The Guardian of the present E-Book

Mustapha Bouktab

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Guardian of the present
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 435

Beschreibung

Immerse yourself in a universe where the boundaries between reality and fiction become blurred, offering a tale that is both spellbinding and enlightening. The central characters in this fantastic autofiction, imbued with a palpable humanity, stand like intangible walls against the dark forces, driven by an unshakeable quest for the peace of civilisations. Where universal love transcends barriers, it becomes more than a feeling: it becomes a power capable of illuminating souls and changing destinies. Embark on a journey of initiation, rich in mysticism, where each stage is a resonance of the sacrifices, passions and determinations that unite the protagonists from the farthest reaches of the Earth. Under the aegis of the Guardian of the Present, Moussafir, explore the twists and turns of the past. This exploration will lead you to question the veracity of history as it has been passed down, perhaps revealing buried truths. As the pages turn, key figures from the sacred texts emerge, not just as witnesses to their time, but as mirrors, reflecting bold ideas and provoking deep introspection.

Leseprobe

Dedication

« I dedicate this book to my wonderful Sena, who came through the darkness to emerge into the light, becoming even stronger and better. »

To all those who have experienced the worst,

Watching life slip away, unable to say anything,

Those who have traveled into the depths of darkness,

Who let their bodies and souls be tortured,

Their hands clasping a bar, under the darkness,

And above, the beginnings of a ray of light,

Weakened, their hands want to let go at the sound of a terrible funeral echo,

And then, hope is reborn, one elbow passes and the other follows with the strength of a prayer,

Never doubt your magical abilities,

Always stand up and fight in tragic situations.

Mustapha Bouktab

Table of contents

Introduction :

CHAPTER I: Recruitment

Part I: Military service

Part Two: Major Beaufrère

CHAPTER II: Egypt and the Sheikh

CHAPTER III: Abigael and Jerusalem

CHAPTER IV: Angèle and Geneva

CHAPTER V: The CERN gate

CHAPTER VI: Travel

CHAPTER VII: The Battle of the Septuagint

Afterword :

Acknowledgement :

Introduction

« It's easier to believe in nothing when you have everything than to believe in everything when you have nothing. »

Mr Bouktab

At the heart of this work, as if in the depths of a labyrinth, we discover the central character, Moussafir, whose first name, in Arabic, sounds like a promise : "the traveler". Prepare to embark on a fascinating journey, an adventure that transcends the boundaries of time, transporting you through eras past, present and future.

These journeys, shaped by fiction mixed with reality, were much more than mere experiences. They acted like a key, opening the doors of my perception and waking me from the deep sleep into which materialistic modernity lulls us from childhood. Like most of us, I've been conditioned by school teachings and shaped by the influence of mass media and social networks, which promote capitalist and consumerist dogmas. The recipe is a clever one : mix 50% lies with 50% truths to instill doubt. This cocktail is both ingenious and diabolical. Doubt is an easy seed to sow in your mind, and its daily watering, in subtle drops, encourages its proliferation, occupying all the space until it reshapes your thinking. You are thus deprived of your free will, the key to your freedom. Doubt, in its various forms, is a formidable adversary, and the ego is its cloudy reflection, agitated in the troubled waters of purity.

I understand how hard it is to imagine that we have been manipulated from our earliest childhood, deceived until our last breath. Reading this book will raise doubts in many of you, a perfectly natural reaction. I myself was at one time a Cartesian, as advocated by this philosophy, which also shares some of the responsibility for our conditioning. However, you have not only the right to doubt, but also the duty to think for yourself, to examine what you read. This introspection will guide you towards the understanding that there are other perspectives, which have been consciously hidden from you, because they could have led you to new horizons. Deconstructing a way of thinking that we've carried with us for generations, passed down through our genes and reinforced by constant conditioning, is as tricky as the realization that our thoughts, after all, don't really belong to us.

I may also be sowing a seed of doubt in your mind by sharing these words, but let me reassure you that there are beneficial seeds at the root of a much deeper and brighter perception of the world. This book may well be a light for some of you. It's time to dispel the darkness of our minds and let in the light.

Man, plunged into doubt, sees himself stripped of his beliefs, estranged from his roots, wandering through life like a naked soul, deprived of his protective shields. Yet he remains convinced that he holds some or all of the truth. No matter what he thinks he thinks, in reality, he thinks what others want him to think. As the famous maxim goes, "Cogito, ergo sum" (I think, therefore I am), and as a result, he ultimately becomes what society expects him to be. The individual loses himself in the whirlwind of his material desires, forgetting the essential, that essence which cannot be bought or touched, that element which constitutes everything and fills the void. Nothing is empty when we possess it, and everything is full when this element resides within us. Self-belief, that essential key, opens many doors. It represents the crucial starting point for approaching the essential. This vast subject intrudes on many circumstances. To embark on the journey of rebirth, we must first and foremost believe in ourselves, and imbue ourselves with this deep conviction, before venturing out into new horizons to rewrite the history of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

There are many ways to travel through time. The simplest method involves recalling the past by closing our eyes and jumping back in time. We can also use videos or old photos to awaken old memories, but this approach remains limited by our past experiences. You can never go back to a time you didn't live through. Travelling to the future is also possible through thought, by imagining what you could be or experience in various situations, but this remains confined to the imaginary. Whatever direction you try to move time in, past or future, you'll always find yourself confronted with the present moment. To truly experience time travel, you need to be in tune with the present moment. This moment is eternal, as it is neither born nor dies.

