Kids interview Charb
by Charactorium · Charb (1967 — 2015) · Visual Arts · Society · Literature · 4 min read
That morning, two middle school students push open the door of a room where a cartoonist with a mischievous smile awaits them. On his table, felt-tip pens, scribbled sheets, a drawn dog and cat that seem to be arguing. Charb puts down his pencil and motions for them to sit down: the questions can begin.
—What's your favorite drawing, the one you most enjoyed making?
You know, my child, in 2004 I invented two characters that made me laugh alone at my table. A cynical dog named Maurice, and a vulgar cat, Patapon. Imagine two nasty but joyful animals, commenting on everything happening in the world. Maurice et Patapon, it's called. I drew them with my felt-tip pen, a few quick strokes, and bam, they said out loud what people thought quietly. It became my best-known creation. Drawing is that: a joyful nastiness that makes you think while laughing.
A joyful nastiness that makes you think while laughing.
—What was a day like when you drew for the newspaper?
In the morning, I read the newspapers and listened to the radio. I looked for the foolishness of the powerful to sketch. A caricature, you know, is a drawing that exaggerates someone's features to mock them. In the afternoon, I leaned over my light table — a table lit from below to ink my lines well — and I drew. In the evening, I had to finish before the printer, otherwise no paper! I directed Charlie Hebdo from 2009 to the end. It was a crazy pace, but every week we started again, joyful and tired.
I looked for the foolishness of the powerful to sketch.
—Is it true that one of your newspapers set the office on fire?
Yes, my child, and it remains a strange story. On November 2, 2011, we made a special issue, Charia Hebdo. We pretended that the prophet Muhammad was our editor-in-chief! On the cover, he said: '100 lashes if you're not dead from laughter.' It was satire, you know, that way of mocking powers. But some people were furious. One night, our offices on Boulevard Davout burned in an arson. We lost everything, tables, drawings. The next day, we drew again anyway. We don't stay silent because we're afraid.
We don't stay silent because we're afraid.
—Why did you keep drawing things that angered people so much?
Good question, my child. In France, for a very long time, we have the right to mock religions. It's called blasphemy, an image considered offensive to a religion — and here, it hasn't been a crime since 1881. So when we were taken to court in 2006 for drawings, the court ruled in our favor. Imagine: a drawing can shock, but shocking is not forbidden. If we stop drawing as soon as someone gets angry, then no one can criticize the powerful anymore. And that is far more dangerous than a drawing.
A drawing can shock, but shocking is not forbidden.
—After the fire, were you afraid in the street?
You know, from 2011 on, I never went out alone anymore. Police officers accompanied me everywhere, day and night — that's what's called police protection. Imagine a man, Franck, a bodyguard, following you even to buy bread. It was strange to live like that. But I didn't want to hide or stop my job. In 2012, a journalist from Le Monde asked me if I was afraid. I replied that I preferred to die standing than live on my knees. That may sound grand, said like that. But it was just my way of staying free.
I prefer to die standing than live on my knees.
—What does it change in everyday life to have a bodyguard?
It changes everything, my child, and nothing at the same time. I lived in an ordinary apartment in the Paris region. I dressed simply, in a T-shirt, like everyone in the press — far from fancy suits. But as soon as I stepped out my door, there was Franck and the others. My outings were organized, monitored. It's heavy, you know, to never really be alone anymore. Yet I kept drawing in the afternoon, my editorial meetings, my jokes. I refused to let fear steal my normal life. A cartoonist who hides is no longer quite a cartoonist.
I refused to let fear steal my normal life.
—What's the difference between mocking a religion and being mean to people?
Ah, that's the most important thing I wanted to explain. Listen carefully. Mocking an idea, a book, a religion is allowed: ideas have no feelings. But hating someone because they are Muslim, Jewish, or otherwise, that's racism, and it's forbidden. Secularism, you know, is the principle that separates religions and the state so that everyone can believe freely. In my last book, I wrote that we must not confuse criticism of a religion with racism towards its practitioners. Laugh at an idea, yes. Hate a person, never.
Laugh at an idea, yes. Hate a person, never.
—Is it true you wrote a book just before you died?
Yes, my child. I was working on a book with a rather long title: Letter to the Islamophobia Scammers Who Play into the Racists' Hands. I finished the manuscript on January 5, 2015, just two days before the attack. I never saw the printed book — it came out after my death, in the spring. In it I explained a complicated word, Islamophobia, and I wanted us to stop mixing everything up. We can defend the oppressed without banning criticism. It has become a text studied in classrooms, like yours. That would have pleased me.
We can defend the oppressed without banning criticism.
—What was it like to be the head of a newspaper that mocked everyone?
It was being captain of a somewhat crazy ship, my child. At Charlie Hebdo, we had an editorial line — that is, our rules, our values: we disrespected all powers, without exception. Kings, presidents, all religions. Every week, at the editorial meeting, the team chose the cover, the first page, the most visible. I also had a drawn column, The Fatwas of Charb, where I sketched the news with ferocity. Running a funny newspaper isn't all laughs, you know. It's defending the right to laugh, even when it's dangerous.
Defending the right to laugh, even when it's dangerous.
—If millions of people think of you today, what does that mean to you?
You know, my child, I never imagined such a thing. After January 7, 2015, millions of people marched everywhere, on January 11, at Place de la République in Paris. They held up signs that read 'Je suis Charlie'. A slogan born in a few hours, become a symbol worldwide. It wasn't me they were celebrating, it was the right to draw, to laugh, to think freely. So when two children like you come to ask me questions, I tell myself it continues. A pencil is stronger than you think.
A pencil is stronger than you think.
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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.