The latest Cox & Forkum cartoon, “Toonophobia,” evoked in me an unexpected tumult of emotion.

[click for full size]
Its message is complicated, and some context is necessary. Some months ago, workers at a government office in England wereordered to “remove or cover up all pig-related items, including toys, porcelain figures, calendars and even a tissue box featuring Winnie the Pooh and Piglet” to avoid offending the sensibilities of Muslim employees or clients. Ridiculous, no doubt.
Relating that story to the controversy over the Muhammed cartoons, Cox & Forkum defiantly present both offending images (though images of the prophet with a bomb in his turban are potentially offensive on a much deeper, and arguably more legitimate, level) to assert the absurdity of the recent uproar.
Okay, fair point — though it is a leap to equate images of Porky Pig with images that explicity imply that Islam is inextricably linked with violence. But I understand their point of view.
What really elicited a visceral reaction from me, though, was not the cartoonists’ point, which has its merits and its failings, but simply the presence of Piglet, a cherished character from my childhood, in a cartoon that contains violent religious fantatics and the inflammatory objects of their outrage.
And in that sense, the cartoon is an artistic success. Though I maintain that [tempered, nonviolent] Muslim umbrage over the Muhammed cartoons is justifiable while outrage over Piglet calendars isn’t, the cartoonists, in presenting these images together, powerfully illustrate the point that violent outrage over free expression of any sort is a grave threat to liberal societies. The presence of harmless characters from my childhood makes more stark the contrast between cultures of tolerance and cultures of indignant intolerance.
But, more broadly, the inclusion of Piglet in such political commentary angers me. My anger is not directed exclusively at any party, and least of all at the cartoonists, who made a powerful point. My anger – my outrage — is directed at a world so infused with hatred, discord, and inhumanity that cherished images from my childhood should ever cross paths with images, individuals, and movements that make this world a less peaceful place.
Because just as Muhammed lies in the sacred realm of Islam, Piglet lies in mine. And I write that without irony or sarcasm. When a childhood character who embodies the virtues of love, kindness, and friendship — a character who charmed me as I toddled about in diapers — enters a discourse of conflict, hatred, and destruction, it is an indictment of our people — and my “our people,” I mean humanity.
If you can bear it, hold a few images in your mind’s eye. Imagine a frenzied mob hurling molotov cocktails at an embassy. Imagine warplanes turning a residential neighborhood into hell on Earth. If you can, imagine the Holocaust. Now imagine a little boy, no more than three, sitting on the floor on a Saturday morning watching Winnie the Pooh, grinning ear to ear.
The fact that these images should ever occur in sequence should be cause enough for tears. I feel that I have committed some grisly crime against humanity for even mentioning them in the same paragraph. But this is what our species has created: a world that pits the arrogant passions of political and religious ideologies against the innocence of children. There is much to be protected in this world. Some things are worth fighting for and even worth dying — or, I am afraid to say, killing — for. And all of that, I think, can be symbolized by the image of that little boy. For when the innocence of children is no longer sacrosanct, we have forgotten and cast aside our humanity.
I write this not to belittle the importance of politics. Conflicts between tolerance and intolerance, liberalism and authoritarianism, or oppression and freedom are not petty; they protect the very circumstances that allow children to be innocent. Political conflict is a necessity. Vigilance against threats to cherished values — such as values which protect our children — is a necessity. I write this only to restate the obvious and perhaps the simplistic: a world in which hatred is so pervasive, a world ruled too often by the whims of tyrants and maniacs, is no world for children.
This world is far-removed from the Hundred-Acre Wood. And that’s a tragedy; it really is. A species so uniquely endowed with the tendency to strive for the Good owes itself better.