Baghdad, July 30 , For the past nine months I have been living in Baghdad - though not in the fabled green zone or "emerald city" as Rajiv Chandrasekaran, the former bureau chief of the Washington Post, called it in his book "Imperial Life in the Emerald City: Inside Iraq's Green Zone".

Previously known as the 'Presidential Compound', the workplace of Saddam and his government flunkies to which most Iraqis were denied access, the green zone centrally located on the bank of the Tigris river is now inhabited by the new emperors of Iraq, internationals engaged in the rebuilding of the country as well as a few Iraqis - government officials, bureaucrats and others well-connected to the current imperial life. However, while there may have been regime change, the emerald city continues to be off-limits for most Iraqis and remains the exclusive playground of the new emperors.

While the vast majority of expatriates working in Baghdad live in this heavily fortified 10 km fortress, there were a few of us non-locals who braved life in the "red zone", which is all of Baghdad outside the imperial fortification. However, the red zone, at least for the internationals living there, was hardly the Baghdad that glared forth from the nightly news - of suicide bombers, tortured bodies found in the early morning dew, and where every parked car is a potential improvised exploded device (IED).

To a certain extent, my life replicated the gilded life of the emerald, albeit on a miniature scale. I too lived in a heavily guarded fortress, complete with sniffer dogs, watchtowers and checkpoints to access the compound, which provided a level of comfort - 24/7 access to water and electricity - not available to most residents of the city. These 'mini-me' compounds of expatriate living came complete with restaurants and bars where one could choose between single and double malt scotch.

Even the dangers of the streets of Baghdad were minimised. Every time I left my gilded prison it was only in a fleet of armoured cars accompanied by 11 heavily armed bodyguards. There was no mistaking our convoy - four SUVs with Kalashnikovs dramatically pointed out of every window and a large machine gun mounted out of the back car with a sign in Arabic and English warning all: "Danger stay back."

For the most part the warning was heeded as our convoy barrelled through the streets of Baghdad often creating a swath of chaos in our wake as city traffic - vehicular and pedestrian alike - attempted to veer out of our way. Although I personally was never part of a convoy that had to 'neutralise' any potential threat, I was keenly aware that the sign on the gunship car was deadly serious.

Iraq is a country awash with private security companies that have blossomed in the chaos of the country's post-invasion era. It is estimated that around one half of all development dollars being poured into the country (currently in the billions) goes to private security. My organisation, a small NGO working to build the capacity of Iraq's civil society, was no exception.

Approximately 40 percent of our $60 million budget went to protecting the 15 international staff. Our security company was South African. Other security companies preferred ex-French Foreign Legion soldiers. Still others only hired ex-British Special Forces, or Latin Americans who looked fresh off death squads, or whatever military, militia or special force that had fallen into disuse with the end of the cold war.

Most of my bodyguards were ex-military or police who had found themselves redundant in the post-apartheid era. It was hard to imagine that these unfailingly polite and gentle men had been an integral part of a repressive regime. As a human rights worker I decided that it was in my own best interest not to know too much about how they had honed the skills that kept me safe.

I also knew they would not hesitate to put those skills to use if needed. Stories abounded of vehicles being blown up and people injured or killed by security companies - due to misunderstanding, carelessness or just plain resentment that the streets of Baghdad had been taken over by trigger-happy mercenaries. Lives were lost and livelihoods destroyed, all with impunity, because the 'security bubble' had been encroached - the zone of safety that kept any moving object from intruding too closely to a convoy.

I too resented the fact that I was responsible for motorists being forced off the road and pedestrians run over, bypassing checkpoints while the rest of Baghdad suffered the indignities of police harassment and military searches. I didn't blame those who wanted to make us a target of their insurgency. The 'liberation' had turned into occupation and the conquerors were none too gentle in exercising their vehicular authority over the vanquished on the streets of the city.

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