In much of the country, the anarchy and looting also called forth its opposite — the remarkable solidarity and volunteer spirit among ordinary Iraqis eager to restore security and normalcy. Civilian volunteers direct traffic in a city with no traffic lights or rules. They protect their neighborhoods from looters and thieves, and have even used files found in the former security facilities to establish a database of Saddam's victims.
The spectacle of an American tank waiting patiently in the same "izdiham" as Iraqi cars is a reminder that Iraq is nominally occupied, and should therefore be neither anarchic nor chaotic. If the angry protests staged daily in front of the Palestine and Sheraton hotels where the media are staying are any indication, Iraqis are demanding their freedom from a brutal imperialist occupation — although clearly not sufficiently brutal to suppress the demonstrations themselves, which a mere month ago would have been greeted with machine gun fire.
Many Iraqis might actually prefer an occupation, imperialist or otherwise, to the anarchy that prevails today. Ask an Iraqi to list their desires, and the first answer is always safety and security. Some call for an immediate evacuation of U.S. and British troops; others ask that Iraq be made the fifty-first state; and some demand both in the same breath. Most long only for a place in the shade and a future better than their past, but their pride as an ancient, wise and strong people should not be underestimated.
In much of the country, tributaries of the Euphrates run through villages that knew little of Saddam's regime or of the Americans, or at least they seem to care little. They live much as their ancestors did five thousand years ago, in the fertile alluvial plains between the two rivers of Iraq, irrigating their fields beneath palm trees, washing their clothes in the river, and drifting on it in canoes, tossing large fishing nets, living at a pace that appears to have been uninterrupted since civilization began here.
Now, Urban Iraqis, also, are finally getting an opportunity to return to, or discover, normal life. Cautiously at first, and then in a deluge of bustling crowds — a human "izdiham" — Iraqis have returned to the streets and opened their shops and restaurants. There is certainly no shortage of food in much of Iraq, and in the streets of Najaf, the yellow humanitarian daily rations packages provided by the U.S. sell for 50 cents a piece. Of their contents, Iraqis appear to like only the raisins.
On Baghdad's Outer Karada street, immense satellite dishes sell like bread — as the Arabic expression goes — demonstrating a hunger for information that has also prompted a booming market for local and international newspapers. Baghdad may be the world's only city of more than 5 million inhabitants without a cellular phone system, but that will come soon — and every household that can afford them is sure to have several. For now, Iraqis desperate to tell family and friends that they are safe must plead with journalists for a few minutes on their satellite phones, or pay $10 a minute to the local entrepreneurs out to exploit their desire to communicate.
For those seeking a wider audience, however, the most accessible form of public communication is graffiti. The new political parties and organizations that appear every day announce their birth and proclaim their intentions on blank walls.
Baghdad's street markets offer everything from guns to plugs. A bookstall on Mutanabi Street carries a Hebrew-Arabic dictionary alongside volumes of Thomas Hardy, classical Arabic poetry and medical textbooks. Also selling like bread are DVDs of a documentary called "Saddam's Crimes." The street markets are also a good place to buy gasoline — the dealer sticks a hose in his can, takes a quick suck on the other end to start the flow, and hastily plugs that end into the buyer's can. Going to the gas station could mean an all-day wait.
One group of Iraqis remains virtually invisible amid the throngs celebrating their new freedom — women, who outnumber men in Iraq by as much as a million and a half. In the three weeks I have been here, I have met with hundreds of Iraqi men, but the only woman I have spoken to is the maid who knocks on my door to clean the room. I have started to avoid looking at women or walking too close to them, for fear of arousing the ire of their male guardians. Among the Shiites, in particular, it seems that Arab tribal mores have combined with religious conservatism to keep women socially imprisoned, more reminiscent of their status behind the Taliban's burkas than the situation in Shiite-ruled Iran, where women enjoy far more participation and liberty. There is a great danger right now that any future government may exclude this silenced majority.
Veiled like its women is the beauty of Baghdad, a sprawling city of diverse architecture and neighborhoods, both modern and ancient, dissected by ancient waterways. The legendary pride and sophistication of Baghdadis created an Arabic word, "titbaghdada," used to imply snobbishness. But today, Baghdad is neglected. There is no sanitation and there are no garbage cans on the street, so waste is tossed generously throughout. The entire city is coated with a sandy yellowish film, deposited by dust storms and left unwashed. The most vivid color comes from the brilliant red sunsets that shimmer on the water and the mosque domes.
Today most of the fires that blazed when I first arrived are out, and there are far fewer explosions and gun battles to be heard at night — the only sound that awakens me now is the morning calling of the birds. Away from the political turmoil of the threatening sheikhs of violence and fundamentalism, on the streets of Baghdad and looking out from my hotel balcony, I no longer know that I am in a country that was at war.