An unprecedented attack on the satirical weekly magazine Charlie Hebdo on 7th January 2015 prompted an unprecedented collective response throughout France.
Crowds of people followed the government’s appeal to march in protest throughout the land: they held pencils to symbolize press freedom. The logo “Je suis Charlie” written in white letters against a black background, could be seen everywhere. This was an act of national solidarity in defence of press freedom.
The employees and journalists of the magazine were targeted and twelve were killed. Writers worldwide were appalled – as I was. Shortly afterwards, I painted a watercolour of a pile of books with appropriate titles, and blood seeping out from under them.
It did not sell for a while, but strangely enough, three days before a subsequent terrorist massacre at the Bataclan night club, someone walked into the gallery, bought my painting and left. So I’ve no idea where it has ended up.
On the radio a few days ago I listened to an account of what happened that tragic day by one of the journalists who was wounded but survived and still works at Charlie Hebdo. He said he often misses his colleagues and feels sad, but he also senses their presence and feels he owes it to them to continue writing and producing the magazine, to uphold the freedom of the press, for which they died.
Ten years on I still recall the outrage I felt at the time. Thousands of people throughout history have been killed merely for telling the truth or expressing their opinions. How sad is that.