An Uncertain Dawn On a Scarred Street

"It was a scene that was hard to describe, as if the Iraqis were beggars standing in line in a humiliating way," she wrote. "During the dispensing of the water bottles, the American woman soldier gave a camera to the translator to take a few pictures."

By nightfall, the dead were buried, carried to their graves in funeral processions.

"Women were crying," Amal wrote, "and many people with grief on their face seemed bewildered and unable to understand why so many people have to die."

Coping With Hardship

Amal had turned 16 on March 23, her hair still pulled back in a ponytail. But she looked older, having passed abruptly to adulthood from an abbreviated adolescence.

Her sisters, too, wore the years of hardship. The twins, Hibba and Duaa, were now 14. Hibba wore a hijab over her hair, while Duaa braided hers. During the invasion, they had been friendly, even effervescent, eager to show off their Koranic recitation, chants for Saddam Hussein and snippets of elementary school English. With their faces and bodies no longer boyish, tradition now dictated that they keep a distance from men.

Fatima, at 18 the oldest, had long ago left school to help Karima, a widow, raise the children. In the time since then, her literacy had faded, as had some of her confidence.

Zainab, the quietest and most beautiful of the girls, had married in the spring at 17. Her husband, Ali, had been a police officer, earning $300 a month. In July, though, he received the leaflet that so many of his colleagues dreaded: a death threat from shadowy insurgents. "They told him either you quit or we'll kill your wife," Amal recalled. He quit.

A year before, Karima had finally found work as a maid at the Palm Hotel, since renamed the Rawabi, cleaning eight rooms from 8 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. In a racket of sorts, the local employment agency took a third of her wages. That left her with about $33 a month.

Ali, 22, a former soldier and Karima's oldest son, had secured a job, too. He was now serving tea in a nearby real estate office, working from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. He made about a dollar a day, "depending on the baksheesh ," or tips. His younger brother, Mohammed, 20, was long without work. A ne'er-do-well, he spent most of his time prowling the streets; even his family suspected he was up to no good. Mahmoud, at 11 the youngest, sold soft drinks in the street during summer. At his best, he could bring in nearly $2 a day. Already, the time outside had given him a precocious street sense.

With the exception of Mohammed, their trials had brought them closer; as their city collapsed, they looked inward, their isolation a source for their strength.

"My family is my country," Amal said.

The words that danced that summer across Baghdad's landscape, a panorama washed of color by the sun and time, were almost always confusing.