The Chwafa

 

I was a technician in the Toujda desalination plant, engaged to a girl I thought I loved and never saw again. Suddenly, in one night, everything fell on me. My world had totally disappeared in a blaze of fire and flames. When it stopped, everyone around me was gone. All traces of the past were gone. 

I found myself alone in the night, drowning in the dark night. Around me, there was not a single building standing, the cities and roads were gone. There was no electricity, no communication, no army, no contact with the rest of the planet. Water covered everything. 

I swam to the mountains. There too, the villages had collapsed, the roads had slid down the slopes. I walked, dizzy, until I couldn't go any further. I had nothing to eat or drink. This was the end.

Some mountain men came down from nowhere. They gave me a drink, carried me to the Chwafa. She healed me by placing her hands on me and speaking magical words. She spoke to the winds, the demons, the forces of the universe. I saw the sky spinning above us. I lost consciousness.

When I woke up, I was in caves. The mountain people were burying the dead with rites that dated back to the beginning of humanity. They laid the corpses on their sides, painted their bones with ochre pigments. The Chwafa conducted the ceremonies, she spoke to the spirits. I was lost, terrorized.

She looked at me without a word. I heard in my head: "You can only stay if you give up your beliefs from before. Your vibrations and your ignorance disturb our harmony. You know nothing of the laws of the universe, your assumptions are wrong. You must be ready to learn. You are free to refuse, but you must leave..." To leave meant to die. I had nothing left, nowhere to go.

There were a few other refugees who had reached the mountains. There were Kabyles, tall, with a fair complexion and eyes. There were Mozabites, small with large skulls, and even some Tuaregs. 

The Chwafa told us the history of our peoples and our origins, well before the Muslim expansion, well before the separation of the continents, because she kept the memory of the world. 

She tried to initiate us. She spoke to me, in private, about my past and my future. She gave me news of the souls of those I had lost. She read my mind as if she were looking into a book. One day, she told me the time and circumstances of my death so that, without fear, I could learn to live.

Quickly, my beliefs and my horizon changed. I walked bareheaded in the mountains, bare-chested or wrapped in my gandoura depending on the season. Like all men, I wore my hair curled in front of my ears or gathered in a tuft on top of my head. I wore a pointed beard and jewels and earrings, bracelets and necklaces. The women also embellished their ankles with elaborate metal rings. I joined the soul of the beautiful Tayri, whom the Shwafa had helped me to recognize. I fed on goat's milk, wheat cakes and wheat semolina. I was strong in my body and in my mind, in tune with the energy of the world. I was happy as I had never been before.

I learned to speak Libyan. The Chwafa taught me the Tifinagh alphabet so that I could learn the knowledge of the gods in the manuscripts that had been hidden for thousands of years. 

I learned to feel the life force in the elements and creatures. I had returned to my roots, Amazigh, free man, on the land of my ancestors.