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Month: January, 2015

The last of the cowboys

Chris Kyle, the most lethal sniper in American military history, died on the 2nd of February, 2013. He’d served four tours in Iraq, been injured twice, involved in six roadside bomb attacks, and killed up to two hundred and fifty-five people; Islamist insurgents had offered a reward of $80,000 for his head, but when he died it was at the Rough Creek Lodge and Resort, an elegant ranch-style resort offering fine dining and a spa, plus a pool and tennis courts, an unremarkable flash of blue and white off Route 67 near Fort Worth, Texas. The man who killed an American icon, Eddie Ray Routh, was another Iraq War veteran; since his discharge he’d been in and out of psychiatric wards, bouncing between a bureaucratic state apparatus that tried to keep him sedated and a bureaucratic family apparatus that just couldn’t understand the horrors he’d lived through. But neither could Chris Kyle. The most lethal sniper in American military history never worried about what he’d done. Every Iraqi he’d killed was an American life saved; his only regret was that he hadn’t killed more people, saved more lives. It was a job, and he was extremely good at it. Afterwards, when he came home, he set about making regular TV appearances and publishing a folksy ghostwritten memoir in which the reader is consistently addressed as y’all, a book that ended up staying on the New York Times best-seller list for 37 weeks. He loved his wife and kids. He made it his mission to keep on saving American soldiers, and he went about it in the only way he knew: he’d take injured veterans out shooting. And then one of them killed him. He never thought that for someone still shaking from the slaughter in Iraq, the best therapeutic option might not be to put a gun back in his hands and let off rifle fire all around him. He never thought that the cure for war could be anything other than war. All this was something America’s greatest killer simply wasn’t capable of understanding.

If Chris Kyle had been killed in Iraq by someone who’d got lucky, or was simply better than him, it would’ve just been part of the general idiocy of war. Instead, he died because of that bullish indifference, the precise same buried trait that made him so successful in combat. Kyle was something somehow more or less than human, a man capable of not just killing without remorse but of laughing about it on Conan O’Brien afterwards. Someone who just couldn’t understand. His death in the flat fields of Erath County, Texas isn’t a strange coda or an anticlimactic end to a life of action; it’s a perfect catharsis, something out of Sophocles, a moment of pure Greek tragedy in the modern age. It’s an incredible story.

So how on Earth was it fucked up so badly?

American Sniper, the Clint Eastwood biopic of Chris Kyle, isn’t just a piece of gratuitous military propaganda; it’s a godawful, artless, bloated, cowardly failure of a film. Defending the abomination he’d created against accusations of propaganda, Eastwood insisted that it isn’t political, but a character study. Except the encounter between Kyle and Routh, the essential character-defining moment of the story, is entirely absent. All we see is Kyle’s wife watch him driving off with a stranger who, as we’re meant to infer from the slow zooming of the camera and the shot’s framing through a crack in the doorway, is somehow evil. Then fade to black, the words Chris Kyle was killed that day by a veteran he was trying to help, and stirring music over real footage of Kyle’s funeral procession. Roll credits. That’s it.

In fact, none of Kyle’s actual character seems to have made it into this character study. The real-life Chris Kyle was a strange and unpleasant man: not just a killer but a liar, a braggart, and a thief. There’s something weirdly childish about him. He said he’d shot thirty armed looters from the top of the New Orleans Superdome in the aftermath of Katrina (despite also boasting of having himself looted from apartments in Iraq), was successfully sued for claiming have knocked out the former politician and wrestler Jesse Ventura in a bar fight, and insisted he’d once effortlessly killed two Mexican carjackers in Texas. His uncle works for Nintendo, and he knows a secret karate move called the Touch of Death, and he totally had sex with all the girls at school, but don’t ask any of them about it, because they’ll only lie. It’s hard to take anything he says seriously. Chris Kyle served in Ramadi and Fallujah: in both cities American forces set up arbitrary no-go zones without any signposts, and shot anyone who stepped outside their homes or took a wrong turn while driving. Residents were afraid to even go near their windows. In Fallujah a sniper was positioned outside a hospital and fired on ambulance crews as they tried to leave. Was it Kyle? Who can say? In his book Kyle never really approaches Iraqis as being fully human, never takes a moment to try to comprehend why the people he kills might resent being occupied by the same empire that starved five hundred thousand of their children to death. It’s because they’re evil, he decides: playground morality. He never wonders what he’d do if a foreign power took over Texas. Your character study’s all here, ready and waiting, but this isn’t the film Clint Eastwood makes.

