A Week in the Death of Iraq

When I get back from work, my wife and I take a taxi to visit my father-in-law. We normally spend Thursday and Friday with him. The driver, as usual, is afraid to go there, so he leaves us nearby and we walk.

As we make our way, a confrontation starts behind us. We dash into an alley. I relive in my mind what happened the previous week: A sniper from the Iraqi National Guard shot at us and forced us to cower in a ruined building for what seemed like hours. It was on the same street.

We finally make it to my father-in-law's. After dinner, we decide to sleep upstairs, but just as my head hits the pillow, there's an explosion in front of the house, followed by gunfire all around. We rush downstairs, where it's safer, and sleep on the floor. We spend another day full of nonstop explosions and gunfire at my father-in-law's before heading back home at noon on Saturday.

* * *

Sunday is a beautiful day. My wife and I make popcorn, sip cola and watch the Iraqi national soccer team beat Saudi Arabia 1 to 0 in the final for the Asian Cup. My neighborhood erupts in celebratory gunfire. Why don't the shooters think about where their bullets might go when they hit the ground? Two people are killed and six are wounded from falling rounds.

After the shooting stops, I head out to buy cigarettes. I am amazed by what I see. There's unity at last. People are celebrating where on other days confrontations erupt, blood flows and people die. An Iraqi National Guard convoys rolls through, with soldiers dancing on top of the Humvees. I laugh out loud and feel safe for the first time since returning to Iraq.

I hurry home to get my wife and the digital camera. We head out to watch the crowd and snap pictures. Then my wife gets an uneasy look on her face. All these people, she says, might attract a suicide bomber. We go home.

On the news that night: 16 people dead and 66 injured in Zaiona; 10 dead and an unknown number injured in Mansor. They were innocents celebrating the victory of their soccer team. Can't they give us one happy day? Is that too much to ask? May God have mercy on their souls.

* * *

The next day, dozens more die across my country. This has become normal. We're used to it. Iraqi lives are worth nothing; we're just numbers in the news. In the past, Iraqis would wear black to mourn a young man for many years. They would cry forever. But not anymore. Now we bury in the morning and forget by the evening.

On Tuesday, my wife gets her grades from dental school. She has done well. I am so happy that I vow to confront terrorism and live a normal life for one day. I decide to drive my own car and take my wife to a nice lunch at the only good restaurant left in Baghdad. I leave work early, head home and remove the cover from my car for the first time in a year. And with it, I remove my fear.

Oh, how I've missed my BMW. When I tell my wife that we're taking the car, she is afraid, but I convince her that nothing will happen. It's just one day, I say. For once, we'll live like normal people. I drive to the restaurant and feel so happy -- and fearful at the same time. But we arrive safely, although I'm stopped at a police checkpoint and asked about my sect. Normally, they just ask where you live or where you're heading, which are also clues, but this time they ask me directly. I have to lie, but luckily I have a neutral name that isn't obviously either Sunni or Shiite.

We have a wonderful time at lunch. But much later, after I finally go to bed at 3 a.m., after the neighborhood generator stops, the eternal questions start up again. Will it ever end? When will I die?

Dr. Mohammed writes the blog Last of Iraqis.