BAGHDAD, Iraq -- Lunchtime conversation at a cafe off al-Saadoun Street in the heart of Baghdad was briefly interrupted Saturday by the sound of a massive explosion. Patrons gently shook their heads, then resumed their chat over black sweet tea and water pipes.

Life must go on, Baghdadis say, bombs or no bombs. As they never tire of repeating, it's not like they've never been bombed before.

As patriotic songs blared from a television tuned to the main state channel, the cafe patrons casually discussed the events of Friday night.

First came the familiar wail of air raid sirens.

Then white-and-gold tracers from anti-aircraft guns streaked across a clear sky lit by a waning moon.

And then the missiles fell.

In the opening phase of what the Pentagon called "shock and awe," some 300 Tomahawk cruise missiles tore into this vast, fabled city on the banks of the Tigris River. The toll in human life is not yet known, but with each explosion, the city shook violently. Alarms went off in parked cars. Dogs, scurrying aimless along city streets, barked incessantly.

Fires raged in the presidential compound on the west bank of the Tigris, making it look like a vast abstract painting in red and black. Smoke billowed from other government buildings around the metropolis.

A missile, striking just over the horizon, lit up the sky like an enormous lightning bolt. Sirens continued to wail, but now they came from speeding police cars and ambulances.

The air smelled like kerosene.

Mornings, as parts of the city burn, children emerge to play street soccer and ride their bicycles. Street sweepers go to work, cleaning up glass and other bombing debris. Automobiles move about the city -- about a third the number that normally crowd Baghdad streets. Red double-decker buses trace their routes, picking up passengers on street corners and taking them to work.

On Saturday, small restaurants opened. So did greengrocers and bakeries. Barber shops were open too.

Most of Baghdad's rich have gone, taking refuge in the relative safety of the countryside or in neighboring Jordan and Syria. Those left behind in what ordinarily would be a metropolis of 5 million are mostly the poor, and even when their city is under attack, the poor must work to survive.

Used to punishment

They're accustomed to it.

This ancient city, founded in 762, was sacked twice by the Mongols, once in 1258, and again in 1401. More recently, it damaged in an exchange of missiles during the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s. It was heavily bombed in the 1991 Gulf War and hit several times since.

At the cafe off al-Saadoun Street on Saturday, a policeman armed with a Kalashnikov burst in and sat down to a glass of tea.

He told other patrons how two warplanes swooped down on an air-defense position in southern Iraq. The patrons listened attentively, then resumed their conversation.

"Do we really have anything that warrants so many rockets," wondered one, seated on a wooden bench under a portrait of Saddam in Arab dress.

A short way down al-Saadoun Street, Mohammed Jouda had other things on mind.

The 24-year-old from the Al-Kazmiyah district says he dropped out of university to help support his family after U.N. economic sanctions had drastically affected his family's income. He opened a small store, selling nuts and dates.

"I left al-Mustansyriah university where I was studying business administration," he said as he served a customer five U.S. cents' worth of peanuts, paid for with a flimsy 100-dinar note bearing Saddam's portrait.

He opened, despite the bombing, because he needs the money. "We are used to this," he said. "And business has not been bad."

Then his mind switched abruptly.

"Our internal affairs are not the business of the Americans," he said. "I will reach for anything and attack them with it."

Six families

Friday night, six families sought shelter in a cold, bare church in the city's al Ghadeir area. "Jesus, please deliver us," the women whispered as the missiles fell. "Jesus, deliver us from our suffering."

An icon of the Virgin Mary carrying a baby Jesus hung on the wall. Resting nearby was a framed poster of Jesus. The families, at least one of them Muslim, brought stoves to warm the place.

The explosions were barely audible in their makeshift shelter. The adults made tea. The children played and laughed before falling asleep on the blankets and pillows their parents had brought. The adults, including Father Mansour, the Assyrian church's priest, nodded off at dawn.

After nightfall on Saturday, bombs rained on Baghdad again.