BAGHDAD — When the microbus neared Hurriya, my neighborhood, the door jammed. The driver stopped twice to fix it.

We passed the Iraqi army checkpoint without delay. The driver was rushing to make up for lost time. The bus terminal loomed ahead of us. I turned my head to gaze at appliances and clothes in the shops.

The street was alive with women and children shopping after the evening sun receded behind the buildings.

When I come home from work, I always walk from the bus terminal past the vegetable and fruit vendors and shish kebab restaurants in the market, not just for shopping, but to chat a few minutes with some of the vendors who were my childhood friends.

Suddenly, BOOM! A huge explosion shook the bus.

Although Baghdad is more peaceful than it has been at any time since 2004, its citizens still face the possibility of random death daily. On Tuesday, the coincidence of a jammed bus door saved me.

My daily chat that should have ended with a joke and a smile turned to tears and sorrow.

The driver swerved the microbus. We saw a huge ball of dust and black smoke rise from the bus terminal.

People were running to see what was going on and to rescue the injured.

I called my wife to tell her that I was OK, and then called the office to report the news.

My heart was pounding as each step took me closer to the scene. Through the heavy smoke I could see the human flesh. The faceless, burned body of a woman and others were spread here and there. They were lucky that they were in peace, I told myself. The injured lay on the ground in suffering. I thanked God because I could have been one of them.

It was just three minutes between death and life. I was trying to cover the story, but something fixed my legs to the ground. At first I felt afraid to go closer, afraid there could be another explosion.

But then I saw people I knew screaming about beloved ones. I knew then that my friends were killed. I had lost two of my dear friends, their lives turned to lifeless digits in the casualty count of at least 51.

I passed the scene three days later. There were candles with flowers here and there. I approached a charred spot that had been a booth. There was a picture and black sign: “The Happy martyr Ahmad Salih.”

I approached a man who was standing nearby. He was smoking and had an absent-minded look.

“Why have people put the flowers and candles here?” I asked.

He looked at me and said in a depressed tone, “These candles and flowers are for the ones whose bodies were not found.”

The man spoke again more sadly.

“Look to the top of the building. There, people found the head of a child. He is my grandson.”