The children of Israel began as farmers searching for food. They travelled to Egypt, where they found their brother. They were made captives by men who did not know their brother. And now they walk away from Egypt, through the waters on dry ground.

Most stories are told from the front. Even now, I see groups of children being taught, memorising the words of their elders. I see those words written down on sheets of plant and carbon. I see them read again and again—first on fine sheets of wood these people call paper, then on clumsy light-boxes held in their hands. I see them now, sitting in their chairs, reading those lessons passed down through generations. It has its place.

But I walk with the forgotten ones at the back of the group.
Among those who hear rumours before they hear truth.
Among the wounded, the waiting, the overlooked.

I have watched them struggle to believe. I have watched fear masquerade as devotion, and devotion curdle into madness. I have seen men build gods from longing long before they shape them from gold.

These are not tales of perfection. They are stories of becoming. I watch. I remember. And now, I tell.