Imagine a straight line, with the present moment in the center, the past to the left and the future to the right. To move towards the past or the future, you need to take this present moment with you. Next, visualize points above and below this line, representing the past and the future, forming a multitude of infinite points. If you connect the past point at the top left to the central point, and connect the latter to the future point at the bottom right, you get a straight line. Repeat this process, connecting the past point at bottom left to the future point at top right, and you'll get a cross.

Like a bow tie. Finally, by connecting these points with curves and extending far beyond, you create the symbol of infinity, with the present moment at its center.

So we travel only within the present moment, in an eternal present. Time travel consists of passing through doors and passages that allow us access to this present moment, thus authorizing us to explore the past and the future. I became aware of this when I read a passage in the Koran where God calls Mary, the mother of Jesus, "sister of Aaron", with no further explanation of her lineage. We know that Aaron was Moses' brother and that their sister was also called Mary. Does this reference suggest that we're talking about the same Mary, even though the times of Moses and Jesus don't correspond? Is it conceivable that Mary traveled through time, having lived in different eras, even in other realities?

For me, this question is of unfathomable depth and deserves serious consideration. The universe is infinite, and no one can conceive of limits, for what lies beyond these boundaries, and how could it be represented? My story begins with a return to my own past, outlining my extraordinary journey that slowly opened a door to deeper perception. In the words of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, "You can only see well with your heart. What is essential is invisible to the eyes." Understanding the present moment and the mechanisms of time also lifts our hearts. I was able to approach this long-sought door through a series of gradual reflections that prompted me to question my beliefs.

Dear readers, I invite you on an even deeper journey through my adventures, as well as a deeper introspection. You will meet fascinating characters who, I hope, will awaken in you an even deeper love for your fellow man, regardless of their beliefs, customs and traditions. The essence of this book lies in the unification of mankind into a single people, called to learn to love their neighbors without judgment, regardless of their appearance or faith. Together, they will have to fight against the demons and dark forces that try to hinder the path to benevolence and absolute happiness for all.

Remember that, although the adventures in this book may seem real, they remain fiction. Everyone is free to interpret the truth in their own way, and every reader can dive even deeper into this quest for understanding and meaning.

CHAPTER I

Recruitment

Part One

Military service

« There are 3 kinds of intelligence : human intelligence, animal intelligence and military intelligence. »

Aldous Huxley

At the dawn of 1991, a sense of inner transformation began to take shape within me, comparable to a quietly flowing river that conceals unfathomable depths. At the age of 20, a precocious maturity was apparent in my gestures and in my eyes. My smile, though modest, betrayed a complexity of emotions, amplified by the depth of my brown eyes. My hair, brushing my shoulders, added to the image of a young man already firmly rooted in his convictions. The precision with which I trimmed my beard testified to an inner discipline and introspection that went far beyond the superficiality of youth.

France, my cradle, had been the silent witness of my early years. However, an inner call, carried by the whisper of my Algerian and Berber origins, constantly reminded me of the importance of my roots. The sweet melody of the Kabyle language, ancestral traditions and the immeasurable love of my parents were the pillars on which I leaned, guiding me in the quest for my own identity.

My military service took me to the 74th artillery regiment in Bourogne, in the Territoire de Belfort, a place where seriousness and responsibility took on their full meaning. This bastion of defense, known as the "Quartier Ailleret", specialized in nuclear missiles. Far from being an insignificant assignment, it made me wonder: was it a matter of chance, or a path mapped out by an invisible hand? Even if I didn't yet have all the answers, each moment seemed to be a decisive step in shaping my destiny.

As soon as I entered the barracks, a shiver of anxiety ran through me. Despite myself, my eyes scanned the faces around me, looking for a skin tone similar to mine, a first name that didn't sound typically French. Why this reflex? Hadn't I grown up here, in France, lulled by its songs and stories? Why, then, this feeling of strangeness? The idea of "integration" seemed to me an insult. Wasn't I already at home? I wanted to believe that my true integration was that of a citizen of the world, aware of and respectful of multicultural riches.

The gazes of the engaged, both curious and surprised, weighed on me. Every whisper, every exchange of glances filled me with growing concern. Did I look so different? My heart beat faster, hoping to discern, among this sea of uniforms, another individual sharing my origins.

But with the exception of a sergeant with a distinctly swarthier complexion, I felt isolated. His name, embroidered on his jacket, ended in a "u". In a fit of familiarity, I mistakenly assumed he was of Turkish origin. This misunderstanding, though innocent, was a source of mockery among the enlisted men. The sergeant, with fiery pride in his eyes, revealed himself to be Corsican. My mistake, however small, gave a different color to my days under his command, making my national service more complex and intense.

I'm assigned to the blue battery, each section having its own hue. This one reminds me of a calm sea, but the first moments indicate a much more tumultuous challenge. As a gunner, my kit is handed to me with a certain indifference, but it's the pair of rangers, one size smaller than mine, that seems determined to imprint each step with a persistent pain.

