BY LARRY KAPLOW
Cox News Service
BAGHDAD — When the first blast thudded against the windows of the kabob restaurant about 10 p.m. (Iraq time) Thursday, a young bow-tied waiter ran to open the front door, as Iraqis are advised to do to protect a building against shockwaves.
Diners at the Al Meelad (it means “The Birthday”) walked out to view a fireworks show of anti-aircraft fire and a plume of smoke from a nearby high-rise. But they soon returned to their meals, and the waiter hurried back to serve them.
For the second straight night, U.S. missiles and Iraqi anti-aircraft batteries periodically lit up the sky above this battered capital. But Iraqis, in a mixture of defiance and helplessness, kept to their routines. They took walks with their families and celebrated weddings.
During the first visible exchange of fire Thursday, a fry cook came out from behind his counter to watch.
“It has become very normal to us,” said Ali Al Dhahab, 26, who stood on the sidewalk in his yellow paper hat and fry-cook uniform. “We wish it would end soon.”
But he would work several more hours anyway. “Whether I go home or stay here, it's the same thing,” he said.
By 1 a.m. here, the firing was still sporadic, though air-raid sirens sounded frequently. This would be another sleepless night for the 6 million residents of Baghdad, but it was unclear whether the barrage would be as bad as the night before.
The most dramatic moment had been a strike on what were said to be offices of Iraq's military industries. A direct hit sent a ball of flame shooting from the top of the downtown building. Somehow, the electricity stayed on, but the blast blew out several ground-floor windows of the Al Rashid Hotel a few hundred yards away, home to most of the foreign journalists in town.
The city is flat and dotted with palm trees, somewhat reminiscent of coastal South Florida but with scores of billboards and murals glorifying Iraqi President Saddam Hussein. It could be a pretty city, but eight years of crippling economic sanctions have left its buildings and cars run down.
Thursday night, there were fewer cars than usual on the wide avenues, where diners ate seafood at restaurants along the banks of the Tigris River, or bellied up to counters for ice cream, the favorite Iraqi treat.
People carried on with an almost eerie disinterest to the explosive events around them.
Even as more airstrikes were expected, people stopped to gaze at a 4-foot-deep, 10-yard-wide crater in a road in a busy shopping district, the result of a missile that landed the night before.
The blast cut a major water line, disrupting service to more than 2 million residents, according to Faris Alasam, director of the water department.
An earth mover worked in the dark to fill the hole while about 50 people looked on from the muddied street. In the posh Mansour Hotel, couples arrived in suits and bridal gowns for wedding celebrations.
One couple said their separate men's and women's parties Wednesday night, traditional in Muslim weddings, were played out to the noise of missile explosions. But, they were not about to reschedule their nuptials.
“We are happy tonight, and we hope that all the Iraqi youth will marry and challenge the United States,” said 29-year-old groom Ahyee Khazal.
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