It’s still complicated
If Mideo Cruz had done to Mohammad what he had done to Jesus Christ, some of his more impassioned critics say, he would even now be an object of a religious manhunt, or fatwa. A manhunt, the more imaginative of his impassioned critics conjure, that could lead to his own manhood being grafted to his nose or his balls being stuffed into his mouth.
But that is precisely why we should be very careful about these reactions, or stoking the public to such reactions. It is not that Cruz may be thankful we are not given to these things, it is that we may be thankful we are not given to these things. Reactions like this do not show the extent of the provocation, they show the extent of the religious fanaticism. They do not show heaven in all its righteous fury, they show heaven in all its vengeful pettiness. A religion that is not prone to neurotic insecurities does not lash out this way.
But alas, the history of civilization, such as it may be called that, is replete with chapters of God’s name being conscripted to justify murder and mayhem, atrocity and monstrosity. That is what we have to guard against, not slights against religion, real or imagined. If the religion is strong enough—no, if the religion is wise enough—it will survive any slights to it. What does not kill you will make you stronger, an epic insight and a much quoted one, though its invokers, many of them believers, often forget (or do not know) that the one who said that also said “God is dead.” Who was Friedrich Nietzsche.
The case of Salman Rushdie shows the chilling consequences of such reactions. Rushdie is a brilliant writer, as you know if you’ve read “Midnight’s Children,” his most famous (and rather long-winded) novel. He got persecuted for a lesser work that happened to have been interpreted by religious fundamentalists as a slap in the face of Muhammad. And largely because of its title, “The Satanic Verses,” not because of its content. Rushdie is an equal-opportunity satirist, bashing colonial rule and local rule alike, bashing India and Pakistan alike, bashing Muslims and Christians alike.
Alas, the ayatollahs did not appreciate his humor and greeted it with a fatwa.
Can you imagine the atrocity that does to writing? Can you imagine the tragedy that inflicts on civilization?
Again, arguably the provocation on Rushdie’s part is a matter of contention, even if the fanatical reaction of the ayatollahs to it is not—it is merely contemptible. Cruz’s works are a lot blunter. Whatever his intentions, those works are guaranteed to incense the Catholic faithful.
One of course can always ask: What if he had exhibited his works in a European capital? Or indeed in the East or West Coast of the United States? Surely he would not have met with the same fury he has done here? Surely his works would have stirred a debate only about artistic merit, or the lack of it, if at all they became an object of much scrutiny? Surely they would not have been derided as perverse or degraded, even if some spectators might have found his images disconcerting? And therefore the condemnation of it in this country is not universal among Christendom. And therefore the vituperation of it in this country is not typical of all of Christendom.
But here’s the rub.
That might very well be so, but Cruz happened to have exhibited those works in this country and not in any other one. That demands at least a certain degree of sensitivity to the Filipino audience. Filipinos might not take very many things seriously—which include officials of the Church—but they do take their faith seriously. They do take the symbols of their faith seriously. They do take the rituals of their faith seriously. If an artist peed on the Philippine flag, most Filipinos will not stop to ponder the meaning of it, nor will they excuse it as art. They will regard it as an affront to their Filipino-ness. That is just the flag, this is the heart of the Christian faith.
In fact, Cruz did not just happen to have exhibited his works in this country, he had this country in mind as his prime audience. If he had exhibited those works elsewhere, they would probably not have caused a stir at all—not just in the sense of not creating a furor but also in the sense of not creating a ripple. The power of those images lies in their context, the context specifically of the Church’s opposition to the RH bill. Foreign audiences might be arrested by the images, but they would be at pains to catch their satirical value or symbolic resonances. They are targeted at a Filipino audience.
Which is what makes them problematic. Art, as Picasso said, is the lie by which we know the truth. Well, this is one lie that doesn’t quite uncover the truth. It never gets to it. As I said last time, it doesn’t open the audience’s mind, it closes it. It doesn’t sharpen the audience’s sensibility, it dulls it.
Had Cruz simply used the archbishops and the cardinals to strew phalluses upon, he might at least have a crack at pitching his message across. There might be loud remonstrations from the Church and the more faithful among the faithful, but the outcry would not be this deafening and it would not be this near-universal. It is not for anyone of course to prescribe upon artists what to do, but it is not for artists either to do just about anything they please. Cruz’s works make it the hardest thing in the world for those who are thoroughly sympathetic to the cause of art, or thoroughly unsympathetic to religious witch hunts, to defend him with unqualified enthusiasm. Without painting an image of art as being terribly self-indulgent, of being steeped in the punk-rock culture of shoving a dirty finger at the world.
Or, indeed, of art having a dick for a nose.
