Katyusha Babies

"Delal, my sweat heart! And, you finally brought your sweet little baby sister. Come here. I'll put the pipe out."

The man's face lit up. His eyes grew bluer. The smile widened. All the muscles in his face did their lifting and adjusting like a circus tent being raised up. His shaky hand with as much flesh as that of a starving man raised up to lovingly touch the cheeks of the baby sister. The baby sister was in a bundle of clothes with only her face sticking out.

He broke into coughing. Catching himself, he raised a pressed and monogrammed handkerchief to his face to wipe away the blood. Delal's eyes widened, yet she kept her face steadfast from pity. "Can I help you anything, sweet Baban?"

"Delal, sit down. You are a guest. I will have you some tea and a sample of my favorite stew."

Banan got up. His knees and pelvis remained partially bent. He glided his hand along the white wall on the way to the stove to steady himself. With a heavy heart, she let him do the heavy chore, because he was too proud to accept help. With a small glass of hot Arabic tea and a white cup of lamb stew, they amicably conversed. Banan would tilt his head back and raise his head every once in a while, as to signal that there was great meaning in what young and naïve Delal had told him.

"Banan, I love you so much. Do you really have to die soon?"

"My sweet Delal, seeing you one more time brings so much joy to my heart." He swiftly looked into the sales room to ensure that it was empty before continuing. "I have HIV. My body is consumed any time now, it will take over. Once it is visible, my son will take me into the desert. There is too much danger to my family by anyone finding out."

"How could people take vengeance at a sick, old man, a good and sweet man?"

"Oh, Delal, if the world were full of people like you, I'd be safe. However, the current world looks at HIV as a gay man's disease. And, gay men suffer honor killings. Often the mob takes out the whole family. You know, my family lives by being merchants. We can't lose customers."

"But, is there no medicine?"

"There used to be medicine, dear. The Western nations had developed drugs to cure HIV. However, they were all overrun by Muslim nations. The cure has been lost."

"Oh, Banan, tell me more about the time, when Western nations existed!"

"This is very dangerous knowledge. They do not like Western sympathizers. But, I will tell you about Arthur's Tavern. New York used to be a city in America. The buildings were 100 floors high and more. I kid you not."

"No way! There are no buildings taller than four stories. I'd give you eight floors for a superhuman nation. You are making this up again."

"No, dear, I stood there middle in the canyon of a street between the tall buildings. I'd crank my neck back to see the top. The top disappeared into the sky. That's why they called them sky scrapers. So, I was walking into this establishment in the basement. The room was dark and smoky. A jazz band played loud and tugged my heart strings. Grown men were crying. And, then they made us laugh, while slapping a stranger on the shoulder. Such emotion in the music."

"Did you smoke too much of that, what do they call it, hashish?"

"Yes, I had a little hashish. It put the most splendid mood on me and my travel partner. Half the people in America smoked hashish. Still the music was wild and animalistic. The imam would have sentenced all to death. And, then a black woman in a silvery dress stepped onto stage. A thousand tiny metal pieces reflected the light of her curvy body. She waved her behind at us, such a sultry sight."

"Your face looks like bliss, yet the woman just insulted you by showing her behind."

"Oh, sweet Delal, with all those puffy and shapeless Kurdish clothes, you haven't seen the beauty of the human body yet. Silently watch this. KALFERAD COME HERE."

The sales man from the customer lounge strutted into the room. His shined brown leather shoes clapped on the floor – clack, heel toe, clack heel toe. His legs swung wide with straight niece. He smiled warmly at the two with his hands holding each other in an active pose.

"Kalferad, would you be so nice to get me that strainer out of the bottom shelf."

Kalferad strutted to the bottom closet. The pant legs extended straight into their pressed shape, whenever he extended the knee. When he bent the knee, the soft fabric rippled luxuriously down the whole length.

"Watch closely," whispered Baban to Delal.

Kalferad bent forward with his legs straight. His hard trained butt bulged large in the pants. The side dimples were clearly visible. The gluteus muscles were a round bulb. The white leather belt looked neat against the black slacks. He stood up, placed the strainer on the table, and left.

"Delal, did you notice your inner reaction to what you saw?"