And then there’s his name: Chris Kyle. There’s always something slightly unsettling about people with two first names (and I say that as someone who is, sonically if not orthographically, among their number). There’s always the potential for a dangerous kind of play, like Yossarian with Irving Washington and Washington Irving. People with two first names can be mirrored, inverted; they always have Gothic doubles or ghostly opposites hanging around them somewhere. Who is Kyle Chris? Obviously someone like Eddie Ray Routh. But Eastwood takes a different approach.

The problem with a character study that refuses to study its subject’s character is that it doesn’t really leave anywhere else to go. Chris Kyle’s real military career was a monotonously brutal series of unconnected killings; day after day of waiting, watching, shooting, without any narrative beyond the scattering of the Iraq War into entropic meaninglessness. One scene illustrates the problem nicely: a car full of insurgents attempt to fire a rocket at an American convoy; the machine-gunners instantly reduce it to bloodied scrap metal. When the forces are so mismatched there’s little scope for narrative tension, but a film needs a plot, so Clint Eastwood invents one. It’s a Western; a cowboy film. Bradley Cooper stars as the grizzled bearded stranger who rides into town with an uncanny knack for straight-shootin’, an inexplicable nonchalance towards murder, and a keen, Godly sense of right and wrong. As the armoured vehicles crawl towards Fallujah, someone says: welcome to the new Wild West of the old Middle East. One of the only aspects of Kyle’s book that Eastwood actually leaves in is his habit of referring to Iraqis – who, let’s not forget, invented irrigation, writing, and the State – as savages: these are Injuns here, warlike and whooping. And any Western needs a shootout: enter Kyle Chris, in the form of Mustafa, an invented Syrian sniper that Kyle faces off against throughout the film, culminating in a gunfight that across the dusty Main Street that is Baghdad’s Sadr City. Our hero draws first. He wins.

It doesn’t work. Nothing works. For a start, American Sniper seems to have been plotted by a wandering amnesiac or a slightly dim child. At first the main villain is ‘the Butcher’, a sadistic and fictional al-Qa’eda enforcer who vanishes from the story midway through and is never captured or heard from again. Kyle’s grisly tours of duty are interspersed with scenes in which he returns to an America of rolling wheatfields and sun-speckled copses, as if he’d briefly ascended to a patriotic Thomas Kinkade version of Heaven. The point might be to introduce pacing, but it ends up turning the story into half-chewed vomit. The action scenes are basically tedious, and in the end the constant gunfire just sounds like someone stepping on bubble wrap. But it fails on more fundamental levels as well. It’s interesting to compare American Sniper with Eastwood’s earlier cowboy adventures, many of which were masterpieces of the anti-Western genre. In Sergio Leone’s films the heroic trick-shooting cowboy of American mythology is transformed into the Man With No Name, someone skidding on the edges between avenging angel and brutally intrusive psychopath. A figure without past or future, only impish wit, venal greed, and silence.

This is a contradiction heightened in High Plains Drifter, one of Eastwood’s first films as a director. A mysterious Stranger rides into town from the mountainous wilds; all he claims to want is a drink and a haircut, but there’s an incredible violence to him, a seething, bodily violence, barely buried. Some local toughs start on him, and he kills them almost effortlessly. But there are also bandits coming for the townspeople, and with their protectors now dead, the Stranger agrees to organise their defence. But the Stranger is a rapist and a glutton, and his brief rule is very strange. He makes a grotesque dwarf called Mordecai the town’s mayor and sheriff; when the enemy approaches he paints all the buildings red and suddenly retreats, allowing the bandits to murder half the townspeople before returning to finish them off. The whole town is guilty, and he’s punished them. As the Stranger rides off again Mordecai comments that he never did know his name. Yes, you do, he says. If you know your masques, your lords of misrule, and your Bulgakov, you do too. It’s the Devil: justice in excess of itself and law as the right of the stronger is the Devil.

