Booming business in non-Islamic music
Along Basra's corniche, a road running along the Shatt al Arab waterway that empties into the Persian Gulf, a rebirth is underway. Restaurants stay open late, no longer forced by insecurity to shut early. Men smoke water pipes in outdoor cafes, unconcerned about kidnappers.

On a recent night, Salam Hassan, 20, sold Arabic pop music CDs and cellphone ring tones on the sidewalk. A few months ago, Sadrists beat him up and fired a bullet that grazed his knee.

His crime: selling non-Islamic religious songs and ring tones.

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After the offensive, he reopened. Now he sells 20 CDs a day, a sign that his customers also are bolder.

Weddings in Basra had become silent affairs. Kidnappers often targeted them, and gunmen sometimes tossed grenades into the wedding processions of rivals.

The sounds of drums and dancing now fill the streets every Thursday, when most weddings take place. Cars and buses are decked in flowers and play loud music as revelers head to local hotels for ceremonies.

"It's like a gift from God," exclaimed Abdul Emir Majid, 52, whose nephew was getting married on a recent day.

In the weeks after the crackdown, local vendors sold alcohol, a capital crime in the eyes of the Islamist militias. Now the concerns are different.

The new police chief recently ordered the vendors to stop alcohol sales. His reason? Once the ban was lifted, too many men were getting drunk in public.

"The first thing I did was drink whiskey on the corniche," said Ali Jassim, 20, another CD vendor, wiry and dressed in a tight orange shirt. He then grew out his hair, now shiny and slicked back with gel. The militants used to grab young men with long hair and lop it off in public.

On a warm recent evening, Abdul Karim Ali, 49, took his wife, Fatima, and 6-year-old daughter, Shehab, on a boat ride on the Shatt al Arab.

It was their first in five years. The religious purists frowned upon women socializing in public. Kidnappers also targeted families and children for ransom.

"Before, we were restricted. We felt we were being monitored," Ali said. "You can relish your freedom now."

"It is for her sake we went out," his wife, who wore a gold-colored head scarf, said as she looked at their daughter, who laughed and squealed throughout the ride.

'The government is still the same'
Basra's transformation is far from uniform, unfolding mostly on the surface.

It is still extremely rare to see women, even Christians, on the streets without a head scarf. Many women wear the black, head-to-toe abaya, either out of conservatism or fear.

"We're still cautious," Fatima said. "Anything can still happen."

On Al Jazaar Street, the city's most popular commercial district, Dhiya Jassim cranked up the 3,000-watt speakers in his DVD store, blasting a song by Egyptian pop star Amru Diab. The walls were covered with Western DVDs, many with sexually explicit scenes that would have drawn the ire of the extremists.

His dream is to open an arcade shop with sophisticated computer games, once forbidden.

"I am nervous that the black days could return," he said. "We're still afraid to start any big projects."

Samer Riad, 23, an artist, is still reluctant to paint portraits of women, another practice outlawed by the fundamentalists.

"I have canceled this idea from my mind," he said. He continues to draw portraits of shanasheels, the wooden grills that cover many balconies here, from which women can look without being seen by the world outside.

"I will not be restricted by anything, if this lasts," said Riad, referring to the security improvements.

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In 2005, extremists ordered Mohammed, a plastic surgeon, to shut down his practice. "You are changing what God had created," he recalled them telling him. He refused -- at first.

Four times, he said, militiamen linked to a religious faction in the Basra government tried to assassinate him. They also destroyed $80,000 worth of surgical equipment during a rampage through his office. He fled to Syria, returning last year.

But he has no plan to reopen his practice.

"The government is still the same," said Mohammed, who asked that his full name not be used because he feared for his life.

CONTINUED : Rendezvous at the park

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