IRAQ. Mosul. 2006. I was sleeping in a nearby Army base when the echo of an explosion from Mosul startled me
awake. I walked over to the motor pool as a column of Stryker armored vehicles rolled in. A
few men hurried 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 Strykers stopped down the street
from the blast site, and we walked to the gaping hole in the block of buildings. The soldiers had
stopped by the Abu-Ali restaurant many times for sugary tea 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. Ali, the owner, lay on one of the beds. Only his nose and lips were visible
beneath the bandages, and they were caked in dried blood. He did not survive the day.