Two Middle East mothers are sitting in a cafe chatting over a plate of tabbouleh and a pint of goat’s milk.
The older of the mothers pulls a bag out of her purse and starts flipping through photos.
And they start reminiscing.
“This is my oldest son Mohammed. He would be 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 Khalid. He would be 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 would be 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?”