'What freedom, when we have robberies and murders going on?'

For the past three days the family of Walid Abdul Hamid have been prisoners in their own home – without electricity and water, listening to the sound of gunfire and looters coming nearer, smashing their way into shops and houses.

For the Hamids, and so many others in Baghdad, liberation by the Americans has, so far, brought exposure to a state of near anarchy, and the fear that they may not survive the coming days. Mr Hamid and his neighbours in Arasat – a relatively affluent district of shops and restaurants flanked by streets of well-maintained houses and apartments – were certainly not among those who suffered the most under the old regime. And they are now the prime targets of the dispossessed and lawless who roam at will in the large swaths of the city that US troops have abandoned to chaos.

Publicly, at least, the Hamids and their friends are careful not to appear to be looking back too fondly at the days of Saddam. This is especially the case with Mr Hamid, a former army captain. He is quick to point out that he left the forces 16 years ago after a leg injury in the war against Iran, and is certainly not a member of the Baath party.

Since his medical discharge, Mr Hamid, 40, has supplemented his pension with part-time jobs, and his wife, Iman, has worked as a teacher. Between them, before the war, they could afford the monthly rent of 15,000 dinars a month (roughly £3 in the collapsing currency) for a three-bedroom flat for themselves, their two daughters, Sara, 14, and Najwan, 17, and 11-year-old son Mohammed.

Now, thanks to the war and its grim aftermath, there are six other members of the extended family living with them. They arrived from other parts of the city and its suburbs in the hope that this residential area might be spared US bombing. One of the bedrooms has been turned into a store for the three months'-worth of rations that the Iraqi government distributed to each family in anticipation of a siege.

Lifting the Kalashnikov semi-automatic rifle he keeps by his side, Mr Hamid says: "I did not have to carry this until the Americans came. In the past we had peace and a little freedom. I would not say that we had no freedom, because only animals have no freedom, and we are not animals. Now, we have no peace, and what freedom can we exercise when we have robberies and murders going on? When the Americans and the British took Umm Qasr they stopped the looting. But here, in Baghdad, the capital city, they have done nothing. Saddam freed thousands of prisoners from the jails. They are out there now, and they have guns."

As if to confirm his words, three shots ring out in succession from an adjoining street. "See, this is what is happening all the time," says Yusra Hamid Aziz, who is here with her two children. A civil engineer, she has not worked for five years because of the effect of sanctions on the job market. "We thought that at least one benefit from the war may be that the sanctions would be lifted," she says. "There will be more opportunities, maybe foreign companies investing. But with what is going on outside, there will be nothing left to invest in."

When the bombing started, the Hamids worked out a routine of phoning relations and friends every morning to find out if they were all right. That ceased after the telephone exchanges were knocked out in two days of strikes. Mrs Aziz does not know what has happened to her husband Majid, who stayed behind to look after their house in al-Doura, on the outskirts of the capital – the scene of a battle between US marines and the Republican Guard. "I am very worried. Maybe later today, if I can get a taxi, I shall go there," says Mrs Aziz. "Everyone keep saying the roads are too dangerous. But I must go."

The flowers in the little garden at the back have wilted because of lack of water. There is a blonde, plastic ballerina on top of the television and framed copies of French pastoral prints on the peeling cream walls. Despite the number of people living there, the place is sparklingly clean.

"I have a lot of time to do the cleaning," says Mrs Hamid. The children's education is a source of much concern. Najwan, Sara and Mohammed all speak smatterings of English, are at ease with strangers, and want to study abroad.

The Hamids are Shias from Basra. Both of them went to university, and they show photographs of their student days, of parties, dancing and drinking. For them and for others in Iraq, the Seventies were a golden time. Awash with petro-dollars following the quadrupling of oil prices, Saddam's regime established an efficient and highly generous welfare system. The health service and education provision began to approach first world standards.

"Everyone benefited," Mr Hamid recalls. "Education was made compulsory and we had the best free medical treatment. We did not mind the lack of freedom that much, because we thought that would come with time and education. It seemed such a time of opportunity." His brother-in-law, Salah Ali Hussein, took that opportunity to go abroad, to London, where he has lived for 30 years.

Mrs Hamid offers lunch. When I decline she stresses that there is not a food shortage. The government rations of rice, wheat, and vegetables – aubergine and onions – led to a monotonous diet, she says, but the amounts have been adequate.

Bashir and Georgette Bekuse, son and mother, come over from next door. Mrs Bekuse, 71, chirps away about the eight years she spent in London in the Eighties. "We used to live in Gloucester Road, Delaney Apartments. I used to go shopping in Harrods. It is a wonderful place, London. Not that I will see it again."

The Bekuses are Christians. "We have lived here in this street, Christians and Muslims, without any trouble. I know the American government has been trying to show Iraqis as Muslim extremists, but we are a secular people." Mr Hamid nods: "This is a complex place. That is what the Americans do not understand."