The last time I burst into tears over news was when I heard the sound of the bodies hitting the ground on 9/11. But the attack on Charlie Hebdo feels so much more personal. Because they're my people, and because I grew up reading their irreverent cartoons. Every Wednesday I used to read Cabu's comic Strip in my dad's "Canard Enchainé". I bought several of his books over the years - the man was such a sharp observer of the human nature. I used to sneak into the adult section of the library to read Wolinski's stuff. Their irreverence and good natured blasphemy shaped my belief system, nurtured in me a strong secular rebellious streak. Charlie Hebdo poked fun at everybody: the Pope, Allah, the Dalai Lama, Catholics, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, they had no boundaries - everybody was fair game. Their cartoons were often outrageous, sometimes extremely rude but also at times very insightful and sharp satires of the ludicrousness of our society. Did I think the magazine crossed the boundaries of good taste? Yes, I often did. But I considered them a relic of the fuck-you attitude of May 68 - and for that I loved them - in the same way you love that scruffy old uncle who makes inappropriate comments at family gatherings. People often talk about freedom of speech, Charlie Hebdo used it for all it was worth.
And they died for it. Because some islamic fascist fucktards thought it would please Allah, who - if I believed in such things - would probably spit in their face.