Between the minaret and the cross symbol
Madina Fedosova
© Madina Fedosova, 2025
ISBN 978-5-0067-0136-6
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
«Dear Reader,
Before you begin reading this book, I want to share my intentions with you. I deeply respect both Islam and Christianity, as well as all who sincerely believe in God. This book is not an attempt to discredit any religion, but rather an exploration, an attempt to understand why two faiths so close in their origins have become divided.
I have always been interested in history, especially those moments when religious and cultural traditions intertwined, creating something new and unique. I believe that understanding the past can help us build a better future.
I am aware that the topic I have touched upon is complex and delicate. I have tried to approach it as responsibly and objectively as possible. I hope that my book will make you think about important questions and help you see the world from a new perspective.
Thank you for your attention and trust.»
Introduction
Jerusalem. City of three religions, city of peace and war, of hope and despair. Here, in the narrow streets of the Old City, beneath the scorching sun, the fates of people, faiths, and civilizations intertwine. It is here, guided by ancient maps and mysterious symbols, that Alexandre Dubois, a French scholar and linguist, arrives.
Alexandre is not religious. His faith lies in knowledge, his passion in the pursuit of truth. For years, he has studied ancient languages and cultures, immersing himself in the world of forgotten civilizations. One day, while working in the archives of the Sorbonne, he stumbled upon a fragment of an ancient manuscript that turned his understanding of history upside down.
In this text, he discovered a mention of an ancient faith that existed long before Islam and Christianity. A faith that united people from different tribes and nations, who believed in one God. Studying other sources, Alexandre realized that this faith had left its mark on the symbolism, rituals, and even the texts of both religions.
The idea that Islam and Christianity have common roots seemed crazy to him, almost heretical. But the more he studied the issue, the more convinced he became that he was right. He decided to dedicate his life to finding evidence to support his hypothesis.
He knew what awaited him. The ridicule of colleagues, the opposition of religious fanatics, perhaps even mortal danger. But he could not back down. He felt that not only his scientific reputation was at stake, but also the future of all mankind.
Alexandre arrived in Jerusalem to begin his search. He knew that this city is not only a holy place for millions of believers, but also an arena for a fierce struggle for power and influence. Here, between the minaret and the cross, he will face the darkest sides of human nature.
But he believed he could find the truth. He believed he could prove that people of different faiths have more in common than differences. He believed he could build a bridge between the minaret and the cross, and thereby contribute to the establishment of peace on Earth.
Prologue
The dust of ages
The old map smelled of dust and frankincense, a strange, almost impossible mixture, as if history itself were sealed within the parchment, a concentrate of time and faith. Alexandre ran his finger over the fragile parchment, feeling the roughness of centuries beneath his fingertips.
Under his touch, the shadows of bygone eras seemed to come alive, the whisper of long-silenced voices, the echo of long-thundered battles. The dim light of the desk lamp barely snatched from the shadows the intricate lines drawn by the hand of an ancient cartographer.
The beds of long-dried-up rivers, like scars on the face of the earth, stretched in winding lines, reminiscent of the whims of nature and the transience of all things. The outlines of ruined cities, marked on the map only by a dotted line, testified to the grandeur and fall of empires, to the vanity of human ambitions.
The names of forgotten gods, written in elegant script, whispered of worlds long gone into oblivion, of beliefs buried beneath the layer of time and new religions. The map, like a mirror, reflected the past, alluring and frightening at the same time, promising to reveal its secrets only to those who are willing to dedicate themselves to its study. It was not just a piece of parchment, but a door to another world, where truth is mixed with fiction, and history is intertwined with legends.
He sat in the dusty vault of the library, as if walled in a time capsule, among shelves filled with books, scrolls, and manuscripts, seemingly in the very heart of the past. The smell of old paper, binding glue, and age-old dust tickled his nostrils, creating a unique atmosphere steeped in knowledge and secrets.
The lamp on the table cast bizarre shadows on the shelves, turning familiar objects into mysterious silhouettes. Outside the window, Paris was buzzing, alive and modern, a city of lights and passions, with its fashion, bustle, and eternal pursuit of the new.
But here, in this quiet corner, time seemed to have stopped. The world outside the window seemed distant and unreal, like a scene from another film. Here, silence reigned, broken only by the quiet rustling of pages and the muffled ticking of ancient clocks, counting not minutes, but centuries.
Here, among these old books, one could feel the breath of history, touch the wisdom of the ages, hear the voices of those who lived long before us. It was a place where the past came alive, where one could forget about the present and look into the future, relying on the knowledge of ancestors.
The map, on which he had been working for several months, meticulously redrawing every line, every mark, was not merely a geographical scheme, but an echo of history, a reverberation of lost knowledge. It was a copy of an ancient document found in a secluded monastery in northern Syria, in the very heart of the ancient land where cultures and religions had mingled. The original, to his great regret, had fallen victim to recent battles, becoming one of the countless losses in the merciless war that was erasing not only lives but also memory from the face of the earth.
However, the copy, as if by chance or providence, had survived, preserving within it a spark of the past. Alexandre suspected that it was not just a map, not just a diagram of the location of certain objects. It was a key.
A key to a secret sleeping for centuries, to the solution of a question that had troubled the minds of philosophers and theologians for centuries. A key that, if used correctly, could overturn ideas about the origins of the two greatest religions in the world, about the roots of faith that unite and divide humanity.
He felt that he was on the threshold of a discovery capable of changing the course of history, but he also realized the danger that this knowledge held. For history, as is well known, is written by the victors, and the truth is often inconvenient and unwanted.
He leaned back in his creaky chair, upholstered in faded leather, and closed his eyes. The weight of the past day, the burden of the knowledge he was striving to grasp, pressed down on him like an invisible hand. His head buzzed with fatigue, like a swarm of disturbed bees, giving him no peace. Sleepless nights spent studying ancient texts, decaying parchments, deciphering mysterious symbols, arguing with himself – all of this was taking its toll. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and an insistent ache throbbed in his temples.
But he could not stop. The thirst for knowledge, the desire to get to the bottom of the truth, the feeling that he was on the verge of a discovery that could change the world, were too strong to succumb to fatigue.
This feeling drove him forward, through the darkness of doubt and obstacles, like a beacon guiding a ship in a stormy sea. He understood that much depended on his work, that the truth he was seeking could bring both good and destruction. But he was ready to risk everything, just to solve this ancient mystery, just to get closer to understanding the origins of faith.
Suddenly,