Yes, I am writing about Paris again, but in the genres of both non-fiction and horror.
Artwork by my wonderfully talented friend Leah Hoelscher.
Aghast at the butchery of satirists, like almost everyone in the Western world with access to social media, I updated my Facebook status to echo the current hashtag of solidarity: “Je Suis Charlie.” Since the initial hashtag started to trend, the conversation has shifted and other variants have popped up, the best one being “#JeSuisAhmed,” for the name of the Muslim policeman who perished while defending the lives of those who drew crude pictures of his revered prophet making out with dudes and sundry. Several convincing op-eds have come come out – most notably, by Philip Gourevitch of the New Yorker – calling out the majority of us dilettantes who took up the #JeSuisCharlie slogan:
We are not Charlie, in other words, because we risk so little for what we claim to value so much. We are not Charlie, too, because most of us are relatively inoffensive, whereas Charlie, like so many liberating pioneers of free expression—think not only of Lenny Bruce and Mad magazine but also of Gandhi and Martin Luther King—were always glad to give offense to what offended them. And we are not Charlie, today, because we are alive.
Gourevitch is completely right. I am absolutely, positively not a Charlie. I am a bonafide conflict-averse Midwesterner, who will walk miles out of my way if it means avoiding awkwardness or potential confrontation. If it were me in this situation, it would have to take place in an alternate universe. In this incarnation, I just wouldn’t do something offensive, particularly if it hurt someone’s feelings in such a disproportionate amount to the benefit that I received. It would be inconceivable.
This world is in desperate need of peacemakers. The climate darkens in France, and one frighteningly realistic fear is that this incident is exactly the catalyst needed to propel the neo-fascist Marine le Pen and her followers into major power. We need fewer hotheaded reactionaries, and more people who are willing to sit down and resolve conflicts in a calm, rational manner.
But along with those peacemakers, this world needs Charlies. We need satirists, we need clowns to push boundaries and stand up to powerful people and institutions. We need our Charlies to be alive, and yes, sometimes we need to hear their obnoxious, braying voices. We need them around to instigate conversation, incite doubt, and spur us out of complacent comfort. If we object to what they are saying, we must learn how to voice our dissent without resorting to bullets and bloodshed.
Stephane Charbonnier was no Stephen Colbert. The satire produced by his agency is sophomoric and wantonly offensive. Ultimately, the most resonant quality about Charb is that he was, much like the terrorists who killed him, so dedicated to his mission that he was willing to die for what he believed. Unlike his murderers, however, Charb came armed with only courage and a pen.