American Sniper feels wrong. It’s all hollow; there’s a constant sense of dislocation, like we’re looking at everything from the wrong angle. It wants the blood and brutality of the Stranger or the Man With No Name, only without his strangeness or his namelessness. It wants the Devil of Ramadi, but can’t accept that he might have been a devil. In fact, the opposite: Eastwood relentlessly humanises his hero, showing us all the pain and stress that the real Chris Kyle never suffered. He wants us to like this guy, this mass murderer, to like him unproblematically – because he’s a good guy, a sheepdog. It’s strange: he’s trying to resurrect all the stupid cowboy clichés he and Leone so thoroughly dismantled decades ago. But for all he rides in rodeos and prances around in a big hat, his Kyle isn’t a friendly cowboy. He kills too easily. He kills children. (At the start of the film, our hero kills a child holding a grenade. His mother rushes towards the body – and then picks up the weapon, forcing Kyle to kill her too. She can’t have loved her child, and so the infanticide is justified. In Kyle’s book, it’s just the woman, who he describes as being evil and having a twisted soul for trying the resist a foreign invasion of her home.) So with both poles of the cowboy continuum barred, the role can only escape into the dangerous wilds of the third term. Kyle is the bandit, the invader: Angel Eyes.

It’s still a cowboy film, but there are no great American cowboys any more. Cowboys don’t have helicopter support; they don’t provide covering fire for armoured columns, and no matter how morally ambiguous, they don’t kill kids. But the Man With No Name still rides. Mustasfa, the Syrian in the film, is a clumsy fiction, but he’s based on a real person: Juba, the Baghdad sniper, the terror of the occupiers, the hope of a nation. Unlike Chris Kyle, his TV appearances are grainy and functional. Somewhere in the haze of pixels there’s a soldier on patrol; a thunk, and he drops to the ground. Only occupiers: never Iraqi troops, never civilians. Perhaps Eastwood’s made his most daring deconstruction of the cowboy genre yet – something outwardly terrible, but which encodes another, very different film; one visible only by its negation, by the tiny cracks in the filmic facade. See how Mustafa runs across rooftops and jumps over alleyways, see his split-second moment of domesticity, his wife and infant child, his framed Olympic photo. Mustafa is killed in the film, but Juba never was. Nobody knows his name, nobody knows his face. He is everyone and no-one. He doesn’t talk, he acts. When armed cavalrymen from the West storm the city, when they burst into people’s homes at night and shoot children on the streets, one man makes a stand. The strange and savage invaders have cruise missiles and helicopter gunships; this hero is armed only with a rusting old Russian rifle, a gift for marksmanship, a moral code that’s firm but obscure, and his enduring faith in God. One man against a whole army! Can he survive? But a horse races across the deserts of Anbar province, and a low nasheed mingles with the billowing clouds of dust. Out from the freedom of the open range rides something cruel and strange. Our last best hope. He is the last of the cowboys. He is the American sniper.

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The language of God

Dear esteemed Sir or Madam,

In 1929, André Breton wrote that the simplest Surrealist act consists in going into the street with revolvers in your fist and shooting blindly into the crowd. There’s something almost impossibly innocent about that line, the charming naïveté of the idea that something as boring and everyday as random, senseless violence could break down the borders of sense and reason. We have people firing blindly into the crowd the whole time now. It’s not avant-garde. It’s not a breakdown of the repressive forces of civilisation. It’s the nightly news. Banish all worry and doubt with a walk-in tub! He thought he could reveal some revolutionary truth with just revolvers, six-bullet pop-guns? Civilian AR-15 rifles can have a capacity of one hundred rounds, but everything’s still here. At least, that’s one reading. The other is to take Breton at his word. If random mass shootings are the most basic expression of Surrealism, and random mass shootings happen so often now that it’s hard to even keep caring about them, then, syllogistically, we live in times that are somehow essentially Surrealist. Forms are indistinguishable. Dreams are reality. Clocks dripping from their towers, vast geometric forms tearing through the tarmac: we live in the long afterlife of reason, and it’ll never end. In fact, almost all of the dreams of the early 20th century avant-garde have come horribly true, as if there’s some wrinkled three-fingered monkey’s paw buried somewhere in the catacombs under Montmartre. The Italian Futurists wanted to abolish the past and live in a state of pure speed that would kill them young and never let them be remembered: now you can spend your whole day watching Twitter stream endlessly by, forgetting each lump of 140-character flotsam as soon as it’s churned into the black depths of your timeline. The Constructivists wanted to abolish work and leisure in a new communist subjectivity, and now awful Silicon Valley dickheads spend their days sucking kale juice from plastic nipples and thwocking brightly coloured balls against their idiot heads inbetween engineering our new technofeudalist dystopia. But most of all, our world is one of machine writing.

