Two Arab mothers are sitting in a cafe shop in Baghdad, chatting over a pint of warm goat's milk. The older of the mothers pulls her bag out, flips through some pictures and they start reminiscing.
"This is my oldest son Mohammed. He'd be 24 years old."
"Yes, I remember him as a baby," says the other mother cheerfully.
"He's a martyr now, a suicide bomber," says the first mother.
"Oh, so sad dear," says the other.
"And this is my second son, Khalid. He'd 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 mum quietly, "a car bomber."
"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?................"
"This is my oldest son Mohammed. He'd be 24 years old."
"Yes, I remember him as a baby," says the other mother cheerfully.
"He's a martyr now, a suicide bomber," says the first mother.
"Oh, so sad dear," says the other.
"And this is my second son, Khalid. He'd 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 mum quietly, "a car bomber."
"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?................"
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