At the November 13 trial, the delicate and moving testimony of Maya, survivor of the Carillon

A young blonde woman, a little lost in a T-shirt too big for her, approaches the bar. His face is pale like that of a grave child. Her soft voice will soon fill the immense hall of the special court of assize in Paris.

Maya is one of the survivors of the Le Carillon bar shooting who testified, Wednesday, September 29, at the trial of the November 13 attacks. Eleven lives were stolen that evening by Kalashnikov bullets on this terrace of the 10e district of Paris. Maya was 27 years old. Wounded in the legs, she lost her husband, Amine Mohamed Ibnolmobarak, and two of her best friends, the twin sisters Emilie and Charlotte Meaud, murdered in front of her eyes. Her story tells of the infinite loneliness that has inhabited her since that day. The words of the young woman, who asked that the press not divulge her last name, plunged the courtroom into deep silence.

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Verbatim. “I would first like to say a few words about my friends: Amine, Emilie, Charlotte and Mehdi. I met Amine during my architecture studies through a mutual friend, Anabelle. Amine became a friend, then my lover, then my husband, and my partner in professional life. It was my first love. We were talking about the children we would one day have. He was a handsome, sunny person who cooked very well, he was funny. He was the man of my life. We got married twice, once in Paris, in 2014, once in Morocco, in Rabat, in 2015, he had grown up there. Thanks to another friend, we met Emilie, who became a very close friend, then her twin sister, Charlotte. They were beautiful, funny, accomplices, we laughed a lot together. And there was Mehdi, Amine’s childhood friend. We often teased Anabelle who ran after Mehdi, who was secretly in love with Charlotte.

“Neither Amine, neither Charlotte nor Emilie have celebrated their 30 years”

They were my bunch of friends. We saw each other every Friday evening at the Carillon. It was our HQ, we didn’t even need to say where we were. That evening, there were five of us around the table. I remember our discussions perfectly well: I was 27, they were 29, and we were talking about their 30-year anniversary. Three fell under the bullets. I lost my friends, I lost the man I loved. Neither Amine, nor Charlotte nor Emilie celebrated their 30th birthday. There were five of us, and suddenly we were only two, with Mehdi. His injuries were much more serious than mine, he was between life and death for several days. Our paths parted, it was too hard for him, he didn’t give me any more news. So there were five of us, and I’m alone at the bar tonight.

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