‘Charlie Hebdo’ and the Politics of Response – A Forum

Photo by Rhodri Davies, used with permission.

Photo by Rhodri Davies, used with permission.

There have by now been many pieces published in response to the events that took place in Paris between 7 and 9 January 2015 that we now associate with ‘Charlie Hebdo’. Indeed, so much has been written that the novelist Hari Kunzru claims that he can barely bring himself to sit down and read the commentary. Many of us will share the feeling that we can’t bear to hear any more about the War on Terror: about the familiar discourses of ‘civilization’ and ‘barbarism’ (Marshall), the ‘political-theological spectres’ that hang over the event (Leshem), the recognisable pattern of ‘mobile, irruptive violence’ (Coward) and the style of the event, which quickly finds its ‘genre’ in 24 hour news media (Anderson).

Spectacular acts of violence such as those witnessed at the Charlie Hebdo offices on the 7th January 2015, where 8 journalists including the magazine’s editor, 2 police officers, 1 caretaker and 1 visitor were killed, are of course designed to demand a response. Such events, and the responses by political leaders to them, are also designed to polarize opinion, and to bolster ideas about ‘us’ and ‘them’. On this occasion, those ideas played out in the affective atmospheres conjured by the #jesuischarlie hashtag, which invited people to position themselves as either ‘for Charlie’ or ‘against Charlie’. Tariq Ali writes that this compulsion to announce ‘Je suis Charlie’ reminded him of the mood in the UK and US following the events of 11 September 2001, a mood described by Judith Butler as one of ‘heightened nationalism’, which made it impossible to oppose having to be ‘with us’ or ‘against us’, or query the terms through which that opposition was framed.[1]

What is going on, then, in this compulsion to respond? What is at stake in the scenes of ‘liberal solidarity and resentment’ (Baldwin) that we witnessed on the 10th of January, in one of the largest collective gatherings to take place in Paris since the Second World War? How do some of the responses circulating serve to solidify identity positions, re-draw power positions, so that the shock of the event nevertheless returns us to a familiar politics, where some can feel comfortable whilst others, especially minority communities, are placed on the alert? If these attacks, and others like them, are purposefully designed as ‘affective forms of violence’ (Coward), then perhaps remaining indifferent to the event of ‘Charlie Hebdo’ might offer an alternative ethical response.

This collection of short, largely spontaneous responses were first presented at an event organized by the Politics-State-Space research cluster at Durham University Geography Department. All of the contributors seek ways of responding to this event that refuse the ‘imaginative geographies’ of ‘us’ and ‘them’ (Closs Stephens), as well as other familiar framings through which this event has become known, but all nevertheless note the very difficulties of addressing ‘Charlie Hebdo’ otherwise, and in ways that refuse the ‘languages of terror’ (Ferreboeuf) in particular.[2]

[1] Judith Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London: Verso, 2006.

[2] Thanks to all the participants who took part at the original event, all the contributors, and especially to Ben Anderson, Martin Coward, Paul Harrison and Natalie Oswin for their encouragement.

Angharad Closs Stephens, Department of Geography, Durham University

Ben Anderson, Becoming-Event

Andrew Baldwin, Tolerance and Resentment

Angharad Closs Stephens, Aesthetic Responses

Martin Coward, On Urban Violence

Rebecca Ferreboeuf, Languages of Change

Noam Leshem, Toward Another Political Theology

David Jones Marshall, Scales of Response: Between Elsewhere and Civilization Itself

 

Note from the editors: Also on this site, see the related commentaries Hate, by Mustafa Dikeç, and Resisting through and with comics, by Juliet J. Fall.

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Juliet J. Fall – Resisting through and with comics

The morning after a tribute for the victims of the attack on Charlie Hebdo in Geneva. Photo by J. Fall.

