Imaginary interview with Charb
by Charactorium · Charb (1967 — 2015) · Visual Arts · Society · Literature · 6 min read
Rue Nicolas-Appert, in the eleventh arrondissement of Paris, a winter Tuesday morning. The newsroom smells of lukewarm coffee and ink, a light table hums in a corner. Charb puts away a felt-tip pen, sits backwards on his chair, and waits for questions with that half-smile of someone who has already drawn the punchline before you've finished the sentence.
—How does a day begin for a press cartoonist like you?
It starts with noise. The radio as soon as I wake up, a pile of newspapers, and that silly question spinning in my head: what ugly thing did the world do while I was sleeping? The morning I spend listening to the news like a ragpicker picking up what's lying around. Only in the afternoon do I settle in. The pencil first, for the idea, then the felt-tip pen that cuts. I like the line to be quick, almost dirty, because a press cartoon that hesitates is already dead. On deadline days, we meet for editorial conference, we spread out possible covers on the table, we argue a bit, we laugh a lot. And in the evening, we have to finish the pages before the printer — the printer knows neither fatigue nor scruples.
A press cartoon that hesitates is already dead.
—In 2004, Maurice and Patapon were born. Where did that dog and cat come from?
They came from a very simple desire: to say the worst filth by having animals say it. Maurice is a cynical dog, Patapon a vulgar cat, and between them they comment on the world with a nastiness I wouldn't dare put in my own mouth. That's the genius of animal drawing — you forgive a critter anything. They've followed me for years, published here and there, collected in albums. People think I hide behind them; it's the opposite. They say out loud what politeness forbids me. A caricaturist spends his life looking for the character who can be more of a bastard than he is, and I was lucky enough to find two at once.
You forgive a critter anything.
—Tell us about the Charia Hebdo issue, in November 2011.
We had this somewhat schoolboy idea: to put Muhammad himself in charge of the newspaper, like a surprise guest. The cover promised “a hundred lashes if you're not dead from laughter.” Provocation? Of course, it's our job since forever — remember, in 2006 we had already republished the Danish cartoons, we were taken to court for insult, and the court acquitted us the following year. Except this time the response didn't come from a judge. Our old offices on Boulevard Davout burned down in the night, a Molotov cocktail through the window. We produced the newspaper the next day on computers covered in soot. We weren't laughing quite the same, but we were still laughing. It was still the best way to answer them.
We produced the newspaper the next day on computers covered in soot.
—Why do you hold so strongly to the right to caricature a religion?
Because blasphemy has not been a crime in France since 1881, and I intend to enjoy that freedom as long as it exists. People always confuse two things: mocking a dogma and spitting on people. I target the powerful, the certainties, those who claim to speak for heaven — never the guy next door who prays quietly in his corner. Caricature is a poor person's counter-power, a felt-tip pen against cathedrals and ministries. At Charlie Hebdo we never spared priests, rabbis, bankers, or presidents. So why should one religion get special treatment? That would be the only real insult: deciding that a subject is too sacred for laughter.
Caricature is a poor person's counter-power, a felt-tip pen against cathedrals.
—Since the fire, you've been living under police protection. How do you cope with that?
Badly and well at the same time. Since 2011 I've had police officers on my tail permanently, a bodyguard who knows my schedule better than my own mother. Franck Brinsolaro accompanies me everywhere; we end up talking about everything and nothing, these guys almost become silent colleagues. It turns your life upside down, believe me: you no longer go out as you please, you calculate your routes. When Le Monde asked me if I was afraid, in 2012, I answered what I still think: “I have no kids, no wife, no car, no mortgage. It probably sounds a bit pompous, but I prefer to die on my feet than live on my knees.” I've been criticized enough for that phrase. It's not heroic, it's just logical.
I prefer to die on my feet than live on my knees.
—Aren't you tempted, some mornings, to tone it down to live more peacefully?
Tempted, no. Tired, sometimes. Living with an escort, being on hit lists — because yes, in 2013 I was told my name was circulating in the pages of a jihadist magazine like an order book — that would wear anyone down. But toning it down would be giving them exactly what they want: a newspaper that self-censors, that looks over its shoulder before drawing a line. The day I draw while wondering if it's prudent, I'll do something else, like packaging for cans. Fear is an excellent advisor if you want to create cowards. I chose a profession where the only courage required is to keep finding it funny.
Fear is an excellent advisor if you want to create cowards.
—You're working on a book about Islamophobia. What do you want to convince your readers of?
Of something very simple, and yet people keep twisting it. My manuscript is called Letter to the Scammers of Islamophobia Who Play the Racists' Game, and the title says it all: the scammers are those who brandish that word to forbid any criticism. I write it in black and white: “If you want to defend the oppressed, you must not confuse criticism of a religion with racism toward those who practice it.” Mocking a belief is secularism in action. Insulting a man for his birth or skin color is racism, and it's a crime — and I've spent my life drawing against racists. Mixing them up gives the real bastards a shield they don't deserve. I'm finishing these pages these days; I hope they'll be read coolly.
Mocking a belief is secularism in action.
—That word, secularism, you almost make it an art of living. What does it mean to you?
Secularism is not an anti-religion club; it's a neutral space where everyone believes what they want without imposing their heaven on others. It's the state remaining deaf to prayers, in order to be fair to everyone. People often confuse it with militant atheism; I don't care if my neighbor prays five times a day, as long as he doesn't claim to forbid me from sketching him. The problem starts when a belief wants to leave the private sphere to dictate common law. So yes, I wield my felt-tip pen as a reminder: in this country, no dogma has the right to be sheltered from laughter. It's a fragile principle; we have to keep drawing it so we don't forget it.
Secularism is the state remaining deaf to prayers, in order to be fair to everyone.
—What does this newsroom where we're sitting, on Rue Nicolas-Appert, represent for you?
It's a place without prestige, believe me. Cluttered desks, drawings pinned everywhere, the same light table as in any comic studio. But it's here that we meet every week to decide what we're going to laugh at, and that's not nothing. A satirical newspaper newsroom is a small republic: we vote with jokes, we decide by drawing. We moved after the fire on Boulevard Davout; we changed walls but not spirit. People imagine conspiracies, headquarters; there are just a few insolent guys around a table, coffee in hand, who refuse to grow up. I've been here since the newspaper's revival in 1992. It's almost my entire adult life.
A satirical newspaper newsroom is a small republic: we vote with jokes.
—If you imagined being read in a century, what would you like those drawings to tell?
Difficult exercise, because a press cartoon is made for tomorrow, not for eternity. If by misfortune or miracle I were still read in a hundred years, I'd like people to understand one simple thing: that in my time, in Paris, some people thought that laughing at everything was a right, not gratuitous provocation. I can hardly imagine crowds brandishing my sketches like banners — the thought would rather make me burst out laughing. But if a twelve-year-old kid, one day, opens an old issue of Charlie Hebdo and says to himself, “They had the right to draw that?”, then we won't have worked for nothing. The best legacy of a caricaturist is not his drawings; it's that others dare to make them after him.
The best legacy of a caricaturist is that others dare to make them after him.
Read further
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Charb's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.