Testimony by Cédric, recorded by Laure Dasinieres

The intent was actually to protect me—from isolation, from the risk of losing my friends because my mother had an unknown and dangerous disease. Faced with AIDS, which was considered shameful, but also because of fear and ignorance, the adults around me did their best to shield me—sadly, often through silence. I don’t think I was well prepared for illness or death. But who really was, in the unique context of the 1980s?

When I was about five or six years old, I asked my mother if she was going to die one day. She swore to me that she wouldn’t. It was a game, and we laughed together, but I never forgot how relieved I was by that promise—one that, of course, would inevitably be broken.

When it came to AIDS, I witnessed the physical decline with my own eyes. I remember one of the last breakfasts: I was being difficult with my grandmother, and my mother tried to intervene by giving me a light slap. But she was so weak, I couldn’t feel it. It felt more like a caress than a slap, and I wanted to laugh—but at the same time, I felt the devastating sadness of the moment. Looking back, no slap has ever hurt me more.

It was a time filled with nightmares. After that… there are many blanks. I have no memory of the funeral. I do remember that I wanted to keep seeing my friends, as if nothing had happened. The adults were surprised I didn’t cry. A bit of resilience, a lot of repression, I think.

These painful memories shouldn’t overshadow the beautiful ones. I lived with my grandmother—my mother’s mother—a brave and loving woman to whom I owe a great deal. Before her illness and drug addiction, my mother was often absent. I imagine her addiction was very strong. She used to write me letters and postcards, and reading them now, I recognize a certain guilt over her situation. Only recently have I understood that I could love her and be angry with her at the same time—that I could blame her and forgive her.

I was always happy to see her again. She was warm, brought little gifts, and we went on lovely walks. I remember being with her in the hallway while she smoked—we laughed a lot there. Sometimes she took me to her regular bar, where I met kind, young adults. Those memories are especially precious to me.

Today, I’m a father of two, and if I’ve learned one thing, it’s the importance of calling things by their name—naming fears, naming illnesses, explaining why people get sick... even when it’s hard. No more hiding. Nothing should be kept secret