Two Muslim mothers
Two Muslim mothers are sitting in a cafe chatting over a pint of goat’s milk. The older of the mothers pulls her bag out starts flipping through photos and they start reminiscing.
“This is my oldest son,Mohammed. He’s 24 years old now.”
“Yes, I remember him as a baby,” says the other mother, cheerfully.
“He’s a martyr now, though,” the one mother confides.
“Oh, so sad, my dear,” says the other.
“And this is my second son, Kalid. He’s 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 one mother, quietly.”
“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 is 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 says: “They blow up so fast, don’t they? “
