Baghdad diary: Morning after

The latest entry in BBC Baghdad correspondent Andrew North's fortnightly diary was written a day after the death sentence handed to Saddam Hussein.

BRIEF OUTBURST OF JOY

There are a lot of tired faces around the office, after a long weekend of broadcasting. It was one of the landmark moments since the invasion.

Weapons were at the ready for the verdict, but celebrations were hollow

But there is no sense of that now.

While the world outside is still excited about the verdict on the former Iraqi leader and we field relentless calls from London for more coverage, here in Baghdad it feels more like a collective depression has set in.

There are no more celebrations - even in Sadr City, that bastion of anti-Saddam feeling. The main concern is getting provisions in, with the curfew in force for a second day. The water has stopped working again - in those areas that have it.

Several big thumping bangs have shaken the city, rattling our windows. US warplanes have been roaring overhead.

The cold hard reality of Iraq three-and-a-half years since the US and British invasion has quickly re-asserted itself.

One moment will stay in my memory. I was broadcasting live from the roof of our office. We already knew Saddam Hussein had been sentenced to death and had reported it.

But no one outside had seen the moment on television - because the court releases the footage on a 20-minute delay.

The presenter in London told me the pictures were coming up. "Let's watch".

Iraqi television channels were receiving them at the same time. I heard the familiar voice of the judge, then Saddam Hussein: "Long live the people, down with the traitors, down with the invaders, Allahu Akbar, God is great."

From our roof, I watched a man in a striped orange shirt enthusiastically pump rounds into the air. Soon the sound of gunfire echoed around us

Within seconds, it began. Bang, crack, bang, crack.

Some people must have had their Kalashnikovs ready in their hands.

From our roof, I watched a man in a striped orange shirt enthusiastically pumping rounds into the air with his AK. Another man joined him. Soon, the sound of gunfire was echoing around us.

We moved our broadcasting point under cover and got flak jackets on. You never know where all that flying metal will land.

But 20 minutes later, we were back in our normal spot. And although many people poured on to the streets in Sadr City and other Shia areas of the country, the jubilation didn't last long.

I remember being in Sadr City in April 2003 - or Saddam City as it then still was - two days after his statue was pulled down and the celebratory gunfire was still going on through the night.

SOMBRE MOOD

There were clues to the mood beforehand.

We toured some cafes and restaurants last weekend, to gather material for pieces to preview the verdict.

"No question he should be executed," said Baghdad university professor Jawad Ali. "He's already executed a quarter of the Iraqi people."

But he added: "The case has nothing to do with now. It won't make any difference."

It is not safe to go out, but nor do people want to stay at home all day

He was sitting with his family eating ice-cream under a yellow awning. It wasn't safe being out, he said, but they couldn't stay at home all the time.

At the next cafe we come to, a tough-looking businessman puffing on a water pipe told me the trial had made the former leader a hero.

"Every time we see Saddam Hussein on television, we want him back. If you had a vote, most Iraqis would say that now."

Wishful thinking, I thought, from a man who didn't appear to have suffered much under the old regime.

He paused to suck on his pipe, then said calmly: "Saddam killed some of my relatives too. But we had security then."

As we were leaving, an older man came up to me. He'd been listening to our conversation.

"Listen," he said, "all the politicians in Iraq now are not worth one of Saddam Hussein's shoes."

Memories of life under his regime are short it seems. But they've been made so by the violent chaos of today and every sign things will get worse.

LIVING ON HOPE

We drove down the road and our eyes were drawn to a very new-looking, brightly lit restaurant with a big glass-fronted atrium.

It shouts of courage and defiance.

But it also looks like a prime target. So I won't name the place or say where it is.

There was a mix of Arabic and Western food on the menu. One fairly wealthy-looking family was tucking into pizza, while at the next table a woman and her brother and father were choosing from a spread of tabouleh, hummos, salads and shish tawook - grilled chicken pieces.

When I'm at home and the telephone rings, every time I think: 'That's a bomb at my restaurant' Baghdad restaurant owner

"Yes," the owner admitted, "My friends say I'm crazy to put my money into this restaurant now." He only opened it seven months ago.

"No, it's not safe here," the woman agrees, gesturing out of the big windows to the street outside.

"But we can't stay at home all the time. What can you do?" she says mournfully, picking at her food.

"I'm afraid for my family all the time," the owner told me. "When I'm at home and the telephone rings, every time I think: 'That's a bomb at my restaurant'."

But he turned the conversation to me: "What are you doing here? You should take care of yourself."

Everyone is living on hope, that it won't be their turn next.

"When Saddam went, we lost security," the owner went on. "We had many problems then and we have more freedom now. But if you lose security, freedom isn't worth much."

But you know, this is my country. I can't leave."

"I hope you come back to my restaurant", he said as we were leaving.

"We do takeaway. Here, have one of our menus."

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