Patrick Cockburn writes in the latest London Review of books;
I no longer go out to restaurants. I used to go to one called The White Palace near the German Embassy where I could drive into a yard behind the building and walk in the back door of the restaurant. But I heard that a journalist from al-Arabiya Television had been shot and wounded there. I had also met the former head waiter working in a hotel in Kurdistan, where, he told me, he felt a whole lot safer. On the other side of the Tigris in the al-Mansur district there was another traditional Iraqi restaurant, called the Sumad, where I used to eat. I went there because I had some friends who owned an antique shop nearby selling everything from carpets to old photographs of Baghdad. Today the shop is closed and my friends have moved to Jordan. The reason is that a few months ago a police car drew up at the door and some security men bundled one of the owners into the back. Then, as they drove round the block, they told him that unless he could give them a lot of money fast they intended to accuse him of illegally selling looted antiquities. He handed over several thousand dollars in cash, closed his shop and fled to Amman the same night.
Eighteen months ago it was possible for a Westerner to walk along the street in Baghdad. These days, Westerners, other than US troops or heavily armed security men, are so rare that heads turn when they appear. To avoid attracting attention I sit in the back of the car with dark curtains and an Arabic newspaper to hold up to conceal my face. In the hotel where I stay, a Lebanese American businessman with a suite on the same floor has a dozen gunmen working in four-man shifts sitting permanently outside his door, even though the hotel is surrounded by walls of massive concrete blocks and every entry point is watched by a small army of 65 men. At first I resented the gunmen nervously puffing cigarettes in the corridor outside my door but I don’t anymore: the power surges as the hotel’s generators go on and off have damaged the lift machinery and more and more often I get stuck between floors. When I shout for help the gunmen pry open the doors and rescue me.
I don't get any sense of this at all from Caroline Hawley and Michael Mates' little boy.