Where did we come from and why?  Where are we going and why?

Damascus 1971

The road stretched endlessly in one direction, but it was characterized by the hills and valleys that constantly obstructed its path. The road was wide, its edges indistinguishable, and the driver of the enormous truck, unseen, seemed to sniff out the obstacles along the way.

I was with a group of people, I don't know their exact number, but they were many, and I always feared being reproached by one of them for forgetting them. My memory is weak; I don't remember what our mission is, where we are headed, or where we started from. I don't even know who our leader is, the one we follow. I almost thought once that he was fair-skinned, blond-haired, and blue-eyed, but that didn't last long, for a different kind of man threatened me. The truck we rode in was long and wide, brown in color, with a spacious belly where we lay. We could hear the engine's hum and feel its impact, but we couldn't see it. We used to run around inside this belly, bumping into each other, but it had become too cramped with the load piled up inside, so we were forced to lie down. We expected to be pressed up against our shoulders within a few days, and we could only play in our imaginations, remembering how we were small, like dewdrops, leaping about inside the truck.

Our cargo consisted of books printed with thick and thin black lines that twisted and broke, then joined and twisted again. Among those books in the belly of the enormous truck roaring towards the horizon, heads of various shapes and races peered out. I called out, but no one answered. I longed to hear someone's voice, but that didn't happen, so I fell silent at last. Then, someone called out in a voice that seemed to come from the bottom of a well. I didn't understand what he wanted, and I was surprised at myself for not answering. The man fell silent, and another began calling out, but I was distracted by the pen marks on one of the pages.

I hoisted the book onto my shoulder. My shoulder almost broke; it was so heavy. I took weak, faltering steps and nudged someone with my elbow.

"Tell me what's written on this page."

I waited an hour, but he didn't turn to look at me. I took another step and thrust my foot into someone's thigh.

"Explain these symbols to me."

"You're an idiot! Drop the book off your shoulder. We're on a mission."

"A mission? I'd forgotten! But tell me, what's the mission?"
"I don't know. Ask someone else."

I dropped the book and touched my shoulder, then pressed against someone's leg. "What's the mission?"

"What mission?"
"Where are we going?"
"I don't know, ask the bald man."

I peered at the heads I could see, but not one of them was bald. I moved around, relying on the enormous stacks of books, but I didn't succeed. However, I didn't despair. I was surprised at my movement among people standing erect like statues. I waited for the day to end, but how could it end when the sun was still high in the sky, emitting the stench of sweating bodies despite the stacks of books jostling each other?

When I failed to find the bald man, I said to myself: I must be that man myself.

"Where did we come from? Why? Where are we going? How many passengers are in this truck? Who is our leader? What is our mission?"

I sucked on my lips; they were bitterly dry. I shouted at the top of my lungs, "The mission? What mission?" But my voice was muffled, and the enormous truck kept lurching forward, sometimes flying, sometimes roaring.

As soon as the sun reached its zenith, the vehicle began to sway along a winding road, unlike anything we'd ever seen. We knew it from the way our bodies twisted and turned with it. Then the rattling intensified, and a thunderous sound filled the air.

"The fuel is running low."

I saw tears streaming down some people's cheeks.

"Fuel is running low, and power is limited."
The tears gathered into small puddles. A huge man shouted,

"Let's throw some books!"

A small, squat man started jumping around.

"No! No! This is a valuable book! Don't throw it!"

"Let's throw some books!" A large number of the truck's passengers rushed to throw books out, and this continued until the truck was exhausted.

The brave dwarf pulled out a knife and raised it at the man, trying to stop them from throwing the books, but they lifted him and his knife and threw him, along with the books, out of the truck.

What was around the truck? A completely unknown world.

I said to the man, "We'll go back and get the books we lost."

"We won't go back."

"Why?"
"Because we can't go back."

"Why?"
"Because our mission is only one way."

"Let's stop it."

"When we stop, the mission is over!"

"What mission?"
"How should I know?"

The truck continued on its way. There was a smiling man in front of me, then suddenly he disappeared. I didn't know how he vanished, and when I asked about him, they said they'd accidentally thrown him out of the truck.

"Throw all the books out so we can complete the mission."

"But the mission is these books!" I shouted.

"No!"

"Then why are we carrying books with us?"
"I don't know!"

I found them whispering, then their eyes fixed on my neck. Suddenly, they caught up with me.

"Throw him out of the truck!"
I ran among the books, and every time I hid behind a pile, they threw it out, until we were almost out. I huddled behind the last pile, defiant.

"You can't throw me out!" "We'll throw you and your books out!" "But your mission ends when you throw me and my books out!" The truck swayed precariously on the hard rocks just before sunset, struggling towards the top of the hill.

Just as they lifted the last book and were about to seize me by the neck, the sun set completely, darkness fell, and the truck, bulging with human bodies, slid into an abyss with no bottom.

References: Encyclopedia of Syrian Stories