I've barely had time to get my bearings when the battery captain, with a hint of urgency in his voice, orders me to go and see the security commander. I obey, although the tension is palpable. The corridor leading to his office seems to lengthen with every step I take, as if the army wanted to put me to the test right from the start.

A pause in front of the commandant's door. I knock, wait, silence. The minutes drag on, each second weighing down like an eternity. Finally, his hoarse, dry voice invites me in. I enter the room and am greeted by the strong smell of alcohol, permeating the atmosphere. The man standing before me has a flushed complexion and a face marked by the stigmata of drink. His semisquare glasses rest low on his nose, forcing a scrutinizing upward gaze that accentuates the wrinkles on his forehead.

His breath reeks of alcohol, reinforcing the aura of contempt that emanates from him. It's a latent racism, exacerbated no doubt by his inner demons and the alcohol coursing through his veins. He doesn't see the soldier in front of him, only the origin of my North African roots.

– There must have been a mistake. You don't belong here. We don't want curlies in this battery. I'll arrange for you to be transferred somewhere else," he growls in a voice hoarse with drink. Every syllable is poisoned by his aversion, made all the more venomous by his excesses.

In the face of such animosity, my boxing background is a precious ally. I've learned to take not only physical blows, but also the more vicious ones that target the mind and soul. This man is trying to get to me, but his words slide over me like clumsy, desperate blows.

Back in the battery, community service is a constant for me. Polishing the toilets, cleaning the floors, the obvious intention is to push me to the limit. And the Corsican sergeant, whom I nickname Filiglandu, delights in increasing the pressure, taking a malicious pleasure in complicating my existence. However, my fellow conscripts, with a few exceptions, prove to be a lifeline. Between us, a camaraderie is born, based on humor and mutual support.

Every day, I fight to prove that I am first and foremost a soldier, a man devoted to his country, regardless of his origins. And, despite the obstacles, I remain determined to demonstrate that the true strength of an army lies in the unity of its members, not in the color of their skin.

Weeks go by, and I remain here, safe from any punitive assignments in Germany, thanks be to Heaven. My time is entirely devoted to mastering the handling of weapons, a field in which I shine with remarkable mastery. The adjutant, himself experienced, is often stunned by my precision and marksmanship. Every shot becomes a meticulous dance, a symphony of expertise and concentration. I can blow up a 5-franc coin with the Famas, the assault rifle from the Saint-Étienne arms factory, without a scope, at a distance of 150 meters. The trigger, under my finger, becomes an extension of my soul, an extension of my will. With an automatic pistol (AP), I shoot flawlessly at 50 meters, without the slightest hesitation. My talent is not limited to firearms; I also handle edged weapons with impressive dexterity.

During close-combat exercises with the captain, who teaches us in detail how to neutralize a sentry in wartime, I always volunteer. It's at times like these that I realize the crushing weight of responsibility that rests on our shoulders as soldiers.

Every move, every decision, can have deadly consequences. It's a macabre ballet where every move can mean life or death. In the captain's eyes, I can see his frustration at my superiority. He passes on his knowledge with respect, knowing that I'm a sponge thirsting for skill, ready to soak up every drop of experience.

During physical exercise and sports, my brilliance persists. I remember with pride running 4400 metres in the Cooper in just 12 minutes and covering 100 metres in 10 seconds, setting records that testify to my commitment and athletic talent. Every step, every jump, every climb is an affirmation of my inner power. Climbing the steep slopes of the small mountains of Fort du Lomont seems to me a mere formality. My breath is attuned to the rhythm of nature, my strength fused with the rock. I cross the obstacle course with a bag of stones that seems lighter than a feather, because determination can lighten any burden.

They see me as the physically perfect soldier, but I stubbornly refuse the path of a military career. I don't want to conform to their standardized model. Every day in this environment reinforces my sense of alienation. The army can't contain my indomitable spirit, my thirst for freedom and justice.

The memory of a trip to Fort du Lomont is etched deep in my mind. Everything took place in total darkness. At the entrance, we had to hold on to a rope fixed along the wall. It was imperative not to let go, to simply follow it. Every step was a challenge, every breath a brutal reminder of our vulnerability. Along the way, we had to overcome various obstacles, relying solely on our senses, as sight was forbidden. The darkness was oppressive, like a palpable presence trying to engulf us. The course was around 600 meters long, but it seemed endless. It wasn't just the darkness that made the ordeal difficult, but also the racist insults, the kicks and punches to which I was subjected without being able to defend myself. I was called "dirty Arab" and "bougnoule" all along the route, words laden with hatred that left an indelible mark on my mind. The glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, in this dark course, became a metaphor for hope and freedom. When I reached the end of the path, I saw a glimmer in the distance, the reflection of the moon illuminating the only exit through an opening in the stone of the old fort. It was the culmination of my efforts, the exit from this endless hell.

Yet suddenly, before I could catch my breath, I heard voices behind me :

– Go ahead, eat that filthy Arab, eat him!

I didn't understand what was happening to me. Shockingly, two huge, muzzled German shepherds pounced on me, growling loudly, their weight crushing me. The two career brigadiers holding them on leashes seemed to take unhealthy pleasure in my panic. They kept calling me all sorts of offensive names. Yet I remained calm. I refused to be part of that minority of people who easily generalize every injustice they suffer.

