Philippe Lançon wrote the book of the year in France, his testimony about the massacre at Charlie Hebdo has a chord had been touched. When the assault was all expression from his face shot. Three years and eighteen surgeries later food is still not evident. “They are my teeth not. Doctors took my leg away to a prosthesis to be attached.’
Saturday Ds Weekblad you to a Parisian bistro for an interview with journalist Philippe Lançon. It was a conversation about a quiche lorraine, and about the schaduwleven after the death: “My wife hopes that I am not a literary prize win. I am still targeted, says the police.’ Read below his testimony about the moment that everything started.
On January 7, 2015 doubted Philippe Lançon or he to Charlie Hebdo would go. To the first editorial meeting of the new year not to be missed, he went anyway. As usually he was late. That day is not late enough.
Lançon was going to sleep with Michel Houellebecq on the television and rose Michel Houellebecq on the radio. Soumission came out that day. A week earlier he had the book reviewed for the newspaper Libération. A week later, he had the writer interview. Lançon found the book to be witty, vintage Book. But he looked up at the endless debate about islam that would erupt. He was bad mood in the rue Nicolas Appert. During the editorial meeting was, as usual, laughed at, mocked, gefoeterd, signed. Of course, Soumission. ‘Houellebecq would quickly by the reality being overtaken’, writes Lançon in his book about that day and the days that followed. ‘The world in which Houellebecq lived, had even more imagination than the world he described.’ Houellebecq was the last noise. Then it became very very loud and very quiet.
“How much time do you need to realize that death is coming?’ Kalashnikovs, three bullets. Lançon she felt not. He saw the pool of blood where he lay. The two terrorists. They felt it was not necessary for him further to make. He saw their legs, the barrel of an AK-47, the brain of the left-wing economist Bernard Maris. Looking away didn’t work. When he was with his tongue, pieces of bone and tooth in his mouth, felt float, he realised that there is something onomkeerbaars happened. “I’ve Honoré not seen, which are however dead on me. I’ve Cabu, whose body beneath me was. But I saw Tignous, laying on his back, his eyes with a pen between his fingers. As a resident of Pompeii, engulfed by lava. And suddenly, I felt the loneliness of life.”
The paramedics arrived. ‘They had me in an office chair with wheels to the outside. I hovered over my comrades. My rescuers had over their dead bodies steps. And suddenly, my God, they laughed no more.” Lançon hear the workers shouting: ‘That: death! That is: death!” On the rhythm in which just before, even ‘Allah akbar’ echoed. One of them looks at him and shouts: ‘battle scars’. “I was a victim of war between Bastille and République. I was a victim of war in a country in peace.”
Saturday, read in ds weekblad how the attack Lançons life. How he began to write to get the pain to forget. How the police advised from the limelight to stay. And how the editorial staff of Charlie Hebdo moved, but he is the new place still evasive: “I’m afraid that if I it go, everything will begin.”