Yesterday, January the 7th 2015, saw a mass summary execution enacted at the offices of the irreverent Parisian magazine, Charlie Hebdo. Journalism began the tale with the magazine's record of publishing material irreverent to Islam, which had previously resulted in a firebombing of their offices at the time of the Prophet cartoon scandal. As fate would have it, the story goes on, Charlie Hebdo tweeted a cartoon poking fun at Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi moments before the attack. The terrorists then entered the building with Kalashnikovs and a rocket launcher (?), called out the prominent staff by name while executing them, and exited shouting that Islam had been avenged. They left twelve dead (including two policemen) and ten seriously injured behind them.
International leaders have responded in solidarity with the freedoms of expression and the press; the French President has, again, described terror as 'barbaric'. Newspapers meanwhile carry quotes by the CH editorial team that represent their defiance of Islamic fanaticism, and their determination to 'fight intimidation with (more) controversy'.
'Sometimes laughter can hurt, but humour and mockery are our only weapons.'
-Jean Cabut, cartoonist.
'I don't blame Muslims for not laughing at our drawings. I live under French law. Not Koranic law.'
-Stephane Charbonnier, Editor-in-chief.
The use of violence, especially in a unilateral way in a civilian context (which is what terrorism is), is terribly wrong. It is wrong because its objective is to propagate fear by attacking innocents as proxy for ideas or institutions. This attack was also wrong because it was not so much terrorism as an act of execution for blasphemy, carried out under a law that proclaims itself universally applicable and undermines nation-states and their sovereignty. This is part of what Charb was pointing out—that he had a right not to care if people somewhere else were outraged at his perfectly legal insensitivity, and the law would protect it. Terror makes real the incapacity of the state to protect so completely; the efficiency of the state's reaction must ensure that the belief in protection is not undermined.
The above quotations encapsulate the two major defences for potentially offensive humour: that it is humour, and that it is legal. But speaking from what is no doubt a highly unpopular position, it seems to me that both of those defences require some interrogation.
The defence of humour as humour stands on two grounds: first, that its capacity to hurt is subjective and therefore a matter of choice, and secondly, that humour is not meant to be taken seriously. The implication is that humour is thus not comparable to violence and cannot be punished for hurting people (or intending to do so). However, the capacity of humour to be funny stems from a shared understanding, or lack of understanding, of the object of humour. The capacity of humour to hurt depends on how seriously you take, not the joke, but the humorist and the context in which he speaks.
I recall a video that went viral, considered hilarious because it had been subtitled with a transcription of what it sounded like to a person who didn't speak Tamil, but did speak English. I understand Tamil enough for my reaction to have been mild confusion at why it was funny and a desire to explain the lyrics. I didn't get to, because explaining a generic love song was not worth the trouble of having my friends roll their eyes at me for not getting the joke. If such representations—often deliberate misunderstandings—of culturally important things are piled on to an existing and deep-seated prejudice, the social implications may seem worth the trouble. Hurt may not be necessary, but it seems rather likely.
The second defence, of legality, is constrained by national (or ideological) boundaries, as well as by the limits of the law itself. In a globalised world, a joke on ISIS is funny because ISIS is a concern in the Twelfth Arrondissement, and hurtful because the CH office is a concern in al-Shams. Why? Because the Caliphate has world-imperialist ambitions, and because France has ambitiously universalist principles of liberty and tolerance, and not wearing hijab. And the ambitions exist because the potential is there. In such an inflammatory situation, the compulsory virtue is not to listen; not speaking is merely an optional one.
I am certainly not arguing that humour is the prerogative of the insider, or the highly knowledgable. But while tolerance to ignorance and misunderstanding is a necessary virtue, misunderstanding cannot be seen as a right. Jean Cabut had need of weapons because he lived and worked in a society in conflict—even within his democratic environs. Anything that looks like censorship in the aftermath of terrorism seems a product of fear. But sensitivity in the public word is an expression of respect, and as such could pave the way to a space that both Cabut and his assassin might have—with some discomfort—shared.
International leaders have responded in solidarity with the freedoms of expression and the press; the French President has, again, described terror as 'barbaric'. Newspapers meanwhile carry quotes by the CH editorial team that represent their defiance of Islamic fanaticism, and their determination to 'fight intimidation with (more) controversy'.
'Sometimes laughter can hurt, but humour and mockery are our only weapons.'
-Jean Cabut, cartoonist.
'I don't blame Muslims for not laughing at our drawings. I live under French law. Not Koranic law.'
-Stephane Charbonnier, Editor-in-chief.
The use of violence, especially in a unilateral way in a civilian context (which is what terrorism is), is terribly wrong. It is wrong because its objective is to propagate fear by attacking innocents as proxy for ideas or institutions. This attack was also wrong because it was not so much terrorism as an act of execution for blasphemy, carried out under a law that proclaims itself universally applicable and undermines nation-states and their sovereignty. This is part of what Charb was pointing out—that he had a right not to care if people somewhere else were outraged at his perfectly legal insensitivity, and the law would protect it. Terror makes real the incapacity of the state to protect so completely; the efficiency of the state's reaction must ensure that the belief in protection is not undermined.
The above quotations encapsulate the two major defences for potentially offensive humour: that it is humour, and that it is legal. But speaking from what is no doubt a highly unpopular position, it seems to me that both of those defences require some interrogation.
The defence of humour as humour stands on two grounds: first, that its capacity to hurt is subjective and therefore a matter of choice, and secondly, that humour is not meant to be taken seriously. The implication is that humour is thus not comparable to violence and cannot be punished for hurting people (or intending to do so). However, the capacity of humour to be funny stems from a shared understanding, or lack of understanding, of the object of humour. The capacity of humour to hurt depends on how seriously you take, not the joke, but the humorist and the context in which he speaks.
I recall a video that went viral, considered hilarious because it had been subtitled with a transcription of what it sounded like to a person who didn't speak Tamil, but did speak English. I understand Tamil enough for my reaction to have been mild confusion at why it was funny and a desire to explain the lyrics. I didn't get to, because explaining a generic love song was not worth the trouble of having my friends roll their eyes at me for not getting the joke. If such representations—often deliberate misunderstandings—of culturally important things are piled on to an existing and deep-seated prejudice, the social implications may seem worth the trouble. Hurt may not be necessary, but it seems rather likely.
The second defence, of legality, is constrained by national (or ideological) boundaries, as well as by the limits of the law itself. In a globalised world, a joke on ISIS is funny because ISIS is a concern in the Twelfth Arrondissement, and hurtful because the CH office is a concern in al-Shams. Why? Because the Caliphate has world-imperialist ambitions, and because France has ambitiously universalist principles of liberty and tolerance, and not wearing hijab. And the ambitions exist because the potential is there. In such an inflammatory situation, the compulsory virtue is not to listen; not speaking is merely an optional one.
I am certainly not arguing that humour is the prerogative of the insider, or the highly knowledgable. But while tolerance to ignorance and misunderstanding is a necessary virtue, misunderstanding cannot be seen as a right. Jean Cabut had need of weapons because he lived and worked in a society in conflict—even within his democratic environs. Anything that looks like censorship in the aftermath of terrorism seems a product of fear. But sensitivity in the public word is an expression of respect, and as such could pave the way to a space that both Cabut and his assassin might have—with some discomfort—shared.
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