Two Muslim mothers were sitting in a cafe chatting over plates of tabbouleh and two pints of goat's milk. The older of the two pulled a bag out of her purse. She started flipping through photos. Together, they started reminiscing.
"This is my oldest son, Mujib. He would have been 24 years old now."
"Yes, I remember him as a baby."
"He's a martyr now."
"Oh, so sad Dear."
"And this is my second son, Khalid. He would have been 21."
"Oh, I remember him. He had such curly hair when he was a baby."
"He's now a martyr."
"Oh, gracious me . . . "
"And, this is my third son. My baby, my beautiful Ahmed. He would have been 18."
"Yes, I remember when he first started school."
"He's a martyr also."
After a pause and with a deep sigh, the second Muslim mother looked wistfully at the photographs. Searching for the right words she said, "They really blow up so fast, don't they?"