Rows and rows of fresh graves fill the football stadium in Falluja. Many of them are smaller than others. My translator Nermim reads the gravestones to me: "This one is a little girl." We take another step. "And this one is her sister. Next to them is their mother."

We walk slowly under the scorching sun along dusty rows of humble headstones. She continues reading them aloud to me: "Old man wearing jacket with black dishdasha, near industrial center. He has a key in his hand." Many of the bodies were buried before they could be identified. Tears are welling up in my eyes as she quietly reads: "Man wearing red track suit." She points to another row, "Three women killed in car leaving city by American missile."

...

One of the men, who speaks English, says, "I saw American snipers shoot a woman on her roof while she was hanging her clothes. This was during their cease fire."

...

Another man points to the mosque and says, "Marines entered this mosque before they bombed it and slit the throats of refugees. This is their democracy? This is their freedom?"