war. They were being slaughtered physically and shattered mentally by this new kind of urban warfare and asymmetrical conflict, fighting an enemy that was hidden and always lurking in the shadows. I committed myself at that point to begin documenting the situation of returning veterans from Iraq. One of the subjects I photographed was BJ Jackson, pictured here in bed with his wife, Abby, and two daughters at home. I had the chance to first meet BJ and his family while in recovery at the Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas. This image was made a year later at his home in Des Moines, Iowa.

Chris Hondros, Jan. 18, 2005 The following is an excerpt written by Chris Hondros about his photograph. The writing was pulled from his laptop recovered after he was killed on assignment in Libya. At six in Tal Afar, it isn't yet quite dark. A gloom hung over the roads and alleys with just a little dark blue light from the sky. No one was out. As we made our way up a broad boulevard, in the distance I could see a car making its way toward us. With all the relentless car bombings in Iraq, groups of soldiers are understandably nervous about any cars that approach them, and they do not allow private cars to breech the perimeter of their foot patrols, particularly at night. 

"We have a car coming," someone called out, as we entered an intersection. We could see the car about a 100 meters down but I doubt if it could see us—it would be hard to see this group of darkly camouflaged men in the gloom. That already gave me a bad feeling about what might conspire, so I moved over to the side of the road, out of anyone's line of fire. The car continued coming; I couldn't see it anymore from my perch but could hear its engine now, a high whine that sounded more like acceleration than slowing down. It was maybe 50 yards away now. "Stop that car!" someone shouted out, seemingly simultaneously with someone firing what sounded like warning shots—a staccato measured burst. The car continued coming. And then perhaps less than a second later a cacophony of fire, shots rattling off in a chaotic overlapping din. The car entered the intersection on its momentum and still shots were penetrating it and slicing it. Finally the shooting stopped, the car drifted listlessly, clearly no longer being steered, and came to a rest on a curb. I stared at it in shocked silence. Soldiers began to approach it warily. The sound of children crying came from the car, and my worst fears were instantly realized. I walked up to the car and a teenaged girl with her head covered emerged from the back, wailing and gesturing wildly. After her came a boy, tumbling onto the ground from the seat, already leaving a pool of blood. "Civilians!" someone shouted, along with a stream of epithets, and soldiers ran up. More children—it ended up being six all told—started emerging, crying, their faces mottled with blood in long streaks. The troops carried them all off to a nearby sidewalk. It was by now almost completely dark. There, working only by lights mounted on ends of their rifles, an Army medic began assessing the children's injuries, running his hands up and down their bodies like he was frisking them, looking for wounds. Incredibly, the only injuries were a girl with a cut hand and a boy with a superficial gash in the small of his back that was bleeding heavily but wasn't life-threatening. The medic immediately began to bind it, while the boy crouched against a wall, his face showing more fear than pain. From the sidewalk I could see into the bullet-mottled windshield more clearly, and even my hardened nerves gave a start—the driver of the car, a man, was penetrated by so many bullets that his skull had collapsed, leaving his body grotesquely disfigured. A woman also lay dead in the front, still covered in her Muslim clothing and harder to see. Body bags were found and soldiers grimly set about placing the two bodies in them. 
 Meanwhile, the children continued to wail and scream, huddled against a wall, sandwiched between soldiers either binding their wounds or trying to comfort them. The Army's translator later told me that this was a Turkoman family and that the teenage girl kept shouting, "Why did they shoot us? We have no weapons! We were just going home!"
 There was a small delay in getting the armored vehicles lined up and ready, and soon the convoy moved to the main Tal Afar hospital. It was fairly large and surprisingly well outfitted, with sober-looking doctors in white coats ambling about its sea-green halls. The young children were carried in by soldiers and by their teenaged sister. Only the boy with the gash on his back needed any further medical attention, and the Army medic and an Iraqi doctor quickly chatted over his prognosis. "Oh, this will be okay," the Iraqi doctor said in broken English, roughly pulling the skin on the edge of the wound, causing the boy to howl. "We will take care of him fine." The unit's captain, Thomas Siebold, was adamant that the children be kept in a waiting room when the body bags, which were waiting outside on gurneys, were brought through the doors to be taken to the morgue. "They've seen enough," he said. "I don't want them seeing any more tonight." I thought of Seibold's office where I'd met up with him earlier, and the picture of his smiling 5-year-old daughter filling the entire desktop of his computer at his desk.

