A journey into the epicenter of the Sadr standoff

Outside the shrine walls, there was a different "conversation" entirely. Outgoing mortars and incoming artillery shells indicated that, even with journalists inside, the war would continue. Each of us found ourselves surrounded by Sadr supporters, all seeking to convey their message. Some alleged that the Americans had used chemical weapons on them and promised to bring the evidence. They showed us shell fragments but those could be from any shell casing, conventional or otherwise. One Sadr supporter chastised our interpreter, Alah, for failing to hide her hair under her scarf.

We made our way to the shrine's combat hospital, where fighters are brought for treatment. They begged us to take away a man with severe head wounds, who appeared to be dying. We promised to send an ambulance, but say we cannot take the man out ourselves. That would compromise our neutrality. The hospital staff are disappointed. Our interpreter Alah breaks down in tears.

The mood inside is ebullient, and the demonstrators seem determined to keep up the spirits of the unarmed fighters resting inside. We take pictures, interview people, and question whether our appointed departure time, 4:30 p.m., will be soon enough. Will the Americans be patient? Will the Mahdi Army?

A tall man in a white dishdasha grabs me by the shoulders. "We hated Saddam, why? Because Saddam Hussein didn't give freedom," says the man, who gives his name only as Mohammad. "Now [Iraqi Prime Minister Iyad] Allawi and the Americans are like Saddam. They describe us as uneducated, but I am an engineer, he is a doctor, he is businessman. We want peace, not war, but if they want to kill our leader, Sayid Moqtada al-Sadr, we will either die, or gain victory."

This is a man who believes that he will survive, I think to myself. Otherwise, he would have nothing to hide, not even his name. I couldn't help but thinking back to what an American officer had said about the shrine. Would this engineer be alive tomorrow? Or that 8-year-old girl holding her father's hand? Or that 60-year-old woman walking aross the marble floor?

It was 4:25 p.m. and we're getting antsy. It was almost time to go. The CNN reporter was in the middle of a live feed to Atlanta. Her colleagues tell us they would leave as soon as they were done. At 4:30 p.m., we left (the CNN reporter bringing up the rear), fighters and supporters shaking our hands.

One man stopped me. "You newspapers no good," he said. "Yesterday we bombed eight Humvees and killed 11 soldiers, but there was nothing announced on TV." Through my interpreter I vow to report what I had seen.

Five minutes later, we were back at the cars.

To our right, black smoke billowed out of a marketplace in the Old City. The thunder of shells, incoming and outgoing, reminded us that our window of peace was closing fast.

We drove back to the checkpoint. A pack of dogs to drifted past, sniffing the rubble for food. Our colleagues are free.

But moments after we arrive back at the hotel, Prime Minister Allawi issues a "final call" for rebel cleric Moqtada al-Sadr to disarm his fighters and leave the mosque, and "engage in political work and consider the interests of the homeland," Allawi told a news conference.

By sundown, the fight for the shrine could begin in earnest. For all of us, the journalists and the fighters of both sides, we may have seen a turning point.

But toward what?

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