Lara Marlowe finds contrasting attitudes among Baghdad's Catholics as they celebrate Easter Sunday
The barrel of a US battle tank pointed at the parishioners of Our Lady of Sorrows as they walked down a hot, dusty alley to Easter Mass in central Baghdad yesterday.
It didn't matter that the tank was meant to protect them. The last few metres - facing into the tank gun - were the most frightening, and timid worshippers stepped up the pace before ducking into the gate in the mud brick wall. Since it was built in the 16th century, the pale blue, vaulted transept never merited so well its name of sanctuary.
The burned-out Central Bank looms above the barbed wire strung along the high walls of the church courtyard. Across the street, the Soukh al-Arabi has been looted.
In anticipation of the war and the depredations that followed, the Chaldean Catholics of downtown Baghdad retreated into the city's oldest church. "I told them to bring everything - food, oil, flour. We have 10 big water tanks," said Father Nadeer Dakko, who became the parish priest seven years ago, at the age of 24.
Fourteen families - 130 men women and children - have been camping in the church complex for more than a month now, cooking on gas stoves in the courtyard, hanging their laundry in the arcades.
The Chaldeans literally walled themselves in, bricking up the Aqd al-Nassara Street entry to the church "because we knew thieves would get in that way".
And yesterday, 12 days after the capital's "liberation" by US troops, their siege mentality showed no sign of lifting. "They were waiting for Easter," Father Nadeer explained. "Now they're afraid to go home because of the thieves."
But weren't they glad Saddam had fallen? Father Nadeer looked inquiringly at his sister, Batool, who sat under a portrait of the Chaldean Patriarch, Raphael Bidawid. The Patriarch, who was often accused of complacency towards Saddam Hussein's regime, is an old man now, hospitalised in Lebanon.
The priest's sister had just arrived from the northern city of Mosul, where Iraqi Christians say they are most threatened. "We felt bad when he was here, and now we feel bad he is gone," she said.
"Speaking strictly for myself," Father Nadeer interrupted, "It was better before. Saddam Hussein liked the Christians. Iraqi people need a strong ruler to control them. They know nothing about democracy, especially those who have no education.
"When the regime was here, we were not afraid. Now we are afraid. There is no law."
Father Nadeer's rhetoric is not uncommon among Iraqi Christians, who saw the Baath Party's secularism as a barrier against Islamic fundamentalism.
Michel Aflak, the ideologue of Arab Socialist Baathism, was a Christian. The presence of Tariq Aziz, a Chaldean Catholic, in the highest ranks of the regime was exploited by Saddam to improve his image in the West. Though there are no exact figures, Christians are believed to comprise around 3 per cent of Iraq's population of 24 million.
Many of them speak Aramaic, the language spoken by Christ. Chaldeans are the largest group; others include Nestorians, Greek Orthodox and Greek Catholics, Melkites, Armenians and Protestants.
A woman brought out a bowl of coloured eggs, dyed orange, red and yellow with vegetable stains. "Tradition says Our Lady transformed rocks into eggs," she said. Over orange juice and Arabic coffee, Father Nadeer recounted the tribulations of the past month.
"The Americans bombed everything around us, the Ministry of Defence, Iraqi television, the Interior Ministry. When the bombing was heavy, we put the children and old women in the sacristy, where there are no windows. I asked the old people to tell the children stories.
"Most of the bombing was at night. In the day, we held catechism classes, and played volleyball."
A protective net covers the grotto with a statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, to protect her from stray balls. "We formed a special chorale group and learned new songs for Easter. There were always things to do, but people were afraid anyway, especially the children."
On the day US forces arrived in central Baghdad, a desperate young man, a Christian, pounded on the church door.
"In the last days of the war, the government asked fighters to wear civilian clothes," Father Nadeer recounted. "He was from the Fedayeen Saddam, and he had thrown away his weapon. He asked if he could have a shower, and I brought him food. It was Mass time.
"He slept for 10 hours. The next day, he was better. He talked about the bombing, how he'd seen all six of his comrades die around him. He went home and found his house had been destroyed, and he came back. I gave him some money, and he went to live with relatives in Mosul."
