There were two roads to get to the Syrian border from my hometown. One was very empty- a maintenance route crossing a high peak of Barouk mountain, right below a tall lonely antenna- and dangerous.

My dad chose this route when there was shelling on the other more popular and populated road.

“This is the tanks route,” I heard our driver tell my dad as he pointed to a tiny gravel road at the edge of a steep slope.

I did not know whose tanks he referred to: the Syrians’, Lebanese’, or Israelis’? Or when or how often those tanks passed there. All I wondered was how tanks could possibly ride those windy and icy cliff-edge roads, and how neat it would’ve been to watch them, from where I was.

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