>Two mothers are sitting in an Al Qaeda controlled Mid East cafe were chatting over a pint of goat's milk. The older of the mothers pulls her bag out and starts flipping through pictures and they start eminiscing.
>"This is my oldest son Mohammed. He's 24 years old now."
>"Yes, I remember him as a baby" says the other mother cheerfully.
>"He's a martyr now, though" mum confides.
>"Oh so sad dear," says the other.
>"And this is my second son Kalid. He's 21."
>"Oh, I remember him," says the other happily, "he had such curly hair when he was born."
>He's a martyr, too," says mum quietly.
>"Oh gracious me," says the other.
>"And this is my third son. My baby. My beautiful Ahmed. He's 18," she whispers.
>"Yes," says the friend enthusiastically. "I remember when he first started school."
>"He's a martyr, also" says mum, with tears in her eyes.
>After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Muslim mother looks wistfully at the photographs and says...

"They blow up so fast, don't they?"