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The Great Wall of IndifferenceOn patrol inside Baghdad's tensest neighborhood.

By Bing WestPosted Wednesday, April 25, 2007, at 1:03 PM ET

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"The Iraqi army around here control the police. They're Shiites, many from Sadr City,"

Waggoner explained on the drive back to the combat outpost. "They'll confiscate AKs. So the residents hide them. We get more info and cooperation when we're on our own."

Back at Apache, Sgt. Robin Johnson, a squad leader who worked with the nearby Iraqi army battalion, explained the situation.

"When we arrived, the residents were getting pushed back by JAM [the Shiite Jesh al Mahdi] militia from Sadr City. It's very sectarian here," Johnson said. "The Sunnis believe the police and half the army's cooperating with JAM. They get shot at more than we do. We've been here eight months. The residents are getting to know us. The al-Qaida guys go after us, but not the local Sunni militia."

Estimates of Azamiyah's population range from 400,000 up to close to 1 million. The district is the strongest Sunni bastion in East Baghdad, with a distinct al-Qaida influence. The district council representative was murdered in December in a setup that involved Shiite officials. His killers were never found. Last month, the new representative was shot 18 times in broad daylight on Azamiyah's main street—by Sunni gunmen. Unemployment is more than 50 percent.

A barrier would restrict both al-Qaida and the JAM, easing pressure on the people. But it's easy to persuade the residents to object to anything done by what they call "the Iranian government of Maliki."

The prime minister's gesture at stopping the Azamiyah barrier indicated he isn't working closely with his own generals, who sit side by side with the American officers planning how to bring stability and reduce violence in every district in Baghdad. There was nothing secret about the barrier or the materials lining the street. The prime minister was out of touch.

Grief at RusafaWorse, he was out of country. Last week, there was a horrific bombing in the parking lot of a central market in Rusafa, about one mile directly south of Azamiyah. More than 160 Iraqis were killed. Two days later, I accompanied Capt. Bo Dennis of the 3^rd Squadron, 61^st Cavalry Regiment, and his squad to the scene of the carnage. Police at a checkpoint two blocks from the explosion warned us not to proceed because they were receiving sniper fire.

We walked on to the parking lot—actually, an open square. It was a scene from Dante, a deep black hole in the macadam, burnt-out shells of cars strewn about, odd bits of clothing, sandals, and shoes. The tall, grey concrete apartment buildings in the background were gouged and pitted, all windows shattered. The cries of women and children echoed across the square.

We were immediately surrounded by dozens of grief-stricken, angry men. They were shocked and bitter. They confronted us, shouting and pushing up. We expressed our sorrow and our own shock at the horror. The bitterness of the men was palpable.

But they weren't angry at us. One after another, they screamed their impotent rage.

Anger at Rusafa"You Americans come here. You came," they shouted. "But where is our government? Why do they not come? Why? Who takes care of those women and children? All their men are dead. Where is our government?"

No elected or appointed official in the United States would keep his job a day if he turned his back on such a stunning tragedy. And there was Prime Minister Maliki, in Egypt, condemning the Azamiyah barrier intended to reduce the killing and shield the innocents from the monsters who slaughter so ravenously.