It was the first time I had driven into the Triangle of Death without being embedded with a military force in four years. Even for most Iraqis, venturing into the lush farmlands where al-Qaeda and their Sunni allies fought Shia death squads, inventing ever more horrific ways of killing whomever they could get their hands on, had been just too dangerous.

Our local Iraqi driver said that it was now safe enough for us to go to a village where no Western journalists had been since the flood of killing earned the area its grisly nickname.

We drove south out of Baghdad in an unarmoured car to keep as low a profile as possible. The southern suburbs of Baghdad are now encased in concrete blast walls to stop the slaughter, and are invisible from the highway — which is itself dotted with military roadblocks. Nobody seemed to notice us in the back of the vehicle, which was a relief: you still can't quite bring yourself to trust any armed men in Iraq.

The village of Jabala was very quiet. The Shia family we had arranged to meet took us into their walled compound and we spoke for an hour with them; then, when the coast was clear, we hurried across the road to speak to the Sunnis. As they talked, we realised that the situation was far less safe than we had imagined. We declined offers of lunch and got out as soon as we could.

Driving back through the deserted country roads and palm groves in the late afternoon was an eerie experience, knowing how many people had been killed there, and that many of the killers were still out there.

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