walk down the city’s main thoroughfare guided by a police officer. As I chat with a man about the collapsed building beside his shop, my notebook out, a group of men approach, eager to air their grievances. “When any country in the world gets money for reconstruction, it shows. But not here,” says a burly man who calls himself Nabil. “The contractors just slap something together and put the money in their pockets,” he says, slipping invisible bills into an imaginary shirt pocket. “Reconstruction contracts are deals between the Americans and their collaborators. I don’t want to name names, but people who didn’t have cigarettes in their pockets now have piles of money and brand-new, bulletproof cars.”