The Chaldeans have no weapons - "only the Cross to protect us" - Father Nadeer said. "We have a big bus, with 45 seats. The thieves tried five times to take it, to carry their loot from the Soukh. Though our gateway is low, we managed to drive it into the courtyard, while they were shooting at us. Bullets were whizzing by me; I felt Jesus was with me."
A half-dozen US tanks and armoured personnel carriers finally took up position at the end of the street, on the eve of Easter weekend. "We feel more safe," Father Nadeer admitted.
But he is not fond of the Americans either. "On Good Friday some worshippers were coming to church and they pointed guns at them. I had to carry a white flag out. They hear our bells every day, yet they don't seem to get it.
"I went to talk to them, and they pointed a gun at me, and I am a priest. I asked permission for people coming to Easter Mass to park in our street, and they wouldn't allow it."
Over and over, Father Nadeer says, his parishioners tell him they are afraid of the future.
After the 1991 Gulf War they were alarmed to see Iraq becoming steadily more Islamic. The words "Allahu Akbar" were printed on the Iraqi flag. Alcohol was outlawed. Saddam began building mosques at a furious rate. Six months ago, a law which was never enforced banned giving non-Arab Christian names to infants.
Every incident - a bomb in Our Lady of the Rosary Church two years ago; an elderly nun murdered during a robbery last year; Muslims youths who threw bottles at Christians in Mosul three months ago - is an incitement for the Christians to emigrate.
In sum, Father Nadeer claims: "The Muslims hate Christians." Between a third and half of Iraq's Christians have fled since the late 1980s.
A few miles away, in a house inhabited by three Dominican friars, Brother Rami Simon agreed with Father Nadeer on only one point: for his parishioners, too, anxiety is the dominant emotion.
Brother Rami is four years older than Father Nadeer, but that does not explain their different attitudes. "After years of being entombed, this country may at last be reborn," Brother Rami said. "That, for me, is Easter. Deep down inside, we are happy to start a new life."
He attributes his lack of fear of Iraq's Shia majority to familiarity. "I did four years' military service. My brothers served for six and eight years." And he grew up in Haditha, in the west of Iraq. "I went to school with Muslims. For Christians who grew up in a Christian neighbourhood or village, it's different.
"If there is a Muslim regime, I don't believe the first thing they would do is massacre Christians. And I don't believe it's in our interests to have Americans or anyone else as protectors. The catastrophe of modern Iraq was caused by Britain - and they are Christians."
Nor were the 35 years of Saddam's rule idyllic for Iraq's Christians. "Look at the number of Christians killed, handicapped or who emigrated because of the situation," Brother Rami said.
"Christians in Europe thought mistakenly that we were protected by the regime. We were a little minority, so we weren't a threat to them; we oiled the machine. What regime wouldn't have used all those qualified engineers and doctors?"
For Brother Rami, the anarchy in Baghdad today is a price worth paying. Under Saddam Hussein, he said, "hundreds of thousands of people died, for nothing." The fate of the Christian minority was not more important than that of Iraq.
"I don't care about security. If they kill one priest, it's not as serious as thousands of dead people. We must not be selfish. We mustn't think only of ourselves, but of the whole country."
The root problem of Iraq, Brother Rami said judiciously, "is not between Christians and Muslims - it's between Sunni and Shia."
If their rivalry remains political, the country will be very fortunate. "If it becomes military, bullets and shells do not recognise religion. We will suffer like everyone else."
Despite the uncertainty, Brother Rami said, "I am living Easter joyfully. Inside myself, I am joyous. This is a difficult, dangerous stage that must be got through. I never thought I would see it in my lifetime.
"The system seemed so entrenched; there was no way to change anything. Some people predict it will be worse now, but I tell the young people, 'It's up to you to build the future'.
"I try to hide my joy, because there are hundreds of corpses not yet buried.
"In this kind of environment, you cannot be joyous and make music, like the Kurdish party did down the street. There is too much mourning around us."