On January 11, 2015, an estimated 1.5 million people marched in Paris, joined by over forty world leaders linking arms in the front row. It was the largest public demonstration in French history. For a few weeks, “Charlie” became a universal signifier. Conservative politicians marched alongside anarchist cartoonists. The Pope expressed solidarity. So did the president of the Palestinian Authority.
At the heart of “Charlie 2015” lies an insoluble artistic and ethical problem. Charlie Hebdo ’s cartoons were not gentle. They were grotesque, scatological, and deliberately transgressive. A pre-2015 cover depicted the Prophet Muhammad saying, “A tribute to the winners of the French magazine award for the best caricature of the Prophet.” Another showed him being spanked by a pious fundamentalist. This was satire as a crowbar, not a scalpel. charlie 2015
In the immediate aftermath, the world did not see a nuanced debate about blasphemy versus free speech. Instead, it saw ink. From the pens of surviving Charlie Hebdo cartoonists—most notably Luz (Renald Luzier)—emerged a new drawing: a simple, crying figure holding a sign that read “Je suis Charlie.” Within hours, that phrase became the most ubiquitous solidarity meme in history. It appeared on Twitter avatars, on handmade placards at vigils from Tehran to Tokyo, and projected onto the facades of the world’s most famous landmarks. On January 11, 2015, an estimated 1
Thus, “Charlie 2015” was Janus-faced. One face wept for murdered journalists. The other face, unwittingly, wore the blinders of selective outrage. At the heart of “Charlie 2015” lies an