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 bag out of her purse and start’s 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 sad dear’ 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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