Je Suis Charlie : Journalism and Free Speech

Je Suis Charlie : 

Journalism and the Freedom of Silence and Speech

Sony was always going to release The Interview.

The story of a fictional plot to assassinate North Korean leader Kim Jong Un, the film is a bowl of provocations that is full of silliness spiced up with a splash of the satirical.

It watches like the less-hilarious cousin of the cult classic Team America, where Kim Jong Il, Un’s father, turned out to be a creepy slug-like alien dressed in a meat suit. Not seeing the funny side, North Korea responded by calling The Interview a ‘blatant act of terrorism’. This was followed by a series of cyber-attacks on Sony, which revealed important secrets like ‘not everyone loves Angelina Jolie’. Therefore, with increasing concerns about the safety of those involved, they briefly delayed the film’s release.

It could not be better publicity for a film than the potential for not being seen. Not to mention that the subject of the film was the thing trying ban it.

But they were always going to release it. More than the fact that appearing to give in to the threats of violence looked uncannily like a PR stunt, it is the right of James Franco and Seth Rogan to write, direct and make such a film.

The First Amendment protects them: the right to complete Free Speech.

Even when it offends.

It is also the same right that enshrines the rabble-rousing journalism of Charlie Hebdo, as laid down in theDeclarations of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen and the European Convention of Human Rights. Not quite as liberal as the First Amendment, it still prevents censorship of any written publication. This is why, although the French government may not have always appreciated the cartoons or writings of Charlie Hebdo, they still defended their Voltaire-inspired, Enlightenment right to freedom of expression.

People worldwide are breaking out their pens to pay tribute to #CharlieHebdo shooting victims: http://t.co/wDdqaVkYev pic.twitter.com/TtlxaVvUF8
— CNN (@CNN) January 8, 2015

This by @davpope #JeSuisCharlie pic.twitter.com/CbszTgf1EZ
— kristyan benedict (@KreaseChan) January 7, 2015

With the murders of two policemen and ten of Charlie Hebdo’s staff, including the political satirist Charbonnier, the threats against writers and their right to create art came into full relief.

Perceived as a deliberate attack on freedom, within hours Salman Rushdie had released an online statement. The world was reminded of the ten years he spent in hiding, and the three translators that were killed, because of a death fatwa placed upon him after The Satanic Verses offended Iranian clergy.

Not long after, Neil Gaiman reposted a defence of free speech even when it’s ‘icky’, recalling how his own comic on based on the biblical Book of Judges nearly sent his publisher to prison, translating the attack in Paris as one aimed at making the world narrower, duller.

It reminded me of The House of Journalists.  A debut from Tim Finch, Director of Communications at IPPR, which tells the story of refugee writers finding sanctuary in an increasingly sinister House in the UK whilst the brutal backgrounds of his characters come frighteningly close to those of the Charlie Hebdo offices.

Interestingly, the narrative voice in The House of Journalists is the third person plural – ‘we’.

I’ve written a lot about this ‘we’ that now epitomises today’s socially extended sense of self and culture. I believe this ‘we’ will help Paris, and artists, and all defenders of liberalism and free speech because it is the socially-created, digitally-enabled PR response to these terrible events.

Across the world ‘Je Suis Charlie’ has trended. As hashtags, on signs, in cartoons and in articles: there is the same culture of ‘we’ witnessed when when millions of strangers poured ice water over their heads, or when ‘I Will Ride With You’ was the reaction to the siege in Australia in December.

An expression of collectivity, ‘we’ focalises social solidarity. A single message.

Some will say that social outpourings of this kind are far from useful. Remember when ‘Bring Back Our Girls’ was ridiculed for being little more than public self-aggrandisement? And not everyone liked the Ice Bucket Challenge. However, when the first reaction of artists of all kinds, people of all religions, voices of all opinions, is to create a mantra reminding the world we are in this together, there is only one way to interpret it.

As Orwell supposedly said, ‘Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed: everything else is public relations.’

Whilst the cartoons of Charb, Wolinski and Cabu were undeniably incendiary, they were also the epitome of those human rights that we so often take for granted.

It was journalism.

It was their job, as journalists, to write. Even when each word might contain a tiny revolution, or when printing might upset us as much as it might inspire us.

“Nous sommes tous Charlie.” After all, the world without freedom of speech would be a much duller place, even if it would be less offensive.

Politically Correct Drawing never published by Charlie Hebdo

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

Trains & Boats & Planes

A Very Merry English Christmas

And the Many Things that Followed

Good Evening Readers (or it could be morning... afternoon...),

Once again, its been a while since I updated, which seems to happen a lot. The last thing I really posted was back in very early November. So for those weirdos who actually enjoy the random little updates into my life/world/head/city/adventures, I apologise. I promise I have plenty of those to tell now that I really am adding something new. 

