A shoulder to cry on in Baghdad

A shoulder to cry on in Baghdad
The US military says levels of violence in Iraq are at their lowest for four years, but what psychological effect has constant unrest had on ordinary Iraqis? Caroline Wyatt returns to Baghdad after a 10-year absence to find out.

The Baghdad I remembered was a sprawling city, a place of honking horns and barely-controlled anarchy on the roads.

Amid the narrow, uneven pavements of the gold market, I jostled for space with shoppers peering closely at the gold necklaces given to brides at their wedding.

As a Westerner, I felt safe. After all, the secret police were everywhere. My government minder was never more than two steps behind, sometimes so close he would trip over my microphone lead, apologising profusely.

There was no forgetting who was in charge in those days.

Every government building bore images of Saddam Hussein, in all his guises... holding the scales of justice at the courthouse, cockily brandishing a shotgun as an Austrian-style huntsman in lederhosen, or my personal favourite... the massive poster on the telecom building showing a grinning Saddam chatting on a bright, pink telephone.

This week I have been driving through Baghdad in the back of an armoured vehicle.

No government minder this time. Four British security advisers instead.

The traffic around us is as anarchic as ever, now jammed together as cars approach the frequent armed checkpoints and the old bustle starts to return.
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