Sunday, July 06, 2003

When I see stories like this:

At the cemetery on the edge of the town, where Fallujah dissipates into desert, 11 small mounds of earth have been dug, awaiting proper headstones. The children have been buried together rather than in family plots. Saad Ibrahim whose father, Hussein, was killed in the corner shop he kept, has a few caustic questions for the tank-buster's pilot: 'I want to ask him: what exactly did you see that day that you had to kill my father and those kids? Do you have good eyesight? Is your computer working well? If not... well, that's your business. But there was no military activity in this area. There was no shooting. This is not a military camp. These are houses with children playing in the street.'

...and stories like this:

'The lights were on inside the bus,' remembers Sajed, 'and there was some shouting, American shouting. There was silence for a while, then a noise which made me think I would go deaf. The bus jumped like an animal being killed. Next day, the Americans came and buried the bodies of all the people, and the morning after that they came back and burned the bus.'

Rahad Klader, 30, who saw the incident from his window, recounts that after the tank had fired and the bus exploded, the Americans came up to the vehicle and emptied their machine-guns into whoever had survived. Ammunition strewn around the wreck is, indeed, American - not Iraqi, which would have given the tank some reason to suspect military activity aboard the bus.

...from the guardian.co.uk today, stories of horror generated by this war, the question of why we went into this war, becomes that much more important.