Ten years on, death still stalks Baghdad

Like murderous thunderclaps, four bombs tore through central Baghdad yesterday (Thursday), reducing the Iraqi justice ministry to a burning wreck, shrouded in billowing smoke, and killing at least 18 people.

The coordinated onslaught was the most ambitious attack on a central government target since truck bombs almost destroyed the foreign ministry in 2009.

Coming only five days before the 10th anniversary of the Anglo-American invasion, it provided a vivid reminder of how Iraq remains torn by violence.

The scale of the killing has diminished since a bloody peak in 2006 to 2007, when the country was convulsed by a de facto civil war between Sunni and Shia Muslims, but about 500 Iraqis still die during an average month.

Last week alone, 98 people were killed across the country in 31 separate bombings, including three suicide attacks. The number of monthly incidents has risen by about 15 per cent since the last US troops withdrew in December 2011.

Today, Baghdad is flooded with security forces: black-clad paramilitary units are deployed at multiple checkpoints on every important road, supported by troops from the national army.

A few years ago, most of the soldiers on the streets were American. Today, all are Iraqi, yet at first glance little has changed. Iraq's US-supplied army issues its troops with the same desert print camouflage, helmets and M16 rifles as the departed occupiers.

Despite this massive daily security operation, the bombers still get through. Hardened by a decade of combat since Saddam Hussein's downfall, they are perhaps the most skilled terrorist operatives in the world.

In particular, they have mastered the art of the coordinated, multi-layered attack, designed first to disable checkpoints and defences and then destroy the main target.

A classic Baghdad-style assault of that kind took place yesterday. The first bomb exploded under a hazy blue sky at 1.10pm local time. From two streets away, the roar was ear-splitting, causing windows to shatter and walls to shake. Then followed a pause of perhaps 20 seconds, during which shots were fired and the first sirens wailed. Then a second thunderous detonation took place, followed by a third in quick succession. Inside a secure room, below ground level and protected by heavy metal doors, a group of Iraqis and foreigners huddled for safety.

After a decade of bombings, Iraqis might be thought inured to these incidents. Many are stoical and controlled enough to react only by mumbling prayers.

Yet one young woman was beside herself with terror, her eyes brimming with tears.

As she screamed in fear, the fourth explosion took place. It was the loudest of all: the blast wave sent a tremor through my ribcage and shook the entire building, as if a tornado had passed over.

Then, a few seconds of silence, followed by the crackle of automatic gunfire. Outside, two military helicopters thudded overhead, circling a telltale pillar of smoke rising from the street to the right of the justice ministry.

This appeared to be where the first bomb - probably concealed in a car - had destroyed a checkpoint. The next two blasts had also been targeted on the building's defences. One was probably inflicted by a suicide bomber.

The last - and strongest of all - had then detonated beside the justice ministry itself, setting the building on fire. Plumes of black smoke poured from the windows of this ugly, four-storey construction. The fire brigade arrived within minutes, directing their hoses at the smoke and hoisting survivors down from shattered windows.

Abu Ali, 65, who lives near the justice ministry, was in his garden when the explosions happened.

"The bomb made everything in the house shake," he said. "Then I found these in the garden." He pointed out three lumps of blackened and jagged metal, one stamped with the letter "R", probably some of the wreckage of the car that carried the bomb. "All my family are okay, but they are afraid. This was the most powerful bomb from 2003 until now. We are always feeling there is no peace in Iraq. Nobody assists us."

His sister, Umm Mohammed, was killed at the age of 57 by an earlier Baghdad bomb in 2005. "Many of our people, afraid from the bombings, become ill," he said. "Not physically ill, but psychologically. How can a child grow up when he lives with such things? How can he forget?"

Today, 10 years after an invasion that was supposed to open a new era of democracy, Abu Ali does not feel confident enough to give his real name to a journalist, using instead the Arabic pseudonym "father of Ali".

Nearby, black smoke still curled from the gaping windows of the justice ministry. The attack bore all the hallmarks of Al-Qaeda in Iraq, which aims to overthrow the Shia-led government.

For Abu Ali, the bloodshed unleashed by the Anglo-US invasion means the whole project was worthless. "We are not praising Saddam and saying he was a good man," he said. "He was not good. But if you change to something that is worse, you have nothing."