Holidays are the strangest time of year. They begin, everything is exciting and you're so glad for a break, even if you're only doing four hours of classes a week and your usual day composed of sitting in a cafe reading books and drinking tea. All you want is that 'well-deserved' break.Yet by the time you're meant to return to daily life, be it school or university (or work? I'm not sure yet.) it's almost like you need a holiday from your holiday. 

Or maybe it's just me. I turned up at home and slept for ages, turning my light out almost four hours earlier than I had been here in bonnie Scotland. I flew back here after a weekend with Aony and her demon tiger cat and suddenly the first week of university is all about early nights and catching up on sleep. 

Christmas was wonderful this year - we had a visitor from Australia, we met the Tenth Family (the massive assortment of second(?) cousins on my uncle's side of the family, we sang plenty of carols in and out of tune, drank far too much over four days, saw my godmother in Wiltshire and had granny to stay for four days. In my case, I also read twelve non-compulsory novels and wrote another 13,000 words for Festival, which now sits at a comfortable 64K and is probably nearing first-draft completion. I also reconnected with Kate, a brilliant friend who certainly knows some tasty places to eat and WAY too many statistics about Carnaby Street. Plus there was coming back up to Edinburgh for a second awesome Hogmanay, completed by good company and an unprecedented clamber up Arthur's Seat to peer over shoulders at the fireworks. And that's before we even mention my spontaneous delivery of chocolate poptarts to Paris to satisfy Alex's craving for non-French foodstuffs. 

All this chatter is to make up for last year, when I promised an add about the 'Very English Christmas' after my 'Very American Thanksgiving' ... only I never actually wrote the post. I did start it but I thought that what's quite nice now is that I'm actually "re-acclimating" to the British Isles. Yes, you've read all about reverse culture shock, I won't bore you with it again. BUT - and that but really did need capitals - I think what Christmas really demonstrated was how everything is sort of synthesising. For one, the endless conversations about America and how it was are slowly petering out, which is strange and satisfying at the same time because it reminds me that it's over but also allows me to finally find that point where Second-Year-Me and Third-Year-Me become Fourth-Year-Me. Does that make sense? Probably not. 

Whether you quite figured out what that gibberish was about or not - let me offer some examples of how the two are coming together:

1.We had sweet potato and marshmallow mash with Christmas Dinner. As first demonstrated by the wonderful Hart family, those sweet sweet potatoes were scrumptious alongside our roast this year (admittedly the macaroni cheese hasn't quite made it but let's not ponder why).

2. I no longer have a tan but I do have better hair and people notice that instead. 

3. Americans are everywhere and now I tune into their accents the way I did with British ones in Chapel Hill. 

4. I love home and I love my family and I love my bed but a year later and yes, I think I'm quite happy to come back to university after the holidays without the sensation that made it so difficult to board the flight taking me back to Carolina (and no I don't mean sobriety in the face of an aeroplane).

5. I called American and English phone numbers on New Years. Thank Apple for FaceTime. 

6. I no longer want to put the warning (Year Abroad Not For Everyone) before telling people about my time at UNC. And I'm happy to talk to people about the differences between the UK and US without too much bias on either side.

7. Airmiles have become my lifeline. Despite a long-lived fear (read: phobia) of flying, the jetset life is probably going to kill us. My itchy feet have taken me back and forth from London and Edinburgh, to little towns with and without universities, to Paris and I have a feeling the trend will continue. Travel More is certainly big on my list of New Years Resolutions. 

Anyway, now I'm home, New Years has passed. It is officially 2013. We survived the latest vision of the apocalypse and the next one is predicted for sometime next year when the moon is meant to explode. It's hit off to a great start too with Mineta visiting us all from Paris and Jessica's fabulous 21st giving all of us excuses to dress up as pretty as peaches.

And so here is my conclusion - just to keep me writing (and to keep me doing something somewhat useful with my awesome procrastination abilities), I thought I'd do the THIRTY DAY SONG CHALLENGE - day by day, putting up a song and maybe a short post to go with it. There's no real reason why you should follow or bother reading - most of you probably have a tonne of stuff to do too. But if your bored you might find a new song you like, or find out something about me, or realise I'm referencing you, or you might just stare and go 'HUH?' - but I hope it at least it'll waste your time enjoyably. 

Here's DAY ONE: a song that makes you happy.

HUEY (PIANO) SMITH & The Clowns - Don't You Just Know It (as heard in Snatch because it's the only non-gravelled version I could find)...

Je serai poète et toi poésie,

SCRIBBLER

London, Travels and Other Stories

Probably, in all likelihood, any of you who so kindly followed me through the first nine days of my great big bus trek across America are still wondering what on earth happened next. And whilst following up on the whereabouts of my diary notes is still at the forefront of my mind, there's too much that's gone on in the months since I touched down in Heathrow Airport (after a decidedly uncomfortable and terrifyingly turbulent bump over the big blue Atlantic). Be warned - the following contains references to cats, internships, travelling and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. All of these will probably be expanded upon if I have time.

