| Preface
Many people have been quick to judge Marc Vachon. And yet, until now, no one has taken his true measure.
Numerous accusations have been laid at his feet: gangster, Hells Angel, drug addict, gigolo, dealer, pimp, adventurer, spy . . . None of these is entirely false. And yet, these words fall far short of the truth. Because the kid whom life threw from pillar to post, the teenager forced to fight to survive, the man compelled to scratch and claw to save his life is the same person whom nature has blessed with a pure soul, a heightened sensibility and rare generosity.
Please bear with me, Mr. Prosecutors! You have punished this man numerous times, and justifiably so. When he fled, you had him pursued to put him under lock and key. But now he stands before you a better and wiser man after fifteen years of unfailing commitment to the poor and the destitute in every war zone in the world.
Is Vachon another Albert Schweitzer or Mother Theresa? Perhaps not. At any rate, there is something of Jean Valjean and the Count of Monte Cristo in him. How was such a transformation possible? This is what the book allows us to understand. That alone makes the work an exceptionally interesting document. To people tempted to lose faith in humanity—and aren’t we all from time to time—his story offers much needed reassurance. At first glance, this fascinating biography appears to be a story of redemption. Abandoned by poverty-stricken parents, a young Quebecer struggles to his feet, triumphs over fate and begins to share the little he has wrested from life with the world’s poorest communities. A fairy tale . . .
But Marc Vachon has never been one to believe in fairy tales, not even this one. This book is about his life, period. Mention resurrection and he laughs in your face.
No doubt he is being modest. But Vachon is no Pollyanna and is not given to heroic posturing or endless moralizing. Instead, he reveals a sparkling wit, a passion for soccer and a taste for a fresh glass of ice-cold beer.
Not to say that this confession was easy. I was there at the outset of the project and witnessed the resistance he had to overcome. The first editor suggested that Marc record his story on tape. Somehow the tapes got mislaid. I suspect that their content so overwhelmed him that he lost them on purpose. It was the first time I saw the big lug cry.
A few years later François Bugingo came on board. He collaborated with Marc on the present text. Reading it helped me understand why Marc was so devastated the first time. Alone in front of a mike, he couldn’t bear to dredge up memories of what he had actually endured. Evoking his childhood was excruciating, as if it had belatedly dawned on him, given what life had permitted him to become, what immense injustice he had suffered as a child. That’s why, appearances to the contrary, this book is not about redemption; it is about rehabilitation. It is not the story of a bad child turned good; it is the painful evocation of a wonderful child, full of tenderness, joy of life and generosity, a child to whom life offered only violence and betrayal. This lost, violated child, whose potential lay untapped, long had to conceal the treasures in his heart lest they be stolen.
After a long absence, Marc finally dared to set foot in Montreal again years ago. I met him there one evening. He led me down the streets where he used to roam with his gang in days gone by. I had the sense that it all had happened ages ago, but to him it seemed like yesterday. He started breathing heavily. His eyes darted around as if he expected a rival gang to suddenly appear. He scented danger like an Indian buffalo hunter. Following in Marc’s tracks, we go on a dizzying plunge into our era, from the forgotten Third World wars to the violent nights of North-American metropolises.
I first made Marc’s acquaintance in Kurdistan at the end of the First Gulf War. Back then, I was vice-president of Médecins Sans Frontières and I’ve followed his peripatetic journey ever since as he resolutely tackled a succession of relief missions in every country at war: Bosnia, Rwanda, Sudan, Afghanistan, Mozambique, and so on. In all of these countries, Marc Vachon has shown extraordinary dedication. But the word dedication can be misleading. Marc does not equate dedication with self-sacrifice. And even less does it involve ostentation. Dedicating yourself simply means making yourself useful to others. It can take many forms: building a refugee camp in a few hours, supplying drinking water to masses of people driven into exile by armed conflict, negotiating dangerous checkpoints with supply convoys, avoiding traps laid by warring militias. And Marc Vachon is a virtuoso at plying these peculiar arts. In this field, he has demonstrated rare and natural qualities, undoubtedly the fruit of those years of hardship. Many a major relief organization has entrusted him with vital responsibilities. The book offers a valuable account of his years in humanitarian work: few volunteers have embarked on so many perilous missions. I can attest to the fact that nothing, here, has been invented. On the contrary, some things have been simplified so as not to overtax the reader.
Not only is this an indispensable document of these conflicts, it is the portrait of a man. Marc Vachon has lived his life backwards. He started out old beyond his years like other children who can ill afford innocence or vulnerability. And with the passing years, he has become gentler and more confident until finally with this book he has been able to open his heart to us. On the banks of the Ligurian Sea, former fishermen take tourists in small boats just off shore. Then they hand their guests masks and invite them to look under the water. And the visitors discover, beneath the black waves of the Christ of the Abyss, arms raised up to them from the bottom of the luminous seabed. Does this bronze statue want to drag us to the depths or is it imploring us to raise it towards the light? This book elicits a similar response: it relates violent and tragic events but beneath their dark roiling surface, it reveals the astonishingly pure figure of a hero reaching out to you.
If Vachon ever reads this preface (perish the thought), he’ll blow a gasket. “Bloody hell, what in God’s name is he talking about?” When he is embarrassed, he lays it on thick in a Québécois accent, vintage Saint-Henri, the working-class district where he was born. And then he switches the subject to the Paris Saint- Germain Football Club whom he actively supports, and if he really wants to lighten the mood, he pokes fun at Jacques Chirac. In the end, he howls with laughter and you have to shut the windows so the neighbours won’t complain.
But no, this time, leave the windows open. So what if the good folks are annoyed. Let them call the caretaker or even the cops. Now, we’ll know what to have them read, so they’ll finally understand whom they’re dealing with.
“Hey you! Big guy down there with the tattoos on your arms and the joint stuck behind your ear, what’s your name?” “Vachon, officer, Marc Vachon. Remember the name. One day Tom Cruise will play me in a movie.”
Jean-Christophe Rufin
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