This is not the view from a Marine base. These photographers were on the streets of Baghdad when it fell, amid a crowd of civilians under aerial attack, and in the holy Imam Ali shrine with the Mahdi Army during the siege of Najaf. Their images document issues often underrepresented: the insurgency as seen from inside the separate resistance movements, civilians affected by the battles between U.S. and insurgent forces, growing conservatism and fundamentalism and their effects on women, and the devastating effects of ongoing civilian casualties.
Working outside the U.S. military’s official “embedding” program, the authors bring us face-to-face with the people of Iraq. They combine photographs and essays with excerpts from two years of personal letters, journal entries, and feature stories to take us across front lines and cultural barriers into the lives of a nation in crisis. Theirs is a path to understanding the cost of war.
From Unembedded: Four Photos, Four Photojournalists
These photos appear in Unembedded: Four Independent Journalists on the War in Iraq. Unembedded bears witness to the enduring power of independent journalism. In their unflinching look at war-ravaged Iraq, four freelance photojournalists show that life there is brutal yet poignant; that compassion co-exists with anger, hatred, and fear.
August 21, 2004
During the battle between U.S. forces and the Mahdi Army militia for control of the holy city of Najaf, civilians were once again caught in the crossfire between U.S. forces and Iraqi insurgents. While many families fled the city at the start of the fighting, others stayed and found themselves trapped as the cordon of U.S. trips tightened around the old city. At the heart of the ancient city among the twisting alleyways was the shrine of Imam Ali, the holiest site in Shia Islam, which the Mahdi Army was claiming to defend. With heavy bombardments during the night and small arms fire and lighter bombing during the day, those civilians left stranded in the city lived in constant fear. During a lull in the gunfire, this man decided to risk an 11th-hour escape. He raised one arm toward sniper positions and held his screaming child in the other, walking across the front lines on a main avenue to escape the final hours of the battle.
September 12, 2004
When I arrived at Haifa Street I was told that an American vehicle had been attacked earlier in the day. The American soldiers had been evacuated, but a crowd had gathered around their burning armored vehicle. Suddenly, there were two big explosions from an American helicopter attack and people started running toward me in waves as I ran up to the burning vehicle. A dozen men formed a circle around five injured people lying in the street, all of whom were screaming and wailing. I had been standing there taking pictures for two or three minutes when we heard the helicopters coming back. Everyone started running, and I didn't look back to see what was happening to the injured men. I had just reached the corner of a concrete cigarette stall when I heard two more explosions. I felt hot air blast my face and something burning on my head. Six of us squeezed into a space behind the stall less than seven feet wide. Blood started dripping on my camera and all that I could think about was how to keep the lens clean. A man in his forties next to me was crying. He wasn't injured, he was just crying. The helicopters wheeled overhead, and I realized that they were firing directly at us. I wanted to be invisible; I wanted to hide under the others.
April 15, 2004
Patients at Baghdad's Rashad Psychiatric Hospital had few activities to occupy them. One was watching television, which included the Coalition Provisional Authority's daily live broadcasts and updates to the press. On this day, General Richard Myers, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was fielding questions on how he proposed to address the rising insurgency, especially Muktada al-Sadr's Mahdi Army. Myers underplayed the threat of the insurgents. A few months later, the hospital grounds would shake from nearby bombs, and mortars would land in its courtyard as Coalition Forces fought the Mahdi Army right outside the hospital gates.
September 23, 2003
Falluja is in ruins now, but bitter seeds were sown there from the earliest days of American occupation. In September 2003, I heard about an American air strike on a village in the Falluja area. I visited the village and found a family from the Jumaili tribe in distress. Three members of the family had been killed in their home during the night. Some neighbors then took me to the Falluja hospital where family members crowded into the room of nine-year-old Hussein Ali Al-Jumaili. A doctor raised an X-ray to explain his injuries to the family and I photographed Hussein and his sister through the image of his fractured skull. Within a week after this incident, six more members of the Jumaili family--including two women and a one-year-old child--were killed by American forces in two additional incidents.
Publisher: Chelsea Green
Paperback : 192 pages
Dimensions: 9.8 x 9.8 x 0.4 inches