For me, it was clear: I was dealing with a group of isolated fools, who in no way represented the enlightened and benevolent beings I was to meet more often along the way.

This ordeal, though traumatic, strengthened my resolve to resist oppression and find my way in a world filled with diversity and compassion, far from the hatred and xenophobia I was to encounter during my time in the army. My story was taking shape, and I intended to make it a story of courage, perseverance and unity.

That night, an intimate realization came over me. To triumph over the insurmountable mountain-like trials that lay before me, I plunged into the depths of my being in search of indomitable strength. I learned to cherish patience, not as a mere virtue, but as a precious commodity. I endured with unparalleled perseverance, aware that every moment counted. My battle was not against external enemies, but against my own doubts and fears.

In this silent war, unshakeable resilience was essential to ensure that adversity had no foothold. The Blue Battery was on alert, a simulation designed to immerse us in a false reality of attacks. Three teams were on duty, each facing its own challenges. My group, the first, had to be ready in a matter of minutes, without ever taking off its rangers. The second had 15 minutes, with the option of taking off their shoes, while the third had an hour, enjoying a semblance of comfort. At regular intervals, we swapped places, offering a brief respite from the oppressive night.

Sergeant Filiglandu, the non-commissioned officer on guard duty, was an inflexible authority figure. For obvious reasons, probably my mistaking him accidentally for a Turk, I had become his favorite target. Constantly on the alert, fatigue gnawed at me. At the slightest hint of sleepiness, he would reprimand me by forcing me to do a round of the DAMS, a tortuous 8-kilometer forest trail. Winter compounded the difficulty, between the bitter cold and the mud sticking to every step. Along with my pack and Famas, a heavy box of ammunition was added to my load. Four times that night, he pushed me to my limits. More than once, the temptation to grab a magazine and finish off the sergeant crossed my mind. However, drawing on my reserves, I dismissed this dark thought.

In the amalgam of faces and personalities of my colleagues, Lobozec stood out. He was a young man with an ethereal, almost evanescent physique, with only a bold goatee evoking the contours of an enigmatic goatee. His eyes, small and luminous, searched the world through dense lenses that hinted at nothing of its inner mysteries, but suggested a battle with ocular demons.

Lobozec was a fervent defender of life. His humanism was evident in his reluctance to harm even an ant, a manifestation of his profound philosophy of respect for all existence. He refrained from consuming flesh, preferring to align himself with nature, of which he was a learned scholar. Our dialogues with him were like journeys of initiation, profound discoveries of the interconnections between all living beings. He had a theory, based on the ubiquity of H2O, suggesting that all living things, whether human, animal, vegetable or mineral, share a common essence, a universal vibration, and that we can all communicate and feel through emotions.

What always intrigued me was the inconsistency between his fragile, almost vulnerable stature and the vastness of his thought. Why was such an alert mind never relieved of its obligations? Every day with him was a lesson, a reminder that mind and body can fight different battles. Unfortunately, his pacifist aspirations were at odds with some of the tasks he had to perform, such as standing guard next to the dreaded Pluto missile-launching tanks. His presence, a blend of silent eloquence and profound humanity, left an indelible imprint on my soul.

This guard duty was carried out in 2-hour shifts, and sometimes the reserve officer would come and test us to identify any weaknesses. The officer would enter the area and advance in our direction. We were in possession of a Famas loaded with live ammunition, but fortunately sealed for safety. When someone entered the area, they had to answer the password of the day. For example, if I said "Montélimar", they had to answer "Montbéliard", and if they didn't answer with the right password, they had to be warned three times to "Halt or I'll shoot!

That evening-, Lobozec was unfairly tested. He was already struggling to cope with the heavy weight of the Famas and the vest, and would not accept violence or provocation. The officer entered the area abruptly and advanced towards him with rapid steps. In a trembling, worried and tormented voice, Lobozec called out the evening's password:

– Montélimar!

He repeats it tirelessly. Receiving no response, he begins the summons, in a worried, hesitant voice:

– Stop or I'll shoot!

The officer, disguised as an intruder, quickened his pace in his direction, still seeing the leaded weapon, not chambered by the first cartridge. Lobozec suddenly panicked, unsure of how to react to the situation, put his gun on the ground and took off running. As a result of this mistake, and in full view of the officer, he received a severe dressing-down and a few days in the brig. I've never been able to digest what was done to my friend, and I was very angry with the officer who took advantage of poor Lobozec's weakness.

One night, strangely enough, I was assigned to this ZS (sensitive zone) guard. I found myself in the same conditions as my friend Lobozec, until the same officer decided to enter the zone to test me. He enters, walking towards me at a brisk pace. I say "Montluceau". He's supposed to answer "Mont-Bart" but doesn't, so I give him a warning :

– Halt or I'll fire!

He decides to take a few more steps in my direction, unhappily, I've already cocked my gun and cracked the seal, so I point it at him. He immediately stops, repeating Mont-Bart over and over again. I don't lower my weapon though, and keep him in my sights. He's blue with worry and keeps telling me to lower my gun.

