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.