So I decided to do what war photographers do—photograph war.


Back home, the battlefield looks very different. There are no armored convoys, no dusty sandbagged bases. There is no more
Iraqi desert, no more Afghan scrub. Instead there are American living rooms, bedrooms, backyards and garages. These are the places where our military men and women now are dying. The images of this
war haunt you, not because they are shocking, but because they aren’t. 

 

Over the course of a week earlier this year, I traveled over 5,500 miles and visited five families struggling with the aftermath of suicides. These mothers, wives, children and friends opened up their homes to me. In the wake of their tragedies I saw the remnants of war. In one, a suicide note written in a notebook to be found later. In another, a hole in the ceiling left by the fatal bullet. In all, the scars of wounds that haven’t yet healed.