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.


'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?'

Gordon Shumway

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