Seamus Murphy, Aug. 2005 This was taken at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas. I went there to photograph the treatment and rehabilitation of military personnel from the war in Iraq. I had arrived in Texas a day early for my appointment at Brooke and driven to the protest by Cindy Sheehan and others outside George Bush's ranch in Crawford, Texas. The anti-war protest had evolved into a very unfunny stand-off between anti-war protesters and supporters for Bush and the war. I was at Brooke the following morning. When I walked in, the atmosphere was charged with a forced positivity generated by the physios and trainers. As a result, the patients were very forthright and I struggled to keep my composure as I found myself shaking their hands which felt like hard rubber, devoid of any sense of flesh or life and staring into lost eyes housed in grotesquely disfigured faces. I got talking with this guy and his mother. I asked them to come into the hallway as I wanted to photograph them in a more neutral environment. The son is reaching out to his mother between shots. At the end she asked me jokingly to do some magic on the computer to erase the flaws in the photographs. Her flaws. What is extraordinary and wonderful to me is that what bothered her was how as a woman she would look in the photograph. She was any woman mindful of her appearance, any mother with her son. She just saw her son beside her, and was simply happy he was home.

Nabil al-Jurani, Sept. 19, 2005 A British soldier makes his way out of a burning Warrior fighting vehicle in Basra, 340 miles southeast of Baghdad. I remember that day. I remember the risk, fear and danger with mixed feelings: "A man burns in front of my eyes, what should I do?” A part of me says, "This is something that I do not care about," but the other part says, "The man is suffering. Go and save him. I feel his pain. Oh my Lord, why did you choose me to witness this? I am too weak for this.” Harder than that, insurgents surrounded me — I had to pretend to be joyful but my heart was breaking. After taking this image, I came to hate fire and I avoid the kitchen. I can't stand seeing my wife cooking. Sadness hung over me for a long time — I hope to one day see the soldier and check on him.

Jehad Nga, Nov. 21, 2005 It was the end of Operation Steel Curtain in 2005 and the Marines were organizing the transfer of hundreds of detainees to be processed. The volume that they were shipping off on any given day bothered me because I had seen that the method for evaluating suspected insurgence in an Area of Operation (AO) was far from full proof. If in doubt, men would be ziptied and flown back to Baghdad to be held for weeks/months for further questioning. I expect that the majority of those men had little to nothing to do with the insurgency that was flourishing in Anbar province at the time.

Peter van Agtmael, June 15, 2006 I was sleeping when I heard an explosion coming from the city of Mosul. I walked over to the motor pool as a column of Strykers rolled in. Some soldiers walked past me, their faces tightly drawn. I joined the next patrol heading into town and was told there had been a suicide bombing. Nine people had been killed and twenty-three wounded in a crowded café during the breakfast hour. The vehicles stopped down the street from the blast site, and we walked down to the gaping hole in the otherwise quiet block. The Abu-Ali restaurant was shattered. The soldiers had stopped by the restaurant many times for chai or a chat with the friendly owner. Now bits of flesh and scorched food, splinters of furniture and crockery choked the floor. The streets were empty except for a few curious bystanders. The patrol moved to the hospital to check on the victims. The owner lay shriveled on one of the beds. His head was swaddled in bandages but for his nose and lips, which were caked in dried blood. He did not survive the day.

Nina Berman, Oct. 7, 2006 Tyler Ziegel and Renee Kline were young sweethearts when Ziegel deployed to Iraq as a reservist in the Marine Corps. On his second tour, he was severely wounded in a suicide car blast. He spent 18 months in surgery and recovery at Brooke Army Medical Center. The love of his family and his fiancée, Ms. Kline, helped him to survive. I had been photographing the couple over several months. On October 7, 2006, the morning of their wedding, I made this image. Through my eyes at that moment, I saw a shell-shocked couple and the heavy legacy of war. They divorced several months later. On December 26, 2012, Ziegel, whose health was always precarious because of his war injuries, slipped on ice, hit his head, and died. He was 30 years old.