The Surrealists were very fond of spontaneous writing, or pure psychic automatism, in which you sit down with a pen and paper, or a typewriter, or a laptop, and just write, as fast as you can, not thinking about the content or the meaning of what’s being produced. No joke! You’ve won! Generally the results were pretty bad, but that wasn’t important: the Surrealists thought that this technique could allow for the textual manifestation of the unconscious mind, in much the same way that similar processes were thought to allow mediums to deliver messages from the souls of the dead. Perhaps more interesting are the superfically similar experiments performed by Gertrude Stein and published in her two papers, Normal Motor Automatism and Special Motor Automatism. Some of the text reads like an early Sokal hoax, a kind of Borgesian parody of scientific language, or a precursor of Ballard’s Why I Want to Fuck Ronald Reagan (in particular when describing the two types of test subjects she observes: Type I consists mostly of girls who are found naturally in literature courses, who are nervous, high strung, and very imaginative; while Type II are blonde and pale, distinctly phlegmatic; if emotional, decidedly of a weakish sentimental order), but her intent was entirely serious. She wasn’t at all interested in accessing the mysterious truths of the unconscious; Stein wanted to explore the possibility of a writing that was entirely mechanical, an expression of involuntary motor reflexes, something that didn’t involve meaning at all. This was achieved by various methods: telling subjects to scribble on paper while reading to them, or asking them to read and write at the same time, or distracting them with noises. The goal was to create a writing without any possible interpretation. One of Stein’s own automatic writings read A long time when he did this best time, and he could thus have been bound, and in this long time, when he could be this to first use of this long time. It’s not really too different from her usual, presumably non-mechanical, novelistic style. But the concept is more important than the results: writing could no longer be seen as an exclusive property of the human mind, something that had be communicative, but became instead something that could be explained and produced by purely mechanical means.

A while ago I saw, at one of those exhibitions in London that fluff up periodically like mushrooms after rain, an installation in which someone had – for reasons not entirely clear – printed and bound the entire human genome. A whole shelf of big black books, each with a thousand pages, each page covered in dense rows of Cs and Gs and As and Ts. But why? There’s no coded congratulatory message from God, no star-chart pointing to our original home far out in the cosmos, just a shelf full of the most boring books ever written. Apparently the human genome would take ninety-five years for one person to read, but given that reading implies some kind of interpretative approach, how are you meant to actually read them? Do you just scan over line after line of gibberish, repeating the letters to yourself in your head, in a thought experiment that more resembles a particularly cruel version of Hell? Are you meant to laugh and make an appropriate face whenever one of the three-base words in your own DNA spells out out CAT or GAG or TAT? Are we really expected to see the organism itself take shape before our mind’s eye? Of course, the point was to give some sense of the size of the human genome, but in fact I was struck by just how small it was. Drishti sanyal passess all qualities which makes her the top escorts service provider in Delhi. One molecule of DNA encodes about a gigabyte and a half of data. That means that the entire construction kit for a human being (including, if you ascribe to certain geneticist dogmas, your political leanings, your susceptibility towards all kinds of crime, and your sexual fetishes, even – especially – that one thing you were always too ashamed about to tell anyone) is about the same size as two illegally downloaded movies; say, Shrek and Shrek 2. Or a quarter the size of Nickelback’s studio discography. Or one-tenth of the latest stupid Call of Duty game.

