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31 Jan 09
smiljana lazicTIME's former bureau chief finds Iraq's capital has changed in many ways, mostly for the better. But the gains are fragile
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06 Apr 08
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The Baghdadis caught between these extremes know that the only thing standing in the way of another sectarian conflagration is the U.S. military. This may explain why every Iraqi who offers me a view on American politics seems to be praying for a McCain victory. A 100-year American military presence, of which McCain once spoke, may seem a bit much; I suspect most Iraqis would be happy with five.
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in the Jadriyah district, we get four to six hours of electricity a day, up from just two hours.
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Many are former insurgents who are happy to accept salaries ($300 per month, paid by the U.S., not the Iraqi government)
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from the men they once hoped to kill.
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Now, says Ali al-Dabbagh, spokesman for the government of Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki, all the credit for the decline in violence is going to the U.S. military: "People think the Americans are like Superman, who can do anything."
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. But colleagues recently embedded with U.S. troops in Baghdad tell stories of soldiers being received with smiles and waves, even cups of tea. Driving through the city,
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Driving into Baghdad from the airport, I see other changes. In commercial districts, more shops and businesses are open than there were a year ago. Shoppers are taking the time to haggle with vegetable vendors--a contrast to the furtive, hurried transactions I remember. There are no queues at the gas stations. Baghdad even sounds different. In my first two days, I hear no explosions or gunfire. At the TIME bureau in the Jadriyah district, we get four to six hours of electricity a day, up from just two hours. This means there are long spells when you can hear the sounds of the city--traffic, the calls to prayer--instead of the constant roar of generators.
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I had been skeptical about the military's claim that its troops were being treated as friends and confidants in once hostile neighborhoods--it sounded too much like the promises of Iraqis' greeting coalition forces with sweets and songs after the fall of Saddam Hussein. But colleagues recently embedded with U.S. troops in Baghdad tell stories of soldiers being received with smiles and waves, even cups of tea. Driving through the city, I watch Iraqis react when an American convoy rumbles past: not many smiles and waves, but there's certainly much less scowling and cursing. Inevitably, though, the success of the surge is creating a culture of dependence on American troops. Madeeha Hasan Odhaib, a neighborhood councilor who works with displaced and homeless Iraqis, tells me about the aftermath of a recent suicide bombing. When the Iraqi security forces arrived on the scene, the families of the victims snubbed them. "They said, 'We'll wait to talk to the Americans, because they are the ones really in charge here,'" says Odhaib. The families figured they'd have a better chance of getting compensation from the U.S. than from the Iraqi bureaucracy.
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"Right now, the Americans want us to fight against al-Qaeda, and that's fine. But we know the real fight will be in the future, with the Mahdi Army. We are getting ready for it."
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This may explain why every Iraqi who offers me a view on American politics seems to be praying for a McCain victory
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