The horror of the shooting at the editorial office of Charlie Hebdo, in Paris, on the 7th of January, 2015, is barely subsiding. Nobody yet knows what this means for the future, beyond the immediate numb shock that turned into moving city-wide silent vigils around the world. New powerful images emerged of pens held up silently. Dignified, angry and sometimes violent responses. Internet sites are awash with images, drawn and photographed, the purported causes of the violence and the multiple reactions to it. Whether we are lastingly, or not, all “Charlie Hebdo” – as so many Facebook and Twitter profiles proclaim – remains to be seen. Could I truly claim to be as shamelessly vulgar, funny, sharp, over-the-top, or as irreverently clever and as indomitably brave as them, if I chose to post “Je suis Charlie” as my social media profile picture? Growing up reading the paper, I certainly have had very mixed personal reactions to many of the images, a mixture of prudish shock mixed with admiration for the inventiveness of many of the comics. However, I never doubted that such images that castigated all and sundry should exist. They were simply there: part of the cultural context I was raised in. I knew that I could simply choose to turn the page if I wanted. So beyond the emotion of the events of the past days – or perhaps within and with the emotion – what can we learn about resistance, and about the subversive ability of drawn images to speak truth to power? How can the transgressive, uncomfortable and funny sides of comics be exploited to resist the madness, other than by suggesting that the pen, or crayon or felt-tip pen, are mightier than the sword, or than the ubiquitously horrible Kalashnikov. How can we resist with careful images without, as David Campbell put on it on his Twitter feed, “weaponising” other mediums?

Continue reading here.

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Mustafa Dikeç – Hate

People want us to demonstrate. Very well, but tomorrow what do we do? They point their finger at us with a nasty look on their face? I don’t want to be part of this France for a single afternoon, but every single day. —Youssouf from the Bondy banlieue

In the immediate aftermath of the horrors of 7 January, emotions run high, oscillating between a feeling of urgency to do something, and a feeling of resignation whereby everything seems futile. For what can anyone do against such reckless hate? On this day – almost a month after the release of the US Senate’s report on the gruesome CIA torture programme, and three weeks after the deadliest terrorist attack in Pakistan, the Peshawar school massacre where 145 people, 132 of them schoolchildren, were killed – a minibus full of explosives went off in Sana’a, killing at least 37 people and wounding 66. This was added as yet another news item on the long list of terrorist killings, without anyone organising rallies or identifying themselves with the tortured or murdered victims of such terror. No one even wiggled a pen in the air.

But the horrors of 7 January were not limited to Yemen’s capital city. For three days, the French capital was caught up in murderous events, and Parisians had a taste of what it might be like to live with terror, experienced on a daily basis in several other parts of the world. Unlike those parts of the world, however, Parisians do not live under the constant threat of established armies, private mercenaries, or drones operated from the Nevada desert. They might also take some relief that the perpetrators of the crimes of 7 January were identified and hunted down by legitimate authorities, which is rarely the case in regions destabilised by constant terror, induced by military interventions and other forms of violent attacks.

In a sign of solidarity, millions of French citizens stood up against terror, to show the world that they were ‘a united people’. The gatherings were massive, emotional and, in a way, encouraging – encouraging in that despite everything that has happened, the citizens of this country publicly manifest their solidarity and unity. But the murderers of 7 January were French citizens, too, born and raised in this country. The details of their lives that have started to emerge suggest that they all went through a radicalisation. They were not born with an inclination or bred from childhood to plan and kill journalists, police, or Jews in their own country of birth and residence. This suggests the possibility that their indoctrination and radicalisation into murderers could not have happened in the absence of long-standing and deeply entrenched grievances. It is the hate stemming from such grievances that the ideologues of terrorism mobilise, which is why the deprived and disenfranchised neighbourhoods in the peripheral areas of cities – banlieues, slums – where unemployment hits as many as half the youth population are targeted as potential recruiting grounds. But what could cause grief to a French citizen, in this cradle of human rights, united under the ‘one and indivisible Republic’?

Continue reading this commentary here.

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