The thrill of the Asian Cup quarter final victory takes hold, and for a few hours the sectarian and political differences tearing the country apart are drowned out in a roar of national unity.

"Everyone in the country follows football, even with our current problems," says Ammar, 30, a shop owner in the Hurriya neighbourhood.

"If you turn on the television you will see the same thing in Adhamiyah, Kadhimiyah, Hai al-Jamaa. They will be out in the streets waving flags," he says, rattling off the names of some of Baghdad's most violent neighbourhoods.

"Whether we are happy or sad we fire guns in the air," his 37-year-old friend Ali adds with a sly smile. "We are always going to war."

In December and January around 200 Sunni Muslim families were evicted from Al-Hurriyah in a campaign of terror spearheaded by the Shiite Mahdi Army, for whom it is now a stronghold, according to US military commanders in the area.

The militias would have pushed into neighbourhoods farther south, but a flood of US and Iraqi troops into the capital, part of a five-month-old Baghdad security plan, has -- at least temporarily -- frozen the city's fault lines.

Pictures of radical Shiite cleric Moqtada al-Sadr and portraits of revered Shiite martyrs grace street lights and shop windows along the area's main commercial street, and nearby Sunni mosques have been abandoned.

But this night, groups of teenagers putter down the streets on motorbikes, honking their horns, waving Iraqi flags and shouting for joy.

Others march down the streets beating drums, and a group of around 40 revellers temporarily stops traffic.

"They celebrate in the streets, they wave flags and fire guns in the air, just as they always have," says Saad, 60, as he watches the festivities with friends. "It was the same before the war, before all our troubles."

The shops are bustling. Trays of sweet pastries give way to hand-rolled kebabs sizzling on smoky outdoor grills. Children race by on bicycles while others kick footballs through dusty alleys.

The popping echoes overhead -- fireworks and AK-47 rounds -- but no one ducks for cover or panics.

The football match "was a heroic victory, and the country is wounded" Ali, 16, says. "It's our tradition. When we celebrate we shoot guns into the air."

His friends nod in agreement, but they all shake their heads when asked if they shared in the tradition this time.

Even in the rush of victory, the war is never completely forgotten. Like any other night the alleys are filled with the sound of generators growling as they guzzle scarce and expensive fuel.

"The country is suffering, but we have a little joy sometimes," Ali, a 51-year-old civil servant says, before repeating an all too familiar lament.

"We have so many problems. There's no electricity and fuel is expensive, so we all depend on these generators. We have to gather and watch the games together."

In Iraq's cash-strapped economy, football parties often carry a cover charge -- or a "bring your own benzene" policy -- to keep the all-important generator running.

"Sometimes you have to bring your own fuel to watch the game," another teenager called Ali says. Five thousand Iraqi dinars' (four dollars) worth is usually enough.

Opting for a more subdued celebration, he and his friends sit out in the cool night air and play dominoes at a sidewalk cafe.

"Everyone has his own way of celebrating. Some people drive their cars, some fire their guns, and some people sit outside and play dominos," he says.

So if none of these guys fired guns in the air, then who did?

"The Iraqi police and the national police," Ammar the shopkeeper says.

"After the games you will see them express their joy by firing their weapons in the air. But the normal people don't do it because they are too scared."

Such "friendly fire" can also be fatal, however. Interior and defence ministry officials told AFP that at least three people were killed and 25 wounded by falling bullets during the celebrations.