So I decide to teach him a lesson he won't soon forget. I remind him of what he did to my friend. For that, he deserves to pay the price. I explain to him that I'm going to put a bullet between his eyes, and all I'll have to do is say that I mistook him for a Russian enemy, as Russian infiltration was feared in those days. He then starts begging me not to mess around and to come to his senses. I take the opportunity to bring him to his knees and force him to apologize to Lobozec. He does so immediately and without a moment's hesitation. I can see his pulse quickening in his throat.

That evening, my eyes turned black with anger. I knew deep down that I'd reacted badly, but I had the distinct impression that my friend Lobozec represented all humanity, and that this officer had taken revenge on himself, in turn taking revenge on poor Lobozec. It was clear that this man was not at ease with himself, and that he was taking revenge on himself by attacking the weakest. He left trembling, thinking he'd come very close to death.

That evening, in the cold moonlight, he saw reflected in my eyes all the hatred and injustice that had built up, day after day, since my arrival in this barracks devoured by prejudice and cruelty. He realized, as I held him at gunpoint, that my anger was not a passing fire, but a bubbling lava, ready to engulf everything in its path. That night, he glimpsed his own end, and understood that the discharge of my weapon was separated from him only by the thin membrane of my human restraint.

As the weeks wore on, monotonous and relentless, the cold indifference and contemptuous gaze of the career NCOs drove a wedge between me and the rest of the world. Nevertheless, I found a semblance of comfort in the discreet benevolence of the majority of conscripts, who like me, sought to maintain a semblance of humanity in a place that sought to deprive us of it.

One day, the drug plague infiltrated the walls of the barracks, offering an illusory escape to those whose souls were too heavy to bear. Although the dealer's face was known to all, a silent, unspoken code reigned, a silent pact of solidarity in misery. But rumors, those devious snakes, found easy prey in me, the only North African face in a sea of conformity.

When the gendarmes turned up, rummaging through my belongings with contemptible vigor, part of me wanted to cry out the injustice of the situation, to point the finger at the real culprit. But silence was my shield, my pride, my clear line of demarcation between right and wrong. I would not be reduced to a mere informer, a shadow of my former self.

They threw me into the "hole", a small square house with a flat concrete roof, made of 4 walls with a window without glass and bars at every point of the compass. There's no stopping the wind and the cold, which relentlessly rush in through the gaps, leaving me freezing. I've never been to prison in my life, and I can tell you that when I imagined my poor friend Lobozec here in my place during his stay, I didn't regret my decision to put a gun to the head of the duty officer.

That evening, looking out the glassless window at an indifferent sky, I realized that my anger was not directed at a man, but at a system that crushed innocence and justice under the weight of conformity and cruelty. In the pale moonlight, I vowed never to become like them, never to let my light be extinguished in the darkness that surrounded us.

In this place of isolation, where time seemed to stand still, I discovered unsuspected depths. Ten days, not of punishment, but of awakening. What I had once perceived as limits was transformed into a vast, unexplored universe, an invitation to know myself and embrace the complexity of my being.

Every crack in the walls, every fiber in the old mattress told a dark, heart-rending story, a symphony of silent pain. The atmosphere breathed of experience, of despair, but in these interstices I found beauty in imperfection, strength in fragility. In this little corner of the world, in the midst of darkness and desolation, I caught a glimpse of the spark of humanity that resides in all of us.

The bed, simple and rustic, bore the marks and memories of the exhausted souls who had gone before me, each creaking spring telling a chapter of their lives. The table and chair seemed to be relics of a bygone era, mute witnesses to so many moments of solitude and contemplation.

The gray blankets, though rough and inhospitable, enveloped me in a strange embrace, reminding me every night that even in adversity, there was a certain comfort, a strange familiarity. This room, though devoid of charm and warmth, became a sanctuary, a place where the soul could weep freely, where tears could flow without judgment.

Liberation from this den did not bring the joy I had anticipated. The outside world greeted me with its invisible chains, persistent prejudices and relentless pace. Despite the challenges, every scornful glance, every thankless task, I stood my ground, fortified by my inner journey. Each day that passed on my calendar was a silent celebration of my resilience, a tribute to my ability to remain dignified in a world that often refused to see me as I am.

When I was given the task of co-piloting the Chmog, (military vehicle) I welcomed this responsibility with quiet grace. Although my position was dictated by insidious prejudices, I found peace in the simplicity of the tasks assigned to me. In the preparation of meals, in the echo of laughter around the fire, I found a communion, a sense of belonging that transcended the barriers imposed by others.

In this universe, where I was neither allowed to touch the missiles nor get close to the tank, I found an unexpected freedom. Free to be myself, free to explore my inner self without hindrance, free to dream of a future where the boundaries of race and ethnicity would be dismantled, making way for a shared, unified humanity.

As I watched my comrades exhaust themselves in physically demanding tasks, I felt a strange satisfaction. For once, in this world of hierarchies and discrimination, I was the envy, the holder of a silent serenity and inner strength that no one could take away from me.

That evening, as dusk approached, an all-consuming stomach ache seized me, cruel and relentless. I try to contain the pain, but to no avail. Urgency drives me away from camp, in search of some much-needed relief.

We're camped near the woods, on the outskirts of the village of Jeanne d'Arc, and unlike my colleagues who take a roll of paper with them, I've always preferred a simple bottle of water. They often make fun of my choices.

