The Guardian of the present: The protector of time

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