This is my story, my memory is not common, as it goes beyond several lifetimes.
I remember being married to the man of my life, living in harmony in a lonely countryside fruit and vegetable farm where we raised our children in happiness. There were no telecommunications there, electricity was just installed in some nearby city. Our life was just the way we wanted to be, loving each other from the bottom of our hearts. Fulfilling each other with instants of grace and conjugal fondness.
I remember this idyllic situation being abruptly destroyed by three men, armed bandits, ex-soldiers who assaulted us, taking anything which was exchangeable by money. And one of them lusted after me, he precipitated over me, took me as if I was his property… abusing me in front of my husband, who was being violently reduced by the other two men. At that time, we were peaceful people with no means to defend, as a religious couple we strongly opposed any kind of violence. At some point, as events unfolded, they provided me a tragic death.
I remember seeing my corpse from above, the bandits had already left. My husband crying over my, each time more cold, body. My three children, two boys and a girl, arriving from school and finding out that their mother had been forced to leave them… brutally assassinated.