The al-Andulus cinema, ramshackle but largely untouched by the fighting that left a hole in the wall of a Sunni mosque a block away, is one of the early signs of a devastated society trying to rebuild itself.

"Cinema is a sign of civilization," manager Amaadr Muwafiq says as he stands in the darkened foyer lined with fading posters of Hollywood B movies.

"This is entertainment. It eases the tension of the people."

But there is little hope to be found among the patrons of the two-storey building. The melancholy mood is reminscent of the Oscar-winning Italian movie, Cinema Paradiso.

"I used to sell orange juice but I haven't since the war started. There is no water and ice," says Muhammed Khadim, 16, as he leaves the cinema after a Saturday outing.

"I come here to relax, but only once a week."

A ticket to the movies costs 500 dinars (about 14 cents) but even that is expensive nowadays for people such as Khadim.

Muwafiq says he has been screening movies between 9 am and 2 pm since re-opening the cinema a week ago, when the worst of the post-battle looting subsided.

"Before the war I used to show movies until 6 pm but there is no electricity now," he says, explaining he gets the power for his limited screenings from a private generator.

Elsewhere in the city, there are other tentative signs of recovery but they are similarly tainted with desperation.

Men sit in dozens of tea shops, drinking from small glasses, smoking and fiddling with their rosary beads.

Inside the tea is sweet but the conversation is bitter.

"Many people come here now," says Raheed Shakir, whose tea shop is next to the ruins of a pharmacy he says was destroyed by a US rocket.

"Teachers come because the schools are closed. Shopkeepers come because their shops have been looted and there is no security. Those who use computers come because there is no electricity.

"They all have nothing to do so they come here ... and the tea is cheap, only 50 dinars."

Talib Hady has been running a relatively brisk trade at al-Dywan, one of the few restaurants open in Nasiriyah, but he too is feeling the effects of the war.

"There is very little I can offer my customers," he says.

"I used to serve biriyani, grilled chicken, cookies, veal, different breads.

"We can still get some of the food but how do you cook it?"

Hady says he had a stockpile of gas he hoped would last him through the electricity crisis, but this has run out and there is no more available in the city.

"Before the war one tank of gas cost 500 dinars. Now they say it costs 6,000 dinars but there are no such tanks."

In the market that runs along one of the main roads in the city centre, eggs and over-ripe tomatoes are plentiful but there is a very small range of other fresh produce.

Grocer Adeel Naeem walks back to his stall carrying an opened-top oil tin half full of murky water from the Euphrates River that divides the city.

"This is what my family has to drink now," he says.

"What, you don't believe me?" Naeem cups his hand and drinks from the container.

"I have not been sick but one of my children has stomach problems."

Nearby men dig holes and break pipes in the hope of finding some water.

Nasiriyah, 380 kilometres (230 miles) southeast of Baghdad, was the scene of some of the heaviest fighting of the war, with Fedayeen and other forces loyal to Saddam Hussein mounting a surprise defence that took US marines a week to break.

The fighting and the ensuing looting has left much of the city in ruins, with universities, power stations and other vital civil infrastructure destroyed.

US marines are working with a new city council to restore some of the services but their failure to quickly bring back power and water in particualr has helped fuel anti-US sentiment, even though most seem united in their appreciation for the end of Saddam's reign.

Engineering teacher Sufeya Jalwahaby asks a question of US President George W. Bush that reflects the attitudes of every local interviewed in Nasiriyah.

"Bush promised us a better life but where is it?"

SPACE.WIRE