A gigabyte and a half was a lot of data, once. It’s thought that the last person to have read every available published text was the fifteenth-century Italian philosopher and original Renaissance man, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (the same claim is sometimes made for Samuel Taylor Coleridge, but as he was unlucky enough to live after the era of the incunabulum, it can probably be dismissed). Given that Pico never made it to the age of ninety-five, but was poisoned by unknown conspirators not long before his thirty-second birthday, it’s safe to assume that all published works at the time amounted to somewhat less than one and a half gigabytes. To do the same thing today would be impossible. According to IBM, in 2012 the human race produced 2.5 exabytes a day – with an exabyte being one billion gigabytes, that’s something like five billion times the sum total of all knowledge at the turn of the sixteenth century, every day. Since the invention of the internet we have, almost without realising it, embarked on the greatest collaborative literary project in human history: round up by a billionth of a percentage point, and every single word ever written has been written in the last couple of years. If you write to me do not forget to specify yours e-mail of the address that I could answer to you. Our modern-day Giovanni Pico wouldn’t just have to read every awful wish-fulfilment fantasy epic and cringingly unsexy erotic novel that made it into print since 1494. He wouldn’t just have to read all your godawful tryhard tweets, your posturing, self-important blog, your strangely pathetic TripAdvisor reviews, but every last morsel of shit in the deepest sewers of the internet, every jagged fragment of broken code. And as it turns out, the greatest collaborative literary project in human history isn’t really human at all. A significant majority of all web traffic, and much of its content, is generated by machines: bots and algorithms. Our literature is not our own.

Pop-up ads, spam comments, exciting investment opportunities, clickbait lists. We’re in the realm of the supernatural now. And to think I was going to talk to sonmeoe in person about this. An attractive young person on a dating site who seems to be, against all reason, interested in you: the two of you exchange a few messages, and only afterwards do you realise that the conversational syntax didn’t quite flow properly, that they never really replied to any of your questions, that their desire seemed so formless. It isn’t a person at all, but a hologram, an elfin charm, an incubus. Your biggest fan, who never fails to comment on all your excellent and informative posts: why are their eyes so cold and glassy, and why do they keep trying to sell you cheap designer handbags? That iPad you won for being the millionth visitor: it’s Ariel’s feast. The laughter of the fairies in the woods takes on a sinister echo, and the dark silhouette of a harpy bears down on you from above. Remember the drones buzzing in the sky. Remember that we’ve taught these things to kill. see the 1 simple trick you must follow to decrease this 1 hormone

What is machine language? Firstly, machine language is vampiric, shamanic, xenophagic, mocking. It’s a changeling. Often it tries to imitate human discourse; the machine wants you to think that it’s human. This is the first level of deception. Often this isn’t enough: machines will use various methods to take over other text-producing systems, so that without your knowledge you end up advertising weight loss pills to all your old school friends. First axiom: all language has the potential to become machine language. To become infected. 10 Award-Winng GIFs That WIll Leave You Wanting More. I Could Watch #4 For Days This is the second level of deception. In the third level of deception, the machine convinces itself that it has a physically extended body, that it has an independent mind, that it really wants to produce the text it generates. This might happen very soon. It might have already happened, somewhere on a dusty plain in western Africa, somewhere that never really existed, tens of thousands of years ago.

Secondly, machine language is a decoding. It doesn’t approach words as lexemes or ideologemes, units of meaning. Machine language inhabits a pure textuality, in which the sense-making function of language, if it appears at all, is subservient to its general function as data, as text. A simple hello could lead to a million things. :) Value comes from penetrative reach, not any kind of hermeneutic potentiality. Machine language tends to recombine and recontextualise already existing text, to bypass various filters and otherwise carry out its primary deceptive function. In its recombination, something not unlike the anagrammatic games Kabbalists would play with the Torah, internet spam gives us the final truth of our civilisation. Some people have approached the results as a kind of Dadaist found poetry: this is at once completely valid and, as a reimposition of the excrescences of the aesthetic and of signification, serves to miss the point entirely. Second axiom: communication was never the point.

buy xanax online xanax and alcohol vomiting – xanax overdose xanax fatal dose painless Thirdly, the logic of machine language is one of virality. In two senses. It self-replicates: clickbait sites and ‘inspirational’ Twitter accounts constantly recycle, reappropriate, and reiterate, often algorithmically; nothing here is autochthonous to the field in which it is displayed. But the mode of reproduction is itself virionic: It operates by taking over and reprogramming its host, in a way that isn’t limited to the immediate online environment. Third axiom: we are not as powerful as we think. The people on the periphery of machine language, those who run the tech startups, share the articles, read the quotes, are themselves reprogrammed according to machine language. You might have noticed people referring to great works of literature as content, or the sky-shattering truth of religious revelation as a meme, or the fragile resonances of Chopin’s nocturnes as very clickworthy. Silicon Valley billionaires talking about books as if they were an exciting new informational app, film company executives trying to assess brand tie-in strategies for rereleases of silent masterpieces, real physical people who don’t quite talk like human beings, who have a strange hunger about them, who are clearly idiots but still far more successful than you could ever be. Hilarious facebook fails These are the new humans, our future, our saviours; in other words, people who aren’t really human at all.

