Voting.

Thousands of Iraqi expatriates - including a caravan from Utah - cast their ballots Saturday in Irvine, Calif., one of five polling sites in the United States. The Utahns traveled about 700 miles through the night to this city just south of Los Angeles to choose representatives for Iraq's Transitional National Assembly in a historic election that will wrap up today when millions brave the violence and venture to the polls inside Iraq.

"It's a dream to go do this," says Hakim Alsaedy, juggling his nearly 1-year-old twins while waiting to depart Friday evening from South Salt Lake's Alrasool Islamic Center. "We get to vote for a new country, a new Iraq."

Friday, 7 p.m.: Drivers huddle to compare maps and directions. Toddlers, unaware of the 12-hour trip awaiting them, shriek and dash around the room. Away from the chaos, men take turns bowing down in a corner for evening prayers.

Bryan Catherman, 28, an Army reservist who served six months in Iraq, comes by to see his friends off. He launched a support fund to help Utah Iraqis pay for two trips to California: first to register and then to cast their ballots.

Catherman says more than $1,600 has been raised so far. A donated standby plane ticket is available for any would-be traveler physically unable to make the drive. Hassan Hatef, 37, gets around on crutches but refuses the ticket.

"It's 50-50 I go in the air," he says. "Last week I went in my car [to register]. I'll go in my car again."

8:45 p.m.: Nearly two hours later than planned, the last four of eight vehicles honk their horns and pull out of Alrasool's parking lot.

Loay Alabbas, 41, dons a blue baseball cap with Iraq's name emblazoned across the front and takes the wheel of a white rented van. Alabbas, a master electrician who lives in Salt Lake City, left most of his family members in Basra 11 years ago. But they have told him they plan to vote today despite the danger.

"When you've lived the kind of life they've lived for so long - the fear, hunger and humiliation - now's the time to step out and do something," he says.

Less than a mile into the trip, Mustafa Alhussaini yells out, "OK, who's hungry?"

Fresh pitas - stuffed with salad and homemade falafel (a fried chickpea mixture) or khuba (ground rice and meat ball) - are passed around as Khalid Alhamed, riding shotgun, secures an Iraqi flag across the van's dashboard.

It's not long before the crew of 11 puts democracy to work. After all, they say, they have 35 years to make up for.

"Let's take a vote: Should we get another car [to thin out the crowd]?. . . If you don't like the driver, just vote," Alhussaini tells everyone.

The Iraqi passengers - all Shiite Muslims - choose to stick with the van and the driver. They all know for whom they plan to vote as well. Among the ballot's 111 political entities, fielding thousands of candidates, is coalition No. 169.

They say that list of candidates carries the most diverse and comprehensive Iraqi representation - combining Sunni and Shiite Muslims, Christians, Kurds, Turks, atheists and women. It also includes well-known opponents of Saddam Hussein and is backed by Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani, the most powerful Iraqi Shiite cleric, who has declared voting a religious obligation.

"They [169] will make your dreams come true," Al Hamdani, 45, said earlier in the night as if reciting a campaign slogan.

Abdullah Al-Asadi, 32, struggles to get comfortable in the van. His sweater is over his head in a futile bid to block the noise and the light and his feet are propped against the side window. He emerges from hiding at a Tesoro service station in Fillmore, where he reveals the cobra tatoo on his biceps, while others in the caravan scurry into the convenience store for snacks or loiter outside for a smoke.

10:30 p.m.: The sporadic rain turns to heavy snow as the white van barrels down Interstate 15.

Ali Almaliky, 33, talks about how he left Iraq in the early 1990s. He and his brother were wounded in an anti-Saddam uprising. Almaliky took a bullet in the shoulder, his brother a bomb fragment in the knee. By the time they left the hospital, Saddam's forces had taken over their hometown of Basra. They could return and die or leave and live. They fled to a refugee camp in Saudi Arabia.

Today, Almaliky manages a group home for autistic children in Taylorsville, and his brother is a physician in Pennsylvania. Almaliky worries about his native country and the lack of security and services. But the election has restored some hope. In fact, a sister and a cousin are running for office in Basra.

"Honestly, I'm settled here. But I want to go and visit in the near future," Almaliky says. "If I find a place for me to take part in the rebuilding of Iraq, then I will stay [there]."

11:45 p.m.: The conversation shifts to a debate on the future of China before swinging back to the Middle East.

"I will do my job. I will vote. I will do what I have to do to promote peace," Alhussaini says. "But I am not optimistic about the Middle East. That part of the world may cause us all to lose our lives one day."

The rain returns Saturday by 1:15 a.m. Alhussaini leads the group in prayer and muwashahat - poems that are put to song. Clapping accentuates the rhythmic melody. Soon after the Gummi Worms make it around, the songs turn to animal noises and fits of laughter.

