Two Extreamist mothers are sitting in a cafe chatting over a pint of goat's milk. The older of the mothers pulls her bag out and 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," mum confides. "Oh, so sad 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 mum 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 mum, with tears in her eyes.
After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Extreamist mother looks wistfully at the photographs and says. "They blow up so fast, don't they?"