That evening, as I wander off in search of privacy, I hear their laughter and conspiratorial whispers echoing behind me. Fearing their potential jokes, I go deeper and deeper into the forest. Night falls quickly, and my anxiety grows. My hair stands on end, goose bumps invade my arms. The urgency becomes palpable, obliterating everything else from my consciousness.

In my haste, I cross a low wall without even paying attention. My relief is immediate, almost ecstatic, having waited so long. However, once the urgency has subsided, I suddenly realize that my feet are resting on something hard, like a concrete slab, right in the heart of the forest. Then a moonbeam breaks through the gray clouds, illuminating the spot where I'm standing.

And there, in front of me, was a vision as terrifying as it was unexpected: Jesus, crucified on a cross, drops of blood beading from his wounded wrists, a crown of thorns thrust upon his head. Panic seizes me, causing me to stagger backwards, overwhelmed by fear and shame. Regret washes over me as I realize, too late, that I've found myself in a cemetery, committing an unforgivable act, unintentionally desecrating a sacred grave.

In my terror, I run away, trying to pull up my trellis in my haste. My footsteps lead me through the forest towards the camp, while fear, panic and embarrassment overwhelm me. What I've done is inexcusable, and the face of the representation of Jesus, even though I know it's a statue, remains frozen in my memory. The memory obsesses me, haunting my nights relentlessly. Once back at the barracks, I shut myself away even more, unable to get over this awful, shameful adventure that continues to haunt me.

Habits, with their constant procession of scornful glances, resume their grip on my life. Suddenly, news of the break-in at the mess store spreads like wildfire. Guess who's immediately singled out, since I've become the barracks' designated scapegoat for injustice. A thorough search, a relentless interrogation, and here I am again, sentenced to 10 days' confinement. This time, my temper flared. This decision, this punishment, are blatant injustices.

To comfort myself, I convince myself that this has come at the right time, as if it were a deserved punishment for the shameful act I unwittingly committed on that grave on that night of the full moon. I lose myself in reflections on the meaning of it all. Why has fate led me to such an embarrassing and shameful experience? I refuse to believe in chance. In my eyes, every action, direct or indirect, has consequences, happy or tragic, and everything resurfaces in the end. Everyone pays their share of the bill, whether it's sweet or bitter. Despite my youth, I meditate deeply.

A childhood memory comes to mind. At elementary school, in CM2 class, my teacher, Monsieur Jacquet, would often throw this phrase at me :

– Are you afraid of catching meningitis?

A week later, I found myself in emergency hospital, quarantined because of fulminant meningitis, at just 12 years of age. I survived, but I realized early on that this was no accident. My fear had so nourished my thoughts and emotions that I had unconsciously created my own affliction. This experience, though different, makes me wonder why most people are afraid of cemeteries when, logically, they should be among the safest places.

The dead present no danger ; the only threat comes from the living. Erroneous beliefs have infiltrated our minds and led us astray. The more I think about it, the more my questions become entangled and take unexpected paths. Why, for example, as 21st-century human beings, are we the only mammals to dispose of our waste in water? The toilet bowl is filled with water, and everything ends up in a sewage treatment plant, treated for reuse in domestic purposes. Other land animals fertilize the earth with their excrement, never thinking of dumping it in a river or pond. With the exception of pigs, who sometimes roll in it and even eat it. We're not pigs, or maybe pigs are a bit of us, as science suggests.

This experience forces me into deep introspection. My thoughts are intertwined, and I remain convinced that every act can trigger a reaction, whether in the near or distant future. My mind is in turmoil, haunted by the face of Jesus. I think of Joan of Arc and try to find a link between this shameful experience and these historical figures. Basically, relieving oneself in the middle of nature should be a natural act, but the mistake lay in the choice of location, on a grave. If I had reacted calmly at that moment and cleaned up the grave, if I had apologized to the inhabitants of the cemetery, the situation would probably have been less dramatic.

For me, the most profound lesson to be drawn from these experiences is the need to accept our mistakes, whether they are the fruit of our conscience or emerge from our unconscious. Life is a succession of learnings, and admitting our mistakes is the first step towards meaningful personal growth. This requires a certain humility, as it is sometimes easier to deny our wrongs than to acknowledge them.

Another crucial virtue I've learned is the need to maintain composure in all circumstances. Panic, haste and agitation can often make problems worse, turning them into real catastrophes. By keeping our cool, we can step back, assess the situation with greater clarity and find more effective solutions. It takes self-control and patience, but the results are worth the effort.

What's more, I keep meditating on the fact that no matter where we are in life, God is always present. He sees all, He knows all. This implies immense responsibility for our actions, whether good or bad. It reminds us that integrity is essential, even when no one else is watching. It's a constant reminder of the need to act with honesty and rectitude, not to succumb to the temptation of dissimulation or deception.

One of the most powerful lessons I've learned is that it's essential to right our wrongs immediately. When we commit an injustice or a mistake, whatever its nature, it's imperative to correct it as soon as possible. Allowing an injustice or mistake to persist is like allowing gangrene to take hold, and sooner or later it can lead to far more serious consequences. Prompt redress is synonymous with responsibility and integrity.

Finally, I'm constantly thinking about the notion of cause and effect. I'm convinced that our actions, no matter how small, have direct or indirect repercussions. This conviction drives me to meditate on each of my actions and words. Each of them can provoke a reaction, positive or negative, in the short or long term.