Forty miles outside Las Vegas, the van passes the spot where Alhussaini's Chevy Suburban broke down a week ago at 2 a.m. when he went to register to vote. Sunflower seed shells litter the floor.

With the gaudy lights of Vegas flashing around them, the weary travelers pour out of their vehicles at an Arco station. Billboards promote "The City of Desire," Florida's luxury condos and Jack Daniels whiskey. Inside the store, Alhussaini glances at the newsstand. The New York Post's Friday cover story bears a full-page image of an actress, Nicole duFresne, who was shot dead in a Manhattan mugging.

"Look at this. They lost one," Alhussaini says before walking away.

The bright lights and a couple of car wrecks mesmerize the passengers as the van makes its way back to the freeway.

"They should put an election box here," says Hussein Alherz, 39, as he looks out at the Vegas Strip.

"They should put one in my house," counters his 34-year-old brother Maithem, who has struggled to stay awake.

Passengers who want to smoke cram toward the front of the van and crack the windows. The rest fidget to find comfortable positions and steal some sleep.

Saturday, about 6:30 a.m.: Dawn begins to break at a Chevron in Norco, Calif. Alhussaini rolls out a prayer mat between two vehicles and prays toward Mecca with a McDonald's for a backdrop.

Devout Muslims pray five times a day, reciting verses from the Quran. Because they are traveling, they have chosen short verses. But their pre-prayer rituals remain the same. They wash their face twice, each arm twice and the tops of their feet. Near the closed car-wash entrance, Almaliky and Rashid Alwaialy, find a place to pray away from onlookers.

The caravan weaves through the sun-splashed hills of Orange County, toward the polling center at the El Toro Facility, a former military base in Irvine, where 3,903 Iraqi expatriates have registered and are qualified to vote. But a wrong turn off Route 241 leads to a smoking break on the exit ramp. Maithem Alherz plays with a string of amber, ivory and silver beads - called sibah - as the convoy of voters takes off and winds its way through the suburban streets in search of the election site.

"You know why Moses wandered in the desert for 40 years?" he asks. "Even then man didn't ask for directions."

8 a.m.: Three rows of vehicles slowly move toward the security checkpoint.

Officers open the hoods and the trunks. They search inside and underneath. The Utahns are relieved to see there are no search dogs.

Celebratory Arab music blares from a blue minivan, and the driver, from Phoenix, holds a poster promoting 169. Alhussaini props up his own poster in the front windshield: a picture of al-Sistani with quotes outlining the virtues of voting.

The parking lot - with license plates from Washington, Arizona, New Mexico, California, Nevada and more - is a testament to the distances the voters traveled. A greeting booth, offering iced tea and pastries, bears a large banner that reads: "Congratulations on taking the first step towards Iraq's new future."

The Utahns work their way to the four metal detectors. It takes only a few minutes for them to make it inside, and about the same time to cast their ballots. Their identification cards are checked, their right index fingers are plunged into ink - to prevent repeat voters - and they are handed a ballot and reminded to vote for only one political entity.

Alhussaini grins from behind the makeshift cardboard booth. He doesn't have to mull over whom he is voting for; he has known all along. He holds his ballot up for all to see - a gesture that causes a stir among polling officials who are bent on protecting privacy. But they all join him in applause after he slips the white page into the ballot box. "I feel great. My heart is pumping," Alhussaini says as he strolls out the front doors.

Outside, the parking lot is abuzz. Music pours out from open car windows and doors. Assyrian women perform a traditional dance and call out in high-pitched yelps. People around them hold signs promoting 204, the Assyrian Democratic Movement.

"I don't know what to say. It's something I've never felt before," says Loay Alabbas, the white van's original driver. "I'm just full of hope and joy."

Saba Salah, 31, from Salt Lake City, brims with pride. "It's wonderful, because for the first time in a long time, we [are having an] election. We feel we are helping our country and . . . everyone in Iraq."

A man approaches with his mother in a wheelchair. Seventy-two-year-old Fahima al-Jabrry cannot read or write, and she has never voted. But she has made the journey with her son from Chandler, Ariz.

Wisam Jabardi, 43, of Phoenix stands atop his minivan holding homemade placards to promote 169. Jabardi left Iraq in 1996 after 11 years in prison. His 14-year-old son is wearing a homemade gown that is a re-creation of the Iraqi flag.

Saturday's voters dance, sing, hug, kiss and wave their ink-stained fingers.

Mustafa Alhussaini, the man central to organizing the road trip from Utah, loves it all - even the conflicting party signs.

"[No.] 204, 169, whatever," he says. "It's beautiful. It's freedom."

jravitz@sltrib.com