Residents daily ignore the ever-present threat of bombs and gun attacks. They brave checkpoints, roadblocks and traffic gridlock to head to school or work, go shopping, frequent coffee and juice bars, play sport and socialise.

The painstaking return to a semblance of normality in parts of the Iraqi capital has been made possible by a sharp decrease in violence, attributed to extra US troops, Sunni Arabs joining the fight against Al-Qaeda and a ceasefire by the Mahdi Army militia of Shiite cleric Moqtada al-Sadr.

But while some neighbourhoods such as Karrada and Al-Shaab are showing signs of recovery from the long months of bitter sectarian bloodletting -- markets and shops are rebounding into life -- the wounds still run deep in other areas.

No two neighbourhoods better illustrate the contrasts than adjoining Sunni Adhamiyah, which is austere and introverted, and Shiite Kadhimiyah, where the streets are packed with crowds that shop at small stores and check out merchandise offered by vendors.

Adnan Daud, 72, sits for hours in Adhamiyah every day on the banks of the Tigris, the river that flows through the Iraqi capital, gazing at the Bridge of the Imams.

Unlike many of Baghdad's overpasses, this one has not been damaged by bomb attacks.

However the bridge, which links Adhamiyah and Kadhmiyah was closed in 2004. A roadblock prevents traffic from getting from one side to another.

"It's as if we've been imprisoned since the bridge closed. I have not left Adhamiyah for the past two years," said Daud.

The bridge is symbolic of a city of six million divided by a labyrinth of concrete walls, makeshift barriers and fortified checkpoints manned by local militias or Iraqi security forces.

The walls may have helped cut down on violence and car bomb attacks, but have enclose whole neighbourhoods, balkanizing Baghdad into Shiite and Sunni enclaves.

It wasn't always like this. Baghdad was a world centre of learning, culture, and tolerance during the 8th century reign of the Abbasid Caliph Harun al-Rashid, and maintained that reputation for centuries.

And while the city was ravaged by many conflicts over the past 100 years, sectarian strife only burst on the scene in the aftermath of the 2003 US-led invasion.

"Oh, before (the invasion)? Life was happy," said Adnan, leaning on his cane. "I had lots of friends in Kadhimiyah. They were our brothers, we'd visit each other. We paid no attention to who was Sunni or Shiite."

Sabah Ahmed, 68, a former journalist with piercing blue eyes, misses the days when restaurants were open until late and were packed with customers discussing the latest events.

"There is no life any more," said Ahmed, dressed in a dapper grey suit as he sipped Turkish coffee at a corner cafe. "Our neighbourhood is surrounded by walls and barriers. Nobody goes in or out."

To visit Kadhimiyah from Adhamiyah one has to take a long detour.

Large pictures of Ayatollah Mohammed Sadeq Sadr, a revered Shiite leader allegedly murdered by Saddam Hussein, and Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani, the spiritual head of Iraq's Shiite community, welcome visitors at the entrance.

Many residents have tried to make the best of living in the most dangerous city in the world, with its ever-present military convoys and the incessant thump, thump, thump of helicopters flying overhead mixed with calls for prayer broadcast from speakers at city mosques.

In some neighbourhoods artists have covered the grey concrete walls with murals in a desperate attempt to mask its ugly presence.

Jassem Mohammed enjoys the mild sunny weather to shop with his wife near the the holy Shiite shrine of Imam Musa Kadhim.

For years he lived in the religiously-mixed Ghazaliyah neighbourhood, but "when Sunnis and Shiites began to kill each other, we had to protect ourselves and we moved," he said.

For him, a modern Iraq is the product of a long history that spans many centuries. "Iraq has always been a land coveted by others. The Persians, the Mongols, the Turks, the English. And now, the Americans."

That same rich history has taught Iraqis to be patient, and strengthens their will to resist the chaos.

"Things will improve," said Mohammed Abu Ghif, a 23 year-old college student. "It will take time, but you will see."

Ghif calmly sipped tea at the Shanashil Cafe in Karrada, a commercial neighbourhood popular among Iraq's youth. He said he was content with improvements in Baghdad's security over the past year.

"Iraqis want to see their country move forward. Many of my friends have two jobs and are working hard," he said.

Three days after he was interviewed a twin bombing ripped through the neighbourhood, killing at least 68 people and wounding some 154.

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