Part two

Major Beaufrère

« In the ocean of encounters, every drop is important. »

Simon Lafarge

While I remain confined to my cell, with another five long days to serve before regaining my freedom, my mind wanders in search of answers and understanding. My thoughts follow one another, overlapping, creating a whirlwind of questions to which I try to find answers.

Then, suddenly, the heavy door of my cell creaks open. A man enters the room. He's dressed in civilian clothes, but as soon as he crosses the threshold, his military aura shines through unmistakably. He's a very different presence from those I'm used to seeing around the barracks. Of medium height, his slender, athletic physique seems to have not aged a day. A sense of humility emanates from him, underlined by his refined upbringing, and his smile radiates confidence and serenity.

He introduces himself as Major Beaufrère. At this point, I remain suspicious as to the veracity of this name. He approaches me and extends his right hand. As our hands meet, he adds the warmth of his left hand over mine. His grip is firm, reassuring. He keeps our hands linked, waiting patiently for me to offer him a smile in return. Despite my initial reserve, I can't help but let out a slight smile, which finally convinces him to release my hand.

However, he still seems to be searching for something, as if seeking a deeper connection. He then puts both hands on my shoulders, adopting the attitude of a father towards his son. This closeness and benevolence are hard to reject, especially when you've only been around for 20 years. My mistrust fades, and I reply that I'm fine. It's then that I find the strength to ask him who he really is and why he's come all the way to my cell. I assume he must be a gendarmerie officer, and my mind races to imagine what could have happened in the barracks to justify his presence here.

His answer, though simple, is loaded with meaning. He's here to free me, to tear me away from this prison that has been my world for these interminable days. But he goes even further. He's the ambassador of words I never thought I'd hear in this situation : an apology. In the meantime, the culprits of the drug deal and the burglary have been identified and apprehended, dispelling the shadows that had been unfairly hanging over me. The truth has finally triumphed, and Major Beaufrère embodies the glimmer of hope that pierces the darkness of injustice.

So he invites me to the officers' mess to have lunch with him, so we can talk and get to know each other better. Arriving at the officers' mess, I was overwhelmed by discomfort. The contemptuous glances of the career NCOs, whom I nicknamed "lice" at the time, came from all sides, making me deeply uncomfortable. Major Beaufrère immediately sensed my discomfort and managed to reassure me.

His extraordinary politeness and comforting presence make a strong impression. He handles words with respect, and his attitude exudes a strength of character that naturally commands respect. I'm torn between admiration, a feeling of awe and a certain mistrust. I gobble down the dishes served to me like a starving man discovering food for the first time. The difference between the officers' mess and the conscripts' refectory is like that between day and night. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed such a hearty, tasty meal. As I feast, the Major watches me with an enigmatic gaze, imbued with compassion and understanding. He knows I'm hungry and that this is not the ideal moment to engage in deep conversation.

Major Beaufrère seems to already have a thorough knowledge of me, as if there had been a previous meeting that I'd forgotten. At the end of the meal, I have the feeling that he has been nourished by my presence at the table, as he has eaten almost nothing. He then suggests we retire to his office for a coffee.

I follow quietly, watching him walk with his hands crossed behind his back, leaning slightly forward. His gait reminds me of the famous Inspector Colombo. Once outside the door of the Security Commander's office, I freeze, remembering the warnings he had given me on my arrival. I'm not thrilled about entering this office. Major Beaufrère still senses my hesitation. Without knocking, he opens the door with a benevolent smile, allaying my fears. The scene that unfolds next warms my heart and soothes my worries. The Security Commander, seated behind his desk, rises abruptly, as if he's seen the devil himself, when he spots the Major. The latter gives him a curt order :

– Hopopop, come on, move it. Get out of here!

I don't immediately understand what's going on. The Major obeys without protest, leaving the office without a word. The Major beckons me to sit in the armchair opposite his desk, then moves another armchair closer to mine. He calls the Major back and asks him to bring two coffees. The scene of the Major bringing me my coffee and placing it on his own desk remains engraved in my memory. Relieved at last, I no longer feel indignation. The Major orders the Major to leave, closing the door behind him. Seated opposite me, the Major gently stirs his coffee with a delicacy that catches my attention. He then dips his spoon into my cup and stirs my coffee too. After placing the spoon on the rim of his cup, he hands me mine, wishing me a pleasant cup of coffee. Never before have I been served a coffee with such care and attention. I'm totally taken aback, torn between gratitude and concern. To me, all this kindness must be hiding something. I've always been convinced that nothing in life is truly free. Sooner or later, we have to pay, whether in money or services, in one way or another. The till, whether it's that of an institution or that of life itself, always catches up with us in the end.

He places both hands on my lap with an energy that seems to transcend the space between us, creating a warm, authentic bond. His gaze, imbued with benevolence, plunges into mine, sparking a whirlwind of emotions within me. He calls me by my first name in a gentle, almost fatherly voice, and asks me to reveal the essence of who I am. His words, carried by deep sincerity, resonate in the air like a soothing melody.

– Moussafir, could you tell me a little about yourself, who you are and what you've been up to. Take all the time you need, I'm here just to listen.

