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Two Middle East mothers are sitting in a cafe chatting over a plate of tabouli
and a pint of goat's milk.

The older of the two pulls a small album out of her purse and starts flipping
through photos. They start reminiscing.

"This is my oldest son, Mujibar. He would have been 24 years old now."

"Yes, I remember him as a baby," says the other mother cheerfully.

"He's a martyr now though," the mother confides.

"Oh, so glad, dear. You must be so proud," says the other.

"And this is my second son, Khalid. He would have been 21."

"Oh, I remember him," says the other happily. "He had such curly hair
when he was born."

"He's a martyr too," says the mother quietly.

"Oh, gracious me..." says the other.

"And this is my third son. My baby. My beautiful Ahmed. He would have
been 18," she whispers.

"Yes," says the friend enthusiastically, "I remember when he first started
school."

"He's a martyr also," says the mother, with tears in her eyes.

After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Muslim mother looks wistfully at
the photographs and, searching for the right words, says:
"They blow up so fast, don't they?"
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