A Decade of War in Iraq: The Images That Moved Them Most Read more: http:/

[Abingdonboy]

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 Café 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Marine’s 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.

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