I was born one year after the Maille massacre. People rarely spoke about it, especially not my mother. Silence was her way of coping. I sensed that something terrible had marked her life—and mine, through her.

My mother kept certain memories locked away. She was protective—overprotective at times—especially during air raids or anything that reminded her of danger. For nearly ten years, I grew up feeling alone.

Every year, we would visit the site of the massacre. We would stand there quietly, as though speaking might awaken something too painful.

My mother never explained, and I never dared ask. At home, life went on, and the past sat in the corner like a closed book.

I grew up knowing only fragments, but that something unspeakable had happened before in the village I was born.

My mother survived by playing dead in a grocery store, later hiding in a rabbit cage to escape. She never told me this herself; I learned it only through others. And perhaps that silence was her only way to keep going.

My daughter is aware of the atrocities, but it’s not a story we’ve spoken openly about with the children. Maybe now is the time.