London was cold when I arrived, grey and cool and as my sleepy mother and father drove home, both of whom had just arrived back from France a few hours before, the wonderful dense green of the Chilterns overwhelmed every sense of nostalgia and for maybe a second or two, I thought - okay, George Eliot, you had a point. Then I thought about the wonderful cup of tea that could only be found in a Twinnings teabag and the shiny new kettle in the kitchen and couldn't stop smiling after that. The happy return could only last so long. Relieved and tired and more than a little groggy from the quantity of sleeping pills I'd taken to calm myself during the flight, I popped on the kettle, dropped Bag One upstairs and then asked after Scampy. Scampy is my cat. Not my sister's or my brother's. Mine. He's a grumpy, black-haired moggy that likes to pretend he's Master of the House. The only problem is that all of those present tense verbs should be past tense. As soon as I ask where the cat is my sister's face falls into a placating frown and starts to say the horrible truth. My sixteen year old hissing-spitting hunter, my purring hug, has died. RIP Scampy - you scary ass mouse murderer. Two days later mum had decided on a new kitten who's so adorable and affectionate I actually miss her as I'm writing this. She's called Squeaky because she squeaks.

Jobs are all the rage when you're 21 and about to enter your fourth year of university. They're very in vogue, every one wants one, especially if they don't pay you and you're able to call yourself and intern. Luckily, I managed to attain one of these excitingly fashionable titles and spent two weeks buzzing with the hum of London life, bustling through the underground, commenting on the people, watching stranger play on the piano in Paternoster Square. 'Luther' was the lovely company to give me that opportunity and I have to say it was brilliant. Of course, there were things that were slow at times or too fast - sometimes time likes to play tricks on your mind, but as a PR Consultancy, the people are vibrant and interesting and the job itself is full of cryptic undercurrents and wonderful little quirks. It's busy and exciting and I hope to at least keep in touch with them all. 

It was at this point that the jetset life came back to haunt me. Restlessness became overwhelming in the wake  of all this rhythm. Unlike the year prior, familiar things surrounded me at all times, homey comforts and smells that both delighted me and drove me insane. I applied for another job, a different kind of job, a job back in the beautiful and much missed City Of My Soul: Edinburgh. The Fringe Festival called to me. I've wanted to  do the Fringe for as long as I can remember, plus I told myself I'd work there every year since I started university. It was settled rather quickly. Applications were filled in, deadlines met, opportunity after opportunity analysed and usually applied for. 

The Space UK and Fringe Guru responded. If you follow the links you'll see two quite different jobs had selected me. The SpaceUK is a company that essentially rents out theatre spaces, techs and staffs box offices and generally helps with back and front of house theatre events. Fringe Guru is a festival review site, a site for those who want to read up on what's on etc. I was going to be a Box Office Girl and an Official Reviewer. I couldn't be happier. 

But before Edinburgh I had two more stops: Dubrovnik and Paris. 

Dubrovnik was a whim. This summer in the UK, the summer sort of lost its way and buggered off somewhere that only it knows. Those long, eternally blue days where the bees come out and the flowers all burst into colour were no where to be found. Any flowers that dared to bloom quickly shrivelled up and died in their waterlogged pots and all the bees spent time cowering under any of the bigger leave that survived. So my mum was fed up. I was fed up. My sister had already gone off on her own adventure around Europe with her best friend Emma so her twin was feeling left out and my dad really just wanted to go somewhere that no one would complain about. So five days before take-off we're booked onto an easyjet flight to the beautiful Croatian city of Dubrovnik. 

Paris, on the other hand, was for my beloved Shmoo's 21st birthday. Between the two of us, I'd managed to book a month late, but it meant I had her all to myself which was perfect. With a whole year apart, I needed some best friend time and what a time we had. Descending into the corkscrew clouds that piled up like the towers of Versailles, nerves jittered about within me and the clinging, sticky heat was cloying. 

"I'm not much of a Paris person," I thought (and I said as much to Alex later), "I hate this Orlybus and this horrible sweaty heat and this gibberish language." 

Admittedly, I felt quite vulnerable not being able to understand or speak to anyone, but I think a lot of it was just post-flight anxiety and tiredness. I scribbled away with my pen on the subway though and by the time I was with Alex, I was ready to roll out in pink jeans and shirt. 

I think I saw a whole new side of Paris that weekend. Away from the tourist traps that most of us non-speakers would end up in, Paris is exquisite. Ambling to the canal, we ordered pizza from a hole-in-the-wall cafe that then gave us a pink balloon with instructions to sit on the river bank. The cool, rushing air funnelled through the wide watery space and freshened everything with a smile. The thrum of local life, the numbers of people huddled in groups on the banks, the awesomeness of that pizza made me reconsider all of those misgivings. Here was a Paris that, even though I didn't understand it, made sense. 

Cheers Alex, ma petite meuf, for such a wonderful time. 

NEXT COMES EDINBURGH. And you know what. I think that deserves a whole new post dedicated to it. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 

SCRIBBLER