"I am confused. I felt myself strongly drawn to watch and pay attention to his butt and the way his legs moved. I don't know why. I don't understand the purpose of my fascination. However, I feel like I could watch him all day picking up strainers from the bottom closet."

"That, my dear, is the beauty of the human body. It is sexual tantalizing at its softest and pure lust at its strongest. That's why everyone covers up and wears those long dresses. Once you wake up that emotion, it is very powerful. You cannot be controlled anymore. And, the imams want to control you. Pst, that's a big secret."

"So, what do I do with that emotion? Kalferad's butt won't go out of my head."

"You have to let that emotion be free. It will lead you to the world's most beautiful experiences. However, watch yourself. Never let yourself get caught in Kurdistan with it."

"You have so much knowledge that nobody else has. What happened next in that place in New York?"

"That black woman in her very tight dress slowly rolled up her dress to just before we could see her underwear. Oh, it was the most delicious tease. We all held our breath hoping to see her underwear with the next inch up. Even the women were under the spell of her slow sensuous moves."

"Baban, why would she take her clothes off? Wouldn't she be naked?"

"Yes, she would be. You are wondering why. She was enjoying to feel sexually attractive. When we talk, I can tell on your face that you enjoy me listening to you. I can see that nobody really has an interest in your life and your thoughts. Having attention feels good. When you sing to your baby sister, she looks at you with her big eyes. It's a different kind of attention. It is admiration. It feels good as well."

"We are not supposed to desire attention. My father in a rare moment slapped me on the wrist for telling a story too joyfully to house guests."

"That's jealousy. People are very starved for attention. When they see somebody else getting attention, they become angry. There is nothing bad about wanting attention. It is a joy of living. However, having too much of what others lack makes them jealous. You have to always watch around you."

"But, if I were a king, I could have also the attention I wanted!"

"No, child. Especially, when you are a king, you have to watch around you. They may let you get away with it for a while. However, the poison in their hearts will grow and they will assassinate you in your sleep. When you enjoy attention, always make sure that everyone gets some. If everyone's cup is half full, they are too busy enjoying to notice your cup."

"So, did the woman show her underwear?"

"First, she rolled her dress down all the way to take it away from us. And, then it came down from the top little by little. The room was so dark that I could not see much. Yet, my mind painted her out in the most beautiful way. However, I did see her face. Her face had a sheen of sweat. It looked focused on her show, yet her eyes showed the deepest satisfaction at the power that she held over us."

"What power? Was she armed?"

"Power is when you have something that somebody else wants. It is power, because you can make them do something for that treasure. We all wanted more of her. She had displayed so much sex appeal. That made us feel so good. We wanted to keep feeling good."

"I don't understand."

"I'll show you. Haha, this will be a lot of fun. Here is the plan. When Kalferad passes you, you slap him on the butt. Curve your hand like this and do it with a nice and gentle slap. Leave your hand on his butt. Pinch your thumb and index finger together in between his butt cheeks. Then, pretend like nothing happened."

"Oh, no, if I attack Kalferad, he will fight back. And, he is a man and a big one!"

"Trust me, none of that will happen. My son is a good son. KALFERAD PASS ME A GLASS OF WATER."

Kalferad appeared in the room with an upset face. "I have customers, I can't be in the back room for every little thing." Kalferad walked past the table. Delal did as she was told. She slapped Kalferad on the butt. She pinched her fingers between his butt cheeks. She was shocked at how deep her fingers reached. Kalferad jumped into the air. His feet sounded loud on the tile floor as he landed.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Go fetch the water."

Kalferad opened the faucet and placed the glass of water on the table.

"What are you guys talking about?"

"Kalferad, go back to the customers."

"Oh, I can tell, they won't buy anything anyway. It's been so long since, I chatted with you two."

"Kalferad, if you stay, you have to wash the floor."

"No problem."

Klaferad with his spick clean clothes grabbed the dirty rag and squatted to wash the floor as meticulously as nobody had before to steal time. Baban secretly squeezed Delal's hand and smiled with glee: "That is power."

