i s h t a r r i a........

‘ Sabbah Elkhair , good morning’, he saluted us as he stepped sprightly towards the desk. ‘Is it?’ I wondered, thinking, ‘then it’s most definitely the last’ . His wishes were, nevertheless, reciprocated with quivering murmurs. ‘ Schlonil-haal , how’re you doing?’ He asked as he stood behind his desk, taking stock of the faces, his eyes bouncing from one girl to another. Thickly moustached, as was common among the regime’s angels of punishments , he was somewhere in his thirties, tall, slim and good-looking with a fair complexion. He was dressed in what seemed to be a fashionably big-ticket suit that matched nicely his shirt and his tie. His accent instantaneously betrayed his Tikriti origin, and marked him as of the same hometown as the dictator and the majority of his retinue. He took off his jacket in a well-designed stagy move, which mirrored his ostentatious savouring of authority and power, and hung it up behind the door. He returned to his previous position behind the desk...