Christoph Bangert, Dec. 21, 2006 In late 2006 dozens of bodies were found all over Baghdad each morning. Most of the dead were victims of sectarian violence between Sunnis and Shiites, others had been kidnapped by criminal gangs for ransom. This man was found on a pile of trash just outside of Baghdad’s Ghazaliya neighborhood with his hands bound behind his back.

John Moore, May 27, 2007 After spending four years returning to Iraq to cover the war, I thought I should pay a visit to Arlington National Cemetery one Memorial Day weekend in 2007. I felt I owed it some time. I walked through the graves of Section 60, the newest part of the sprawling cemetery. I came across Mary McHugh, who was visiting the grave of her slain fiance James Regan, a U.S. Army Ranger who had been killed by an IED earlier in the year. I spoke with her briefly — her Jimmy and I had worked, with different missions, in some of the same difficult places in Iraq. Later, when I passed by again, she was lying on the grass over her sweetheart's grave, caressing the cold marble and speaking softly into the stone, as if with so much more to say. I made a few frames and moved on my way. I felt then, and do now, that I owed that cemetery some time. Maybe we all do.

Danfung Dennis, July 4, 2007 In 2007, the fighting in Baghdad had shifted to the surrounding provinces, so US forces launched a major offensive on the city of Baquba in Diyala province. I was embedded in the 2nd Infantry Division as they cleared the city. Many houses had been booby trapped with explosives by insurgents, making movement dangerous and difficult. To gain information on the location of bombs, US soldiers spent time speaking with local residents. A women told the soldiers of a house that had been used by insurgents. We went to investigate. As we entered the house the soldier in front of me lifted up the carpet in the living room. There were wires snaking everywhere. A call from further down the hall warned us that the bomb dog had found a massive amount of explosives in the back. The solider said calmly, "Get out," then screamed, "Get out!" We rushed out and an airstrike was called in to destroy the house. Reflecting back, I was moments away from stepping on a booby trapped carpet that would have triggered a devastating blast. Nine US soliders were killed in a similar trap nearby.

Namir Noor-Eldin and Saeed Chmagh, killed by U.S. Forces July 12, 2007 In a country that had already lost too many journalists, Namir Noor-Eldin's passing is still remembered among the photographic fraternity there. He was a kind and modest young man, with a great eye. I remember him as a good technical photographer. He thought about pictures, you could tell in the composition. The first image he sent me was of American troops hemmed in on their Humvee, surrounded by a flock of sheep. One of the soldiers got out to give the animals some water from his canteen. It was little moments like this that made Namir a photographer's photographer. I'm still disgusted about the way in which he and our fearless yet gentle driver Saeed Chmagh died, gunned down by an Apache helicopter crewman who cynically opened fire on them as if he was playing Call of Duty. I still cannot watch the leaked gun camera video, let alone listen to it. We all lost on that day. —Chris Helgren, Reuters Chief Photographer, Iraq, March 2003 - December 2004 Saeed Chmagh (driver, camera assistant and father of four children) was a soft spoken man who was always ready to take a photographer anywhere in Iraq. He was a brave and devout Shiite Muslim and always wore black. He died beside Namir, a Sunni Muslim, as he tried to help Namir while being hit by a volley of fire from an Apache helicopter. He could have stayed in his car and just waited but he opted to be with Namir. —Erik De Castro, Reuters Chief Photographer, Iraq, Nov. 2005 - March 2009

Benjamin Lowy, Aug. 1, 2007 I made this picture in 2007 in a small rural farming community about 30 miles south of Baghdad. It was a dangerous time in Iraq, at the height of the Sunni/Shia sectarian war that pitted civilians again militias against soldiers. This man was a mechanic, asleep on the floor of his shop. I was with several platoons of American soldiers on a late night raid into the Sunni hinterlands. Everyone was equipped with night vision goggles as we hiked 5K into this farming community to avoid IED exposure. Our "guides" - newly minted Sunni informants - preceded to ID anyone who might be sympathetic to AQI, or involved in terrorism. And they pointed out a lot of people that night. They had to prove themselves, their usefulness, and the money they were paid didn't hurt either. So with no other viable information, the US military arrested these men on the word of these former fighters. This man was woken at gunpoint by a squad of soldiers and two informants yelling Arabic at him. We were in complete darkness, there wasn't a single star visible in the sky, I can only image his terror as disembodied voices in the dark berated him, accused him, and finally ziptied him, arrested him, and took him away into the night. I never found out what happened to him.

