Diary 6 February, Baghdad
Mary Foster

Last night we listened to Colin Powell's speech to the UN Security Council, five of us huddling around a short-wave radio on the balcony. Powell's voice faded in and out, competing with Arabic music and the weird high-pitched singing of a radio losing its signal. All the long, tedious details about the weapons programme ­ adding up to what? It is very hard to tell what it all means ­ beyond the intentions to raise fear among Americans and to bomb Iraq into the stone age, which are clear enough. I feel the fear in my own stomach as Powell begins to talk about Iraq having used up its last chance. When he begins on the links to Al Qaeda, someone pulls first a glass and then a whisky bottle out of his backpack, and the tension breaks into laughter. Everyone else on the balcony is planning on staying here through the war ­ I am the only one going home.

We discuss a response to Powell and someone prepares talking points for the media. First line of response that no intent to use weapons of mass destruction has been established; second that all other means to disarm have not been exhausted; third ? there is much to say in response, and we are up late.

In the morning, the tension has increased. I drop by someone else's room and notice that he has bought a few provisions for war survival.

We have few plans for the morning, and seize upon an opportunity to visit an orphanage run by Sister Theresa's order of nuns. The children are mentally or physically disabled, the most vulnerable in Iraqi society. Four or so nuns are in the process of getting the morning meal underway and we are immediately recruited. I am feeding two boys. One has long red-clad legs, a quick smile - and I never manage to find out his name. The other reminds me of a little bird, opening his mouth in anticipation of the spoon and blinking as he eats. Allar, who sits beside us and speaks English quite well, tells me that the little bird's name is Saif. Saif and the red-legged boy have to wait several times as I prop up Allar and Omer, who keep sliding down and keeling over, where they can no longer reach their plates. Saif is not able to talk, and I think that he doesn't smile either until I am rewarded near the end of the meal. I beat a little rhythm on the table and Saif goes wild with affection, trying to hug or nuzzle me, neither he nor I am sure of ourselves. One of the people from the Iraq Peace Team who brought us there has already asked the obvious question ­ even if there is no bomb in their neighbourhood, how on earth will these twenty or thirty completely helpless little boys and girls survive once the water and electricity are shut down and the price of food sky rockets?

Someone invites us to go with him to the market and take a tour of some of Baghdad's magnificent monuments. I hate the voyeurism of tourism, of observing people's lives from the outside, but think that photos of these splendid buildings will give people at home a better idea of what is under threat. I also hope that some of the people in the market will be interested in talking to us.

To my surprise, our presence in the market goes almost unnoticed. We push our way through the bustling narrow allies of the vast covered market ­ past belts from China, shoes from Iraq, clothes from India, heaps of spices, rat poisons, plastic toys (the hot pink tanks are my favourite), baking tins ­ and hardly anyone hassles us. I had steeled myself for the usual market experience of being badgered and steered into shops, but no one is interested in us. Ben buys a pomegranate and I hand the Iraq Peace Team sheet, in Arabic, to the fruit-seller. His smile is genuine, but tired. I read depression into it. As we walk away, he runs after us and thrusts a handful of candies into my hand.

We walk past the carpet sellers and antique sellers, and they look back at us blankly. Only one or two make a half-hearted attempt to invite us into their store. Finally, as my friends are negotiating with one of the shopkeepers, I strike up a conversation with one of the carpet-sellers. I ask him how business is going. "As you can see," he replies, sullenly. "Because of the situation, everyone is afraid. No one is buying." It is hardly a time for buying carpets. He tells me that the situation is much worse now than in late 1990. People are far more afraid this time. Those who can leave are doing so, but many, like him are not able to, "How can I leave, what can I do with my shop?" "It is like watching a movie!" We watch what is happening to us unfold without any sense that we can affect the direction of events. "It isn't even the people any more" ­ just a handful of people deciding for the rest of us. His anger rises as he talks, and it isn't clear whether his "you" is still directed at Bush, or includes the three of us North Americans.

The evening brought me to the press gallery to hear the Iraqi response to Colin Powell's speech. Cameras lined the perimeter of the room, shoulder-to-shoulder, hungry for the next headlines. The breaking news was that a weapons' scientist was meeting with UN weapons' inspectors without monitoring by the government. The two speakers sifted through Powell's presentation, refuting facts, giving context, disputing conclusions drawn. They put forward some convincing arguments, some that I don't have the background to assess, and some that confuse me. <> The presentation was hardly dramatic ­ quite a contrast between the slick Powell presentation and theirs. I have a distinct impression that the Iraqis feel that it really doesn't matter what they say at this point.