STORY CONTINUES

The morning was invited by Bedouin women in traditional dress bringing large plates of food. Each woman was dressed in a single color - red, green, or blue. The sleeves of the arms were embroidered with white and golden stitching patterns of flowers and ornaments. The face covering was accentuated with gold pearls and blue stones. The bright teeth of their smile shimmered through the face covering. Their hair was black, flowing, and mid-back long.

With the food came little copper plates of Kohl makeup. Kohl makeup is traditional Arab makeup for more than two millennia. It is made by burning a bowl of oil under a lid with only a small opening for the flame to breathe. The lid blackens with soot. After the layer of soot thickens over night, it can be loosened with a few drops of fresh oils into a paste.

The college girls happily dabbed little clothes pieces into the Kohl makeup and applied it to their arms to look dramatic like desert beauties. Even the guys with Bedouin heritage applied some of the black Kohl to their eyelids. Everyone was jabbering with excitement at the good food, the excursion, and the makeup.

The morning sun shone gloriously. The ground was dry and barren. However, tall oak trees grew out of the hard soil. The leaves with their unique shape happily waved in the air. Birds were chirping. Squirrels did their little dance of dashing and pausing to look. As if lighted by a strobe light, the squirrels were one moment flat against a tree limb with the arms stretched out to get a hold. The next moment, they were sitting on a branch nibbling on a nut in their tiny little black hands.

BACKFLASH: ABDA'S FATHER ON THE WAY HOME IN BAGHDAD

The day before Abda's family moved to Kurdistan, her father was working at the metal shop. His job was to stamp out a piece of metal with a machine. The job was simple. He had to lift both arms wide to push two buttons. The requirement to push two buttons made sure that he didn't live one hand in the machine by accident. Then, he'd pull the metal part out and put it into a trolley. He did that all days.

His colleagues were crude. One of their favorite jokes was to stay words, while they'd pull their mouth apart with an index finger in both corners. That way, b's sounded like f's. They'd say Baghdad out loud and it sounded like 'fuck dat,' an American slur. They'd alternate between the fingers in the mouth and out 'Baghdad fuck dat.' Then, they'd laugh.

On the way home, he walked with many other men down the street with no cars. Only a few running cars had been left over. The men were all dressed similarly. Low slippers, pants, shirt, all of it was probably a year old or older. Most held a little bag or brief case in the right hand that had been empty since lunch. Occasionally, a completely veiled woman walked the streets in the close escort of her husband. Sharia law was very strict.

He noticed something a little off. At first, he had thought a completely veiled woman was walking with her husband. However, at the street corner, it seemed as if the woman had switched the man that she was walking next to. On closer examination, the man was not holding onto the woman like the other man.

He decided to follow her one street down. The man next to her gave her a questioning and distant look. The woman swiftly stepped closer to a man on her other side. The first man stopped for a moment and then started following her as well.

By the next intersection a handful of men were following her curious to find out what she was doing. The woman was wearing a black dress that hung from the top of her head. It covered everything. Only in front of her eyes was a see through veil that let her see the path in front of her. Her body shape was unusually tall and slender. Most women once veiled after the revolution had become fat hippos. That alone aroused her father to imagine an attractive woman under the black fabric.

A bold man called out at her at a volume that stopped the whole street: "Where is your husband?"

The woman did not reply, she broke loose of the illusion of walking next to a husband. Her feet were swiftly moving into her direction. The legs pulled the dress taught. Occasionally, the hem of the dress flicked up and exposed her lower calf. Abda's father had a raging hardon in his pants from seeing that much female skin. He could not miss out. He pushed a couple surprised men out of the way to follow the woman.

A thick plum of men formed around the women. They all kept a cautious six feet distance to the woman. The mood of the men grew frenzied and emboldened. A male voice yelled, "She is without a husband." Another male voice yelled, "punish her." Another one yelled, "she disgraced all the women of Bagdad."

The first assailant rapidly stepped into the space around the woman and pushed her onto the shoulder. The assailant swiftly ran back into the safety of the crowd. She lost her balance and fell against the concrete wall next to her. The crowd of men closed in around her. She panicked. Her arms and movement showed her desperateness. She pushed on. The crowd was still to shy to block her.

A man with big white bland sneakers stepped out and kicked her flat in the butt. She whined loud and kept moving. The man with his sweaty red face quickly ran back into the crowd and disappeared. The mob of men started chanting 'whore – whore –whore.' The woman kept dashing on. The whole street had filled with more men pouring in from side streets.

