You've Got Mail

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 starts 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. 
 
''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?"