As a beautiful, perfectly round, orange sun sank over the desert horizon, the schoolchildren at al-Hariri national school in central Baghdad participated in the weekly ritual of raising the Iraqi flag and singing the national anthem. One of al-Hariri's longest- serving staff members marched into the centre of the courtyard, a picture of matronly discipline and order.
After the national anthem, the teacher, Nisrin Labou, led the children in a well-rehearsed patriotic call-and-response session. With military precision, they roared: "Who is the greatest in our history?" The reply: "Saddam Hussein. Saddam Hussein." Then Ms Labou turned around and headed for the main school building, returning to the parade ground brandishing an AK-47.
Moments later, three shots were fired in the air and the children dispersed. As my bewilderment at the ceremony became obvious, Karim, the minder supplied by the Ministry of Information, felt the need to defend the weekly ritual. "This is part of our culture. It is a long tradition. It is how we honour the flag and the republic," he said.
As I was unable to hide my distaste at the spectacle of children being subjected to a militarised display and the public exhibition of high-calibre rifles, Karim insisted on explaining the tradition further. "We have been doing this since the days of the Turkish occupation. Arabs have always shot their guns in the air in celebration of big events. It is normal."
Ms Labou had other things on her mind and was not about to field questions on what everyone here considers a normal part of Iraqi culture. "We have a plan in the case of American military aggression. We will dismiss the children and close down the school. All important equipment will be taken into storage.
"But I am afraid that the attack will come when the children are in school. This would be a big problem but the pupils know exactly what to do. We are prepared," she said.
Preparation seems to be confined to state institutions and places of work and worship.
At Friday prayers at the Sheikh Abdul Qadir al-Gilani mosque in central Baghdad, the imam, Sheikh Abdul Razzaq alSamm arr ai, thundered from loudspeakers inside and outside the compound. "The United States and Britain are the enemy," he said. "They want to ruin our country and with God's help we will stop them."
The much-delayed propaganda offensive is up and running.
At the UN compound, Eric Falt, the UN spokesman, tries to maintain an edifice of order. Behind him looms the almost-empty Canal Hotel, the UN headquarters, where hundreds of people from all over the world have been running a fiendishly complex system, known as oil-for-food.
Iraqi oil is sold on the open market and a portion of the proceeds spent on providing the government with food and medicines for up to 20 million people. Only some of the money is used to buy food. One-third is spent on war compensation and settling government debts, such as the millions owed to beef producers in Ireland.
Mr Falt points out that the flow of food and medicines has not been interrupted by the latest Gulf showdown. "We still have oil monitors regulating the flow of oil out of the country. And also we have monitors checking the flow of humanitarian items into the country. They report a normal pace of arrivals and there has been no change over the past couple of days," he said.
However, normal is an adjective that few would use to describe Iraq's current predicament. Sanctions make it difficult for anything to enter or leave the country and a Kafkaesque bureaucracy based in Baghdad, but with tentacles in Geneva and New York, controls the flow of food and medicines. The oil-for-food system is regarded by Iraqis as a temporary measure until sanctions are finally lifted, but for many here the UN administration has the look of a bureaucracy which is meant to be in place for a long time.
All around Baghdad, the reminders of the Gulf War of 1991 are evident. Rebuilding has restored the fine pagoda-like water tower and other city buildings but closer inspection reveals a patchwork of improvised cement-work of dubious quality.
The so-called AT&T communications centre - the first target of US stealth bombers in 1991 - that looms over the capital's commercial heart is again sprouting aerials, antennae and satellite dishes. It is again a working telecommunications facility.
If the bombs do fall again, many expect this building to be hit first. It would be a powerful symbolic strike, a telling reminder to the Iraqis that no matter what they do, their tenuous hold on the 20th century is allowed only so long as they toe the line.