The journey began without ceremony.
There were no signs in the sky, no voices to guide him. Only the firm ground beneath
his feet, the sun marking the rhythm of the day, and the silent weight of the calling
that now walked with him. Jonah journeyed eastward, following ancient routes that
merchants and caravans had forged long before he was born.
Each step was a renewed decision.
His body still ached. His skin peeled in places, sensitive to the friction of the salt
hardened cloak. His stomach protested with irregular spasms. Fatigue accumulated
easily. Yet there was something different about his gait: it was neither the proud
march of a self-assured prophet, nor the desperate flight of a frightened man.
It was the slow gait of someone who had been broken… and put back together.
For the first few days, Jonah walked in silence. He didn't pray aloud. He didn't recite
learned words. He let the rhythm of the journey order his mind: the sound of the wind
through the rocks, the crunch of sand under his worn sandals, the steady beat of his
own heart.
Sometimes, the memory of the womb would return with force.The smell.
Absolute darkness.
The certainty that there was no way out.
Each time that happened, Jonah would stop for a moment, take a deep breath, and
gaze at the horizon. The open sky was now his living proof that death had not had the
last word.
"I don't want to forget," he told himself, "but I don't want to live there either."
The road was not kind. The desert stretched out in endless sections, with dry hills and
sharp stones that punished his feet. The sun beat down mercilessly at midday, forcing
him to seek scant shade under stunted bushes or rock formations.
During those brief breaks, Jonah would think.
I was thinking about Nineveh.
The city kept returning to his mind, like a wound that refuses to heal. He
remembered tales of violence, of razed villages, of celebrated cruelty. He had
heard these stories since childhood, had learned to fear and hate them almost as a
sacred duty.
—How can you proclaim mercy to those who have never shown it?—he wondered.
Doubt never left him. Sometimes, his old anger would surface, subtle but persistent.
"What if they repent?" she thought. "What if God forgives them?"
The idea made him more uncomfortable than he was willing to admit.
One afternoon, while walking along the edge of a dry valley, he came across a small caravan. It
consisted of three men and two animals laden with cloth and pottery. Upon seeing him, they
stopped cautiously. Jonah knew what he looked like: his torn cloak, his scarred skin, his
weathered face, and the deep eyes of someone who had seen too much.
— Peace be with you — said one of them, breaking the silence.
—And with you—Jonah replied, in a calm voice.
They shared some water and bread. Jonah ate slowly, gratefully. Each bite
reminded him how close he had come to never feeling hunger again.
"Where are you from?" another man asked.Jonah doubted.
Before, he would have proudly replied, "I am a prophet of the Most High God." Now,
he chose another truth.
— I come from the sea —he said.
The men looked at each other, confused. One chuckled softly, thinking it was a
metaphor. Jonah didn't explain further. He didn't need to.
—And where are you going?—they insisted.
Jonah looked east.
— To a big city —he replied—. To say words I didn't choose.
That response silenced them. After an awkward moment, they said their goodbyes and went
their separate ways. Jonah watched them walk away, thinking about how many people carried
visible burdens… and how many more carried invisible ones.
As night fell, he lit a small fire. The sky filled with stars, so numerous that it seemed
impossible to count them. Jonah lay down on the cold sand and gazed at them for a
long time.
"They're still there," he murmured. "Even when we don't see them."
He then remembered a simple truth he had overlooked for years: God had not
ceased to rule when he fled. The world had not stopped. Creation did not depend
on his perfect obedience.
That freed him.
— I'm not indispensable —he thought—. I'm a guest.
The invitation, however, was demanding.
The following days continued with the same mix of weariness, reflection, and progress.
Jonah learned to listen to his own thoughts without running away from them.
Whenever resentment toward Nineveh arose, he neither suppressed it nor fed it.
"I don't understand you," he said to God silently. "But I will walk."
One morning, upon waking, he noticed something that unsettled him: he no longer felt the same
fear upon arriving in the city. Instead, there was a strange anticipation.
"What if this isn't just about them?" he thought. "What if there's still something to learn?"The question stayed with him for hours.
In the distance, he began to notice signs of civilization: more defined paths, remnants of old
camps, recent footprints. The road was becoming more traveled. Nineveh was no longer an
abstract idea; it was beginning to become real.
With each step, Jonas felt the weight of the message growing in his chest. He didn't know exactly
what he would say. He didn't know how they would react. He only knew that he had to speak
when the time came.
—Don't embellish it—he told himself. —Don't soften it. Don't control the outcome.
That last part was the most difficult.
One evening at dusk, Jonah climbed a small rise and stopped. He still couldn't see the city,
but he sensed it. The air seemed different, heavy with something invisible yet dense.
He stood there for a while, gazing at the road that stretched out before him. He thought about
the prophet he had been and the man who now walked.
— If you use me — she finally said — let it be even if I don't like the ending.
The wind responded by raising a little dust around him. Jonah smiled wearily.
He didn't need any more signs.
He descended the hill and continued on his way.
The East was no longer a direction.
It was obedience in motion.
And very soon, the walls of Nineveh would rise before him, forcing him to confront
not only an enemy city, but the last corner of his own heart that still resisted
mercy.