I have carried the story of Maillé for as long as I can remember. I grew up knowing something terrible had happened, even if the adults around me rarely spoke of it. Each year, my family would return to the Maillé remembrance ceremony. As a child, I watched people gather in silence, remembering without ever explaining. I felt the weight of something I could sense long before I truly understood it.

One day, still very young, I found the book about the massacre and saw my grandmother’s testimony printed on its pages. It shook me, though I didn’t dare speak of it. When I once asked my grandmother directly, she simply told me, “You will understand when you are older.” That was the only time she ever refused me anything. Later, it was my father who finally explained what had happened.

My grandparents’ path to Maillé was almost accidental. They had fled Port-de-Piles on the advice of my great-grandmother, hoping to find safety with family who kept the village grocery. But instead, they found horror. My grandfather was working in the fields when the attack began. He hid in the vineyards, forced to watch the smoke rise, powerless, forbidden to return for a day and a half, not knowing if his wife or children were alive. I often think of that helplessness.

Now, in retirement, I have returned to this region, joining the association that preserves Maillé’s memory. I am one of the last with a direct family link. My hope is not only to protect the story of what happened, but to open it toward the future—so that remembrance becomes a message of education and peace for the generations who will follow long after we are gone.