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Two Arabs are sitting in a Gaza Strip bar chatting over a pint of fermented goat’s milk. One pulls his wallet out and starts flipping through pictures and they start reminiscing. “This is my oldest son, he’s a martyr.” “This is my second son. He is a martyr also.”
After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Arab says wistfully, “They blow up so fast, don’t they?”
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