The third assailant stepped in front of her, reached the hand out, and slapped her across the face. The slap did not just brush her cheek. Her whole head was flung to the side. She collapsed to the ground. Her arms tried to crawl forward. She was stunned.

The crowd pushed around her. The front row got a good look, yet they had to work hard to push back to avoid getting pushed over the woman. For a few seconds, the woman was in a bubble of safety. Then a pot bellied man with a soccer t-shirt stepped forward. He grabbed her by the ankle and started pulling her body from the sidewalk into the middle of the street. Her dress was pulled head over. Another man grabbed her by the arm. Her dress was lost in the frenzy. She was naked in her underwear.

The men got a good look at her. She had a slender and trained body. That was a rarity. Once women had to cover their body and face, they stopped exercising or watching their weight. She was an astounding beauty in the ocean of hidden ugliness. Even her bra was sexy. It was a push up bra that only filled the lower half of the breast to expose the skin on the upper part of the breasts. Here eyes were big round, green, almost fish like.

She used the moment of sexual confusion among the men to jump to her feet. She ran. Her long legs were flying. Her bare feet pushed up dust clouds with every hard running step. Her butt cheeks bubbled with each step. Her breasts heaved up and down softly like jelly with each bouncing step.

Most men were too dazed by the naked display. However, a dozen men gave her chase. The sprinted close behind her. Her odds were stacked against her. One of the men had to be faster than her. Or, at least one man would be left to collect her, once she was exhausted.

A gun shot run through the streets. A house door was open. A man dressed in religious black garb stood in the door with a gun. He held the woman by her hair in a cowering position: "I will deal with her as I see fit. She is my property."

That night, Abda's father did not mention the incident. As a matter of fact, he did not say anything at all. And, whenever his wife attempted to find out what was bothering her, he only lifted the left hand a bit. Yet, there was so much intense emotion behind that little movement that Abda's mother swiftly withdrew.

After four hours of silence, Abda's father only said 'pack everything.' The next day, they traveled to Kurdistan.

STORY CONTINUES

After breakfast, the teacher Pekhat brought a guest. The female commander of the local Pesmerge military unit had volunteered to speak to them and perhaps intrigue them into joining the army. While everyone sat Indian style, she stood at the edge of the Oriental rug. Her arms were crossed behind her back. Her body was a straight line that leaned forward as far as she could without toppling over.

Commander Layila was dressed in a camouflage combat uniform with black attack boots. The black beret hat on her head was meticulously clean and perfectly positioned. Her face was smooth, symmetric, and even. A little makeup touched it up. There was no hiding that she was ten years older than the college freshmen.

"Hi, my name is Layila. I am the commander of the local Pesmerge unit. They call me the Angel of Death by Love. Today, I will tell you how I earned that nickname."

Layila faced the students rapt with attention with earnest intensity.

"When I joined the Pesmerge, we were the first all women unit. We had a lot to prove. The command had given us only basic rifles, hand grenades, water flasks, and blankets. The orders told us to neutralize a band of American soldiers that were hiding in a cave."

"The lay of the land was very much like here. There were tall peaks that only experienced mountain climbers could reach. Beneath the sheer walls was a new layer of rock that was more porous and fragile. Not only did it create softer slopes, it also created a maze of caves."

"We were at the base of a debris slope. The oak trees covered us safely. The top of the debris slope had the black entrance hole of a cave. The infidels were hiding there. Whenever we stepped out of the forest, they sent bullets raining down on us. We could not get above the cave, because the sheer slopes required trained climbing skills and ropes. We didn't have that."

"So, for the whole day, we played a little game. We'd shoot at the black hole high up. Under the cover of fire, we'd move our position. The Americans were smart. They conserved their munitions. Only every once in a while, did a few pops from a sniper rifle send us scurrying back to the protection of the tree line."

"Taking out the Americans would have been easy. A single shoulder launched rocket could have been shot into the cave. The pressure of the explosion in the enclosure would have torn them all to pieces. Our male backup unit was better equipped and let us clearly know how eager they were to take over. However, we were the first all female unit and had to prove that women could do it."