When You See These 25 Real Moments From Kids Movies, You’ll Ban Them From Your Children. Finally, machine language is essential. , [url=http://muxlkbracymh.com/]muxlkbracymh [/url], [link=http://wlxklsdtpzrl.com/]wlxklsdtpzrl[/link] It’s not a deviation or a disfigurement, it is language itself, in its most elemental form Help, I’ve been informed and I can’t become igraonnt. Its decoding and imitation is a stripping away. The association of machine language with actual machines is purely contingent; it just so happened that computers and computer networks are what we invented to make the central truth of language reveal itself. buy valium united kingdom – much does generic valium cost As Gertrude Stein showed, it can be done without them. Free Videos Of Men Mastervating Dowqnload The Naked Vidio Cuecumber Porn buy fake Australian passports, buy fake Belgium passports, DNA is machine language. Waves breaking on a deserted beach are machine language. The movement of the stars is machine language. And the celestial speech, the original language in the Garden of Eden, where words correspond to things exactly under the holy semiotic of the Lord, was composed of free screensavers, sales patter for impotence pills, and dubious offers from Nigerian princes. discoveryhumidor action of insulinhumidor stock 500humidor Final axiom: machine language is the language of God.

The data apocalypse is coming, if it’s not already here ïàðîëè ê ïëàòíûì ïîðíî with the technological incoming of this pure language, all other language is rendered worthless ïîðíî ôîòî ãàëåðåè ïëîìáèð îíëàéí ïîðíî â îòëè÷íîìêà÷åñòâå ïîðíî only splinters remain take a breath less difficult with such tranquil recommendations piero de’ medici is innocent truly impressive snapshots! my website – http://onlinesmmpt200.com already my hands feel so heavy chanel purses for sale no more suffering not any more xmjwpugvyx Cheap Nike Air Max idzsxriuyl Nike Air Max 90 the particular way in which usually home it calls me deep in the bowels I never had Before those virile women! the machines of l’Affable killed Pico and Poliziano Toward the still dab of white that oscillates it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know other species: pf6x9j1 Bovine Cat Chicken Dog Fish Goat Guinea pig Sheep Human Shantih Let your smile change the world but never let the world change your smile – Book of Proverbs Shantih Your site is very interesting buddy[prohormones for sale[/url] Shantih inferior to the HOUYHNHNM race, as the YAHOOS of their country ” GCA TGC Ancient plum tree roots are not old, CCA CGG TGT ATC CCT TTT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT

Remain blessed,

Trifles for a massacre

Who is it that threatens free speech? When the French government bans all Gaza solidarity demonstrations at the height of a vicious massacre in Palestine, it’s not a threat to freedom of speech: it’s a public safety measure. When the French state bans Muslim women from wearing the veil in public, it’s not a threat to freedom of speech: it’s a defence of secularism. When fanatical Zionists plant a bomb under the car of a French Jewish journalist who won’t toe the party line on Israel, it’s not a threat to freedom of speech: it’s a criminal act, certainly, but not an existential threat to the general ability for you or for me to say whatever we want. In the UK newspaper offices are raided by spies and kids are sent to prison for burning artificial poppies; this isn’t a threat to free speech either. It’s strange. The capitalist state, once the existential enemy of all freedom, a monster to be kept constantly under watch, is now the armed guarantor of liberty. Threats to free speech don’t come from the powerful any more. It’s “the Muslims”: a mass both hydra-headed and faceless, like a handful of worms. A persecuted minority, the suffering conscience of Europe. (Did you know that it’s now illegal to build minarets in Switzerland? Or that several towns in Italy have banned non-Italian restaurants? Whose freedom is under threat?) Or if it does come from a state, it’s one far away, surrounded by barbed wire and guns pointing inwards. The poor and the despised: this is who we must defend ourselves against?

