SINJAR, Iraq—Evil doesn’t always reveal itself through goose-stepping armies or skyscrapers collapsing on a clear autumn day.
Sometimes, it’s only a sun-bleached bone in a field.
This was the place the old peshmerga colonel wanted to show me. It wasn’t anything special by the look of it. Certainly, this plot of brown grass on a hillside in northern Iraq was less impressive than Sinjar’s endless rows of pulverized buildings, blasted to bits by Islamic State bombs and U.S. airstrikes.
