Once again, I find their cries amplified into my head and my heart is trying to claw its way out of my mouth. Their blood was no longer in their veins, and had streamed down into the nearest puddle of overflowing sewage. Their murderers now come at night, creeping up the dark alleys, adjusting the straps around their chests ready for launch. Their breaths rise, against the number of seconds left to breathe for Abu Omar, the café's waiter, Um Najat, the corner shop owner, Salman, a student who went to do his homework with his friend, Abulwahid, the neighbourhood's senior counting hid praying beads outside his house door, Sahar, the bride to be who was trying on a wedding dress at the neighbourhood's shopping area, Yaseen, a 5-week-old newborn resting in his mother's arms in the foyer of a church, Mahmood, a mechanic who was doing a favour to his cousin who had a flat tyre in Shaab quarter, Abbas, a chain smoker who'd just had a fight with his wife over moving out of Sadr City into a safer neighbourhood, Um fadhil, a late night chit chatter who had urgent news to tell Um Sabah, Karzan, he's just finished school and was heading towards the sands to play football, Rana, the teenager with the weakest heart when it comes to love, and was hoping her crush was outside to share a smile with, Dawood, he just gave up on finding a job, Mohammed, he was trying to help Dawood find a job, Qasim, a split second before his flesh flew into pieces, was strolling down the street, wondering, if he should sell the house, take his family and leave Iraq.

You decide, how much of the above was fiction.