Under her benevolent gaze, I feel overwhelmed by a wave of emotions that have been repressed for too long. Silence sets in, but it doesn't weigh on our shoulders. On the contrary, it creates a space where I can explore the depths of my soul in peace. He withdraws slightly, crossing his legs and his arms over his chest, as if to signal that he's ready to welcome me, without judgment or haste.

– Don't be shy or impressed, I'm here to help and support you.

Yet, despite this benevolence, my thoughts are racing, and I choose to ask him questions, perhaps to temporarily escape the revelation of my own story. I question the necessity of revealing myself when he already seems to know everything about me. My words reflect my deep conviction that since my arrival in this barracks, I've been subjected to carefully orchestrated trials, perhaps with the aim of presenting him as my savior. I express my lucidity about the situation, but my incomprehension remains as to the reason for this masquerade. A shadow looms, but I sense intuitively that it will soon be dispelled. I urge him to get straight to the point, without trying to gain my trust. My frankness doesn't seem to surprise him; on the contrary, it seems to be greeted with silent satisfaction.

– I can't answer you right now. I must leave. However, rest assured that I'll be back soon to discuss a crucial matter with you.

Without providing any further details, he rises, shakes my hand with a firm, comforting handshake, and accompanies me to the exit. Before closing the door behind me, he sends me a sincere wish for a pleasant day, his words sounding like a promise of enlightenment to come. I return to my battery, where the captain informs me that from now on, I'll have to pass all the driving tests to become the chauffeur of a young lieutenant freshly graduated from Saint-Cyr, the military school for noncommissioned officers.

The driving tests were quickly passed, and I was given a P4 vehicle, a small 4x4. The lieutenant I was driving turned out to be a remarkable person, full of respect and great erudition. Despite his seriousness, he knew how to distill a touch of humor into our daily routine, always speaking to me with exquisite politeness, without ever trying to place himself above me, as had often been the case with the other officers.

There's no denying that there's a profound difference between career soldiers, who have worked their way up to become chief warrant officers, and those who graduate from Saint-Cyr. The education and training provided at this prestigious school inculcate profound military values, imbuing officers with a deep respect for others, even enemies. For Saint-Cyr graduates, being a soldier means proudly embodying the values of France : liberty, equality and fraternity. By contrast, those who joined the ranks because they couldn't find their place in society often rejected these values with arrogance and contempt.

I'm thoroughly enjoying my new position, which is growing by the day, and what I find most satisfying are the invaluable conversations I have with the lieutenant. Everything seems to be going so well that I've almost forgotten Major Beaufrère ever existed. However, a little over three months before the end of my military service, he suddenly resurfaces, like a shadow from the past. I notice him from a distance, engaged in a discussion with the lieutenant. He approaches me with his characteristic courtesy and restraint, then suggests that I have lunch with him in the officers' mess. At the insistence of both the major and the lieutenant, I have no choice but to accept.

The three of us make our way to the officers' mess. There, I enjoy my meal with a renewed appetite. It's fascinating to note how the carrot peas in the mess surpass in flavor those served in the conscripts' mess hall. My gustatory pleasure is obvious, and I feel the benevolence of the major, who observes my appreciation of the meal with tenderness. This time, however, a different aura emanates from him, tinged with concern and embarrassment. I sense that his sudden arrival conceals a particular request, and that he is groping for the right words.

He retains an innate elegance reflected in his impeccable clothes, delicate gestures, courteous attitude and upright posture. At the same time, he remains an approachable person, imbued with exemplary savoir-vivre. He's a respected figure, a natural guide to follow, a role model we try to imitate to imbibe his qualities, in the hope of becoming a man as remarkable as he.

Just as on our first meeting, the Major lets me eat in peace, aware that food has the power to captivate me more than conversation at these mealtimes. Once our plates are empty, he suggests a stroll outside, taking advantage of the mild weather at the beginning of March. The sun radiates a gentle warmth that caresses our cheeks and hands, sparing us the need to bury them in our pockets. We walk together towards a path through a forest.

The fresh, invigorating air of the trees, most of which are still bare except for the firs, envelops our senses. The resinous scent of the fir trees is almost intoxicating, to the point of giving me the fleeting urge to walk barefoot on the needle-strewn ground of this fir grove, and lie down on the ground, arms outstretched and legs half-spread, drawing the outlines of an angel. It was then that Major Beaufrère began to ask me several questions at once. He wants to know about my religious convictions, asking me about my faith as a Muslim, and is concerned about my Arabic language skills.

I reply that I'm a Muslim by birth, although my religious practice remains sporadic. However, I point out that I have a perfect command of the Arabic language, both spoken and written. His interest grows, and he wants to know more. I explain that I grew up in a large family of twelve children, including seven sisters and four brothers. The dominant language at home was Kabyle, but my father sent us every Sunday to the Arabic school run by the Besançon consulate. I would add that my mother was a devout churchgoer from an early age, while my father had not yet adopted religious practice at that time. I go on to explain that every Wednesday, we went to the Protestant Temple in Mandeure for catechism classes, thus revealing the diversity of religious influences that marked my childhood. Finally, I confide in him that my religious upbringing was not particularly advanced, as my parents had little religious education, content to perpetuate the rituals and traditions handed down by their ancestors.

– Aren't you interested in learning to pray?