I was in Baghdad in August. I emerged from the underground rail system to bright sunlight and the spirited sights and sounds of a produce market, where vegetables every color and shape were being hawked in numerous languages. The dome above city hall, black and studded with gold lines over a classical mass of stone, blinked its brilliance in the sunshine, and the street was lined with flags arranged as a monument to the accomplishments of the United Nations. As I bought a freshly baked scone and handed the merchant the bills, he happily jabbered away on his cellular phone, and I took the moment to think how wonderful and vibrant the city had become.

One might hope. In truth, the moment occurred in Baghdad-by-the-Bay, San Francisco, on the promenade built to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the UN Charter signing which occurred in the city. The Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) station, the market and the city hall itself were all dwarfed by the more familiar icons of the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges and the hubbub around the construction of the new Giants ballpark.

However, the city's designation by Herb Caen--whether based on alliteration or resemblance--as some twin of Baghdad made me think what a contrast the real Baghdad would make: war-torn, military in the streets, the sounds of commerce subdued and conviviality scarce. Occasionally an American warplane must skirt by, but the pervading reality must be silence, for what else could be the sound of a people abandoned?

Nine years ago, the United States led a broad UN coalition in a war against Saddam Hussein and Iraq. It successfully repelled the Iraqis from Kuwait and its petroleum riches. However, the war ended in a stalemate, with Saddam still (ruthlessly) ruling Iraq and no way but sanctions and air strikes to keep his regime in check. With children dying from untreated diseases and malnutrition and the Kurds existing day-to-day by the humor of Saddam's Republican Guard, the Americans expressed concern about the situation. They bolstered the program of weapons inspections, the condition for lifting sanctions. The government stated it thought inspections would go smoothly and the troops could go home.

Nine years have passed.

Today, Saddam remains in power in Iraq and Americans, often reservists, stand guard over more than half of its war-torn landscape, policing no-fly zones. Water treatment plants are not rebuilt. The economy is nonexistent, at least in measurable terms. Convoys of the few supplies that actually are ordered by the Iraqi government from the West's watchguards are often diverted, squandered or sold to those who can barely survive let alone pay for what was meant of be distributed for free.

This quagmire exists silently, it seems: bombs dropping on the plains of the world's most ancient civilizations with the cameras all gone home, the news media no longer interested. Standing on the corner waiting for a cable car in San Francisco, I wondered did anyone still know or care about the situation?