The Washington Post , BAGHDAD, Oct. 27 — The din of destruction filled the streets of the working-class neighborhood of Shaab. Sirens of ambulances carrying the dead and wounded wailed past barbed wire, glass shoveled from gutted shops clanged on sidewalks smeared with blood, helicopter rotors beat against the air, and cries of despair erupted from confused crowds trapped between war and peace.
“This is the work of bin Laden!” one man shouted to no one in particular.
A teenager glared at a U.S. soldier passing him. “Where were you, mister?” he asked in Arabic. The soldier, not understanding, looked straight ahead.
Another man, his face red and his eyes swollen, ran toward the neighborhood's police station, which at 8:55 a.m. had been devastated by a bomb packed in a white Land Cruiser. “Where's my brother? Where's my brother?” he screamed, before a crowd pulled him back from nervous-looking troops.
On the first day of Ramadan, Islam's most sacred month that once marked a time of truce, Baghdad's residents awoke Monday to a city reeling from destruction visited more heavily on Iraqis than on their occupiers. In neighborhood after neighborhood — from Shaab in the north to Bayaa in the south — 45 minutes of carnage unleashed sentiments festering for seven months of invasion, war and then occupation. The refrain was familiar: confusion, anger, helplessness in a city whose destiny seems in others' hands.
“God will not accept this!” cried Huda Abdel-Jabbar, standing in front of her apartment. “This is forbidden!”
Crowds of young men, held at bay by U.S. soldiers who set up a barbed-wire perimeter around the Shaab police station, looked for targets on which to vent their anger over the bloodshed. One crowd beat a Washington Post editorial assistant and chased another journalist down the street with knives and sticks. Others, more reflective, tried to answer questions that were mundane and unanswerable.
“Who will pay for this? Who will help us repair it?” asked Abdel-Jabbar's son, Ihab, as he stood in front of his apartment, its windows gone and its furniture stacked against the walls. “We cannot rebuild our house. We have no money.”
His neighborhood of Shaab, on Baghdad's outskirts, was the scene of one of the worst losses of civilian life during the war. Two bombs fell along another street on March 26, killing 14 people. The devastation Monday was reminiscent of that day, as were the scenes that followed. Vendors in fabric stores and music shops shoveled glass with pieces of cardboard. Others stared blankly from their shop entrances. Windows were shattered as far as 100 yards from the blast site. Blood soaked the trash-strewn ground.
Along a four-lane street, store signs hung askew from the concrete facades of buildings; shards of plaster and concrete dangled from the roofs.
The scenes were repeated across the weary capital, at three police stations and the headquarters of the International Committee of the Red Cross, all of which were bombed Monday.
“Look at this, look at what's happening,” said Jamil Abu Heidar, pointing at the snarled rail of a fence that guarded the Bayaa police station. The rail had been hurled into the street 50 yards away. “Anybody can bomb these places. They can do anything they want.”
In the neighborhood of Khadra, Ibrahim Mohammed stood with fellow store owners down the street from another devastated police station. They sat in plastic chairs, with nothing to do. Angry and bewildered, Mohammed's words tumbled out. If the attackers are fighting U.S. forces, why would they target Iraqis and the police trying to protect them?
“It's Ramadan!” he said. “Why are they doing this? It's forbidden. Ramadan is blessed.”
Another store owner, Raymond Touma, shook his head. “The people are helpless,” he said.
In the lunar calendar of Islam, Ramadan is the ninth month, its name taken from the Arabic for “great heat.” It signifies a time of sacrifice that leads to renewal and strength, the daily fast helping the faithful understand the suffering of the hungry. While solemn, the month is marked by festivities across the Muslim world — not unlike Christmas season for Christians.
The first day was a brutal one in Baghdad. Through the morning of an unseasonably warm day, the bombings snarled traffic along bridges and at intersections. On one street, mourners carried a coffin draped in black. At the traffic circle on Ras Hawash Street, Ahmed Ali, a taxi driver, surveyed the scene in disgust. His city was fraying, he said, its people losing their way.
“There was a man bringing discipline, and now he's disappeared,” he said. “No one fired even a bullet in Saddam's time.”
Next to him, at a standstill in traffic, a frustrated bus driver leaned out his window.
“The money's not worth it,” he shouted. “I'm going home.”
Across Baghdad, knots of people argued over who was responsible, the very debate a hint of the anxiety the bombings have created. During the war, President Saddam Hussein's government was on one side, U.S. forces on the other. Today, the battle lines are shrouded in rumor.
Many pointed fingers at Hussein and foreign militants who support him. But in a capital renowned for conspiracy theories bred by powerlessness, others cast the net wide — Syrians, Saudis, Iranians, al Qaeda, Israelis and, on occasion, the Americans themselves.
“Maybe the Kuwaitis,” said Hashim Samarai, a 56-year-old retiree standing in a grocery store whose wall was cracked by the blast in Bayaa. “Why them? Revenge. They want revenge from us for the invasion.”
The store owner, Mundhir Ahmed, shook his head.
“I think the biggest possibility is the Americans, maybe with the Israelis,” he said.
In Shaab, Rashid Shuweili blamed Hussein and foreigners loyal to Osama bin Laden for the blasts. But he insisted the Americans shared blame. As long as they were present, he said, those who worked with them would be viewed as collaborators, making them targets for opponents of the occupation. To them, he said, anyone working with an infidel becomes an infidel.
“If the Americans leave the streets, there would be no problem here,” he said. “They just give the resistance an excuse.”
At Noman Hospital, where many of the wounded from Shaab were taken, Thamer Abdullah, a 31-year-old police officer, lay in his bed. His face was bloodied, one eye swollen shut. “God save me!” he screamed. “God save me!”
His mother, Shafa, was angry and suspicious. A day before, the Americans had opened the road the bomber used to attack. Why? she asked. Why were no Americans killed in the bombing in Shaab?
“Why are the Americans coming here? Why?” she asked. “They should protect us.”
Shihab Sadeq, a bandage covering 10 fresh stitches in the back of his head, jumped up from his bed and approached her. “I saw an American hurt with my own eyes,” he said. “He was bleeding from his mouth.”
She was unconvinced. “Damn the Americans,” she said.
Down the hall, Walid Ibrahim lay in his bed. An interpreter for U.S. forces, he had accompanied two soldiers inside one of the police stations minutes before it was bombed. Around his head was a bandage, part of it soaked in blood. He had no blame, only remorse.
“Why do this? It's useless,” he said. “Innocent people are dying in vain.”
He adjusted his bandage below his lip and looked toward the ceiling. “It's all up to God,” he said. “Only God will help us.”
By late afternoon, Baghdad's streets had emptied as families went home to prepare for breaking the fast. In the lull, the city again took on the veneer it has displayed so many times in the past — a resilience born of hardship. Fruit vendors and nut sellers served their last customers. Young boys pushed wooden carts laden with bread still warm. Butchers displayed their wares of sheep heads.
At about 5 p.m., men sat down at the Moawad Restaurant, waiting for the symbolic firing of the cannon that marks the end of the fast and the call to prayer that follows. Before the men were the plates that awaited: dates, pickles and zlabiya, a honeyed pastry. Ahmed Jaber, 68, played with his yellow worry beads and bided his time. Even after a day like Monday, he was reluctant to despair.
“Today there were explosions,” he said. “God willing, there won't be tomorrow.”
