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 small folder out of her
handbag 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. "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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