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
'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
'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?'
Our Constitution needs to be used less as a shield
for the guilty and more as a sword for the victim.