Desert hospitality, honor, and the war outside the door

For two weeks now, Ahmed and Sameer al-Najafi have lived on the front lines of a deadly fight between the US military and a Shiite militia named the Mahdi Army.

They are not fighters, although they are clearly of fighting age. They are Iraqi civilians, protecting their house from looters in Najaf's Old City. They sit indoors, cook their shrinking supply of food, and judge from the sounds outside whether they will live another day.

Sameer laughs, as my interpreter, my driver, and I flinch when a mortar explodes nearby. "Today, the fighting is so easy, they're just kidding with us," he says. "On Sunday, the fighting was so heavy and so close, we said our shahada prayer [the Muslim prayer of the dying]."

On Monday, we were unexpected witnesses to a day in the life of the Najafi home - a large brick townhouse built around an open-air courtyard. We ducked into their doorway, and the fighting drew too close for us to leave. We saw a surprising resilience and spirit. Their moods shifted constantly: Sometimes, when bombs fell around them, they turned sober and cool-headed to decide the best way to survive. Other times they told jokes or recited poetry to lift their spirits and remind themselves that life is worth living.

Their politics shifted too, with every shift in the battle with every shift in the battle lines, telling volumes about the ambivalent feelings many Iraqis have for an American liberator they have come to see as an occupier.

But we also were privy to the Najafi family's cultural beliefs - their deep sense of honor and bravery, compassion and generosity - all of which were tested to the limits during our day with them.

At 10 a.m., the Najafis are in their front guest room. Seated on the floor, a cushion at his elbow, neighbor Ahmed al-Ramahe rues the day he ever heard of the Mahdi Army or its 30-year-old radical Shiite leader, Moqtada al-Sadr. "They say they're fighting for freedom, but they're killing more people than Saddam Hussein," he says, and the other men nod. "They know it's impossible for them to win this war. And we're stuck in the middle. We get most of the casualties. The Mahdi Army are just shooting foolishly, destroying our houses."

As if on cue, a mortar falls nearby. "Like that," says Mr. Ramahe, and the men laugh.

Like many of the families in Najaf's old city, the Najafis and their friends own businesses that thrive on the constant flow of tourists and pilgrims coming to pay respects at the Shrine of Imam Ali, a mausoleum where the prophet Muhammad's son-in-law is buried. Their worst fear is the most likely military scenario: a protracted siege of the holy shrine.

"The shrine is sacred to us, but we've reached a point where even if the Americans destroy the shrine to get rid of Moqtada, we won't be upset," he says. "We'll rebuild it ourselves."

At noon, a nearby mosque announces over loudspeakers that peace talks have broken down between Sadr and the Iraqi government. Sadr's own uncle, Hussain al-Sadr, had urged him to leave the Shrine and disarm, but it's clear the nephew isn't interested. The mosque loudspeakers urge fighters to fight on, and gunfire breaks out. The men move from the guest room (situated where male visitors won't see the women of the house) deeper into the house.

"It's OK," says Ahmed, "there aren't any women in the house. We've sent them all away from Najaf to stay with relatives."

In the inner courtyard, some of the men start playing backgammon. Ahmed and Sameer start cleaning okra and picking stones out of rice, in preparation for the day's lunch. For the past two weeks, these men have taken up what used to be considered "women's work." They find it terribly boring and hot. "A house without women is a terrible thing," says Ahmed, who is not married.

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