On January 7, 2015, at approximately 11:30 AM, two brothers armed with assault rifles entered the offices of Charlie Hebdo, a satirical magazine in Paris. Shouting that they were there to avenge the prophet Muhammed, they ended up killing twelve people that day, including a Muslim police officer who confronted them outside the offices, and who, it can be presumed, did not feel particularly avenged as he lay on the ground, wounded, and was shot in the head.
Over the next few days there would be several more attacks led by an associate of the brothers, leaving five more people dead, including another police officer.
These events terrified the world. Of course, that’s what they were meant to do, since they were, by every definition, terrorism. I would like to say that they shocked and saddened the world as well—as evidenced by the 3.7 million people who marched throughout France in solidarity and support in the days that followed (the largest public gathering in France since they were liberated from the Nazis in 1944)—except for the fact that what was truly shocking and saddening was the response from those who chose not to march. The response from the, “Yeah, but…” crowd.
“Yeah, it was terrible that those people were shot, but it was also wrong of Charlie Hebdo to be so provocative.”
Leaving aside the fact that the Charlie Hebdo janitor—the very first person murdered—clearly had no input into the magazine’s editorial decisions, (the same can be said for the police officers, joggers, and grocery shoppers who were killed and wounded in the days that followed), and therefore didn’t provoke anyone, this is a terrible argument, the worst sort of “she hit me first” kind of defense. It’s hard to believe that it had to be said then, or still has to be said now, but it’s not okay to kill people. Ever. Even if they hurt your feelings. Even if they hurt your prophet’s feelings.
Ever since the very first journalist filed his very first report (the exact wording has been lost to history, but the recap goes something like “But the Emperor is naked!”), the role of the journalist has been clear: to speak truth to power, and to shine a light in the places that those in power would rather be kept dark. In the words of the journalist Finley Peter Dunne, it is their job to “comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.” To do that they need our full support, even when—especially when—the things they show us are things we would rather not see.
This is even more true when it comes to editorial cartoons, where there isn’t the luxury of a thousand words to get the point across—a cartoon has to make its point in the split second when it “made you look,” and, to do that, it must first make you look. There is no time for subtlety. Like all art, the cartoons are there to provoke a response, a response that should then lead to discussion. That $120,000 banana duct-taped to a wall? It did its job: we’re all talking about it, aren’t we? And yet, somehow, Dole Bananas hasn’t put out a hit on the artist.
The shots that rang out that morning didn’t put an end to the discussion that Charlie Hebdo started. If anything, they amplified it, something that I’d like to think a roomful of editorial cartoonists would be the first to find ironically humorous. In fact, I’m sure that them missing out on that discussion was yet another reason for everyone who knew and loved them to be sad they weren’t around anymore. But the dull sound of the even duller people who said it wasn’t right to even attempt to open a dialogue, who said that it was offensive, or insensitive, or, somehow, when fifteen people were dead, a bizarre form of reverse bullying—that is something that I’m sure those same loved ones were glad that the cartoonists were not around to see.
Because that? That wasn’t funny at all.