Adem Hadei, Sept. 16, 2007 I remember this picture. An Iraqi mother was going with her only son to the first day of school. Her dream was to see her son in a graduation ceremony. Instead, she took her son to the morgue after he was shot. I will never forget that day, will never forget the screams – “my son is still alive — he opens his eyes, see!” I will never forget my tears. Whenever I hug my son, I remember this picture. When I returned to the house, my wife saw it and entered into a long bout crying. We sat weeping, the two of us. I can never forget this image. After this picture, I feel changed. No longer are there colors in my dreams. I began sitting in the dark, to live in darkness. My life became darkness within darkness.

Franco Pagetti, Sept. 28, 2007 I arrived in Baghdad for the first time three months before the American bombs fell on March 19, 2003. From 2004 to 2008, I was one of the few western journalists working in Iraq as part of TIME’s small team of writers, photographers, and most importantly, a staff of Iraqis who risked their lives by coming to work every day, supporting us in every way possible. Years before, I gave up fashion photography to become a photojournalist because I wanted my photographs to make a difference. I believe strongly that it is important to show the effects of war honestly. It took more than a year before I went to Samarra in 2007, embedded with the American military, and then I was finally able to take pictures of the damaged mosque. For photographers, there were many obstacles to covering this war– but we always found ways to get around them. It is my hope that our pictures will be a lasting record that will help us remember always.

Evan Vucci, Dec. 14, 2008 An Iraqi man throws a shoe at President George W. Bush during a new conference with Iraq Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki in Baghdad. He started the screaming right behind me. For some reason I just assumed the worst — a suicide bomber was going to kill us. I turned and got off one frame of him rearing back to throw. At the end of the day I was heartbroken — I missed the photo of President Bush ducking a shoe. Instead, what I managed to capture was the frustration of many Iraqis over the violence, bloodshed, and chaos play out in a singular act of defiance. Muntadhar al-Zaidi stood up for what he believed was right with the only thing he had — a pair of shoes.

Farah Nosh, March 4, 2009 I’ve listened to Iraqis share their tragedies over the years. “This is freedom?” is the ongoing Iraqi dark humor. I met Rena a year after she was hit by an American airstrike. She was eight months pregnant and walking hand in hand with her young sister in Sadr city in 2008. American forces were on a mission to 'clean up' Shiite militias. In an instant, Rena lost her left leg, her unborn infant, and her youngest sister. And in the same instant, much like the country itself, she became imprisoned by sadness. In my days with Rena, as much as we cried together, we laughed. Her longing to laugh and her surprising sense of humor filled me with humility. Exhausted by trauma and sadness, there was an innate strength and desire to move forward towards something better. Repeatedly lost with shattered expectations, hope is something that Iraqis have exhausted themselves in holding. Eventually Iraq’s violence would grow its own tired face, and like Iraq, Rena had to find a way to cope: through triumph. When you find lightness and humor, you find your way back.

Dusan Vranic, March 16, 2009 I was watching the light — and the day — slipping away from me as I flew to Camp Bucca, a U.S. military prison in southern Iraq. Bad light and military censorship; the day, I feared, would be a waste. By the time I got through the required briefing and finally commenced the prison tour my mood was as gray as the light. As night fell, my frustration at its heights, I happened upon an area of the camp whose centerpiece was a pathway for guards with prisoner tents on either side. At the end of the path I spotted detainees, in perfect formation, praying in front of a guard tower. All I had to do was to stop at the right place; a scene rife with symbolism, in prefect composition and contrast, presented itself before my lens. It was a breathtaking moment that will stay with me forever.