How do you exercise free speech? You don’t do anything. You hoist up your Je suis Charlie placard, you queue in the cold to see a stupid and ugly Seth Rogen film, because this is your duty to the ideal of liberty and free expression. Freedom means obedience. Is this Hegel we’re reading? You must passively and dutifully admire the courage of those who dare to ruthlessly satirise any and all targets. In other words, those who have stockholders and distribution networks, while you have forty Twitter followers and the right to pen a letter to the editor. Freedom of speech belongs to the brave, the few, the moneyed.

What does free speech do? It offends, and there’s no such thing as a right to not be offended. Fine. But why is it assumed that what really offends “the Muslims” is the mere depiction of the prophet Mohammed, that if all other things were equal “they” would still fly into a murderous fury at stick-figures? France has been killing and occupying in Muslim lands since 1830. Across Europe Muslims are subjected to discriminatory laws and police surveillance; outside Europe Muslims are slaughtered by the hundreds from the air; Muslim-majority countries are plunged into chaos and bloodshed on the whims of a paternalistic Atlantic elite – and all of it is done in the name of freedom, a freedom that quickly reveals itself as the freedom to mock the victims. Such bravery. It’s just cartoons, it’s just satire: but it’s not; it’s bombs and missiles,

Is this all it is? Is freedom of speech nothing more than the freedom for a multi-million dollar studio to make a warmongering film, or the freedom to publish a racist magazine? Freedom that only punches down, that only repeats and intensifies the discourse of power and oppression that already comes from all sides (but especially from above), that is lauded by presidents and parliaments, that is threatened only by those that it oppresses – is this, in the end, really the best we can do? Is the freedom to repeat really freedom?

The armed attack on the offices of Charlie Hebdo was a vile and senseless act of murder. I condemn it utterly, it repulses me, and my sympathies are entirely with the families and loved ones of the victims. I can only hope that the perpetrators are caught, and that they face justice. All this is true; I really do mean it. But it’s also politician-speak, inherently false. Read any article against the sacralisation of the magazine, especially one written by anyone from a Muslim background, and you’ll see a paragraph like this one, either strangely stilted (I utterly condemn…) or falsely slangy and overfamiliar (a bunch of gun-wielding cockwombles…). Why should this be necessary? Why do we feel the need to prove that, like all sane and decent people, we don’t somehow support the gunning down of ten innocent journalists? Why this ritualised catechism; why can’t we get straight to the point? Is this not itself a kind of restriction of free speech?

The line now is that you cannot criticise Charlie Hebdo, because they had the bravery to criticise anything. Je suis Charlie: you have to identify yourself with an openly racist publication. Why this identification? Protesters in the United States said that they were Mike Brown and Eric Garner because they, too, could be killed by cops, because they, too, were black. Do you also say that the French are stupid like blacks? Do you also show Boko Haram’s kidnap victims as pregnant grotesques demanding welfare money? When the Egyptian coup regime was killing thousands of demonstrators on the streets of Cairo, the cover of Charlie Hebdo showed a bearded man holding up a book against a hail of gunfire and being shot through the chest; the caption read The Qur’an is shit: it doesn’t stop bullets. If they were really ‘equal-opportunity offenders’ relentlessly satirising anyone and anything without any thought for taste or morality, their next issue will be of this type, a ruthless mockery of the victims. We never liked them anyway, or something like that. It wont happen.

As soon as you question the value of this free speech that isn’t really free, the assumption from your defenders is that you must want to impose some kind of censorship. I have no desire to censor. My title here is from Louis-Ferdinand Céline, another French racist, whose hatred was this time ranged against my self and my people; a great writer, even a great writer of antisemitic screeds, who I would never want to censor. It’s assumed that you must want to limit criticism of Islam. I have no particular love for Islam; there’s a lot about it I don’t like. I don’t like the concept of tawhid, or the figuraion of the One as a uniqueness. I don’t like the circumscribed universalism, the community always facing the horizon-figure of the kuffar. I will always support the freedom for anyone to argue against any set of concepts. But this is different from the victimisation of an already persecuted minority. I also support the right of people to fight against those that would destroy them. Free speech fanatics have pointed approvingly to the verdict in the Skokie Affair; where would they have stood in the Battle of Cable Street? I believe in satire; sometimes I even try to do it myself. But I also believe that satire only works when it punches up, that free speech is only really a freedom when it threatens power, not when it becomes the cruel laugh of imperial sadism. The Interview didn’t do this, neither did Charlie Hebdo. Nobody should be killed for this. But they mustn’t be applauded either.

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