Dalbir S. Sehmby

On December 18^th, 2004, a protest at the Birmingham Repertory Theatre occurred, against Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti’s play Behzti (Dishonour). According to varying news reports, due to violence during the protest and due to the issuing of death threats by certain protestors, the play was cancelled, Bhatti has gone into hiding, and for the time being, censorship seems to have won. I have not read the play and my access to the case is limited to news reports on the Internet. Nevertheless, I will use the controversy around Behzti as a catalyst for reflection, navigating the dynamics of media censorship while highlighting the importance of uncensored expression in the following three ways. One, the focus on a censored text’s content and context distracts from our appreciation of open expression as a principle. Two, censorship is a misguided fear that treats the media as a hypodermic needle, and does not acknowledge a text as artifice. Three, by reflecting upon the message within two popular janam-sakhi stories, the free exploration of ideas will be upheld as a valuable human right.

Voices on either side of a censorship debate make relevant points, specific to the situation. For instance, most recently in The Guardian, Jasdev Singh Rai claims “It was not the substance or message of her play that invoked the wrath of so many Sikhs, but the deliberate, sensational and offensive use of sacred icons.” In opposition, Bhatti and her supporters invoke the right to free speech, with Bhatti claiming “she had not intended to offend, and that she felt the play was "respectful" to Sikhism.” Although these comments are specific to the news reports surrounding Behzti, the arguments on either side are quite common to censorship debates, with the cry of being offended on one side and the cry for free speech on the other side. Moreover, each side claims to speak for the Sikh populace, without offering any proof of polling the Sikh community. Being a sensitive and controversial issue that has divided at least two members of the Sikh community, Rai and Bhatti, in all probability, the larger Sikh community may be just as divided, or at least undecided and quite possibly indifferent.

Censorship debates often concern the content of what is censored, rather than the value of censorship itself. That is, as news reports circulating on the Internet surrounding the Bhatti case have shown, disagreements primarily focus upon what a text depicts. Looking at other media texts, a character, situation, or other sort of representation, fictional or non-fictional, may be deemed offensive in some way. For instance, offending rationalism, Harry Potter supports magic and witchcraft. At times, the argument may develop over the accuracy or inaccuracy of a depiction. Gandhi was more complex and controversial a figure than depicted in the film, Gandhi. Similarly, the argument may continue over the level of taste or the lack of taste shown. The overt violence depicted in Braveheart is offensive, because life is sacred.

Being offended is an emotional state; typically then, discussions about censorship content are less calm and grounded than they should be; worse, because such discussions are so emotionally volatile, coming to a mutually satisfying resolution is unlikely. As we have heard in recent news reports, people may become so emotionally charged that they feel the need to protest, to protest violently, to ban art, and to even engage in or at least claim wanting to murder an artist. Seen in this light, the path from being offended to becoming murderous is certainly a destructive one, possibly even more dangerous than any single piece of art, which in itself is incapable of attacking anyone, let alone threatening assassination.

When was the last time a foul-mouthed novel ganged up with a rude play and a risqué painting, thus forming a dangerous artistic gang that would terrorize the community? Not recently. So long as literature and film are inanimate, there is little to fear from them directly. We should, however, fear the people who use literature or media of any sort to justify violence. A poem cannot break windows, but violent protestors can.

Discussions centering solely upon censorship content, although interesting, are often futile, because of an imbalance in the debate’s focus. That is, the focus remains solely upon the work of art, and not upon the behavior of the protestors, who in this instance, behaved violently and made death threats – two acts that are unquestionably illegal. Whether one believes in banning the play or not banning the play, the majority if not the totality of the major news reports thus far have directed their attention to Behzti, a play whose status (like most art) is open to interpretation, avoiding that side of the debate which for all legal purposes, are distinctly offensive, destructive, and threatening.

Behzti remains a play, a performance piece in the realm of make-believe; the death threats exist on the other side of the imaginary divide, where an actual building was destroyed and a young woman’s life has been placed in danger. If one expects a respectful standard from a play, why then has the inherent hypocrisy of being disrespectful on the part of the protestors been overlooked? An answer can be found in the sociological pattern of behavior associated with censorship. A censored text exists bravely, open to criticism and judgment, while vandalism and death threats are not equally criticized or debated. While the play is open and available to critique, the vandals disappear quickly from the public’s glaring spotlight.

Along with debating the content of art, we can debate the context. In doing so, we may realize how selective we are about what we feel we should or should not ban. A simple trip to the newsstand may be offensive to our personal tastes, but people do not regularly knock down magazine racks. Every year, dozens of films, videos, music, and art is produced, but cinemas and television stations are hardly ever stormed. A case can be made against the routine objectification of women in Punjabi music videos or the celebration of alcohol in popular songs, but for whatever reasons, there is hardly any fervor over Desi music. Certainly, with the wide variety of artistic material being produced daily, there must be more material out there that is offensive than one play in Birmingham.

If debates over content reveal people on either side who are overwhelmed by subjectivity and emotion, context reveals that censorship often occurs when a text is particularly shocking to a relatively unified group that is able to orchestrate a protest. In recent times, censorship has been remarkably selective: a protest here, a fatwah there – which is wonderful, actually. Such selectivity is better than the alternative, a wide-scale censorship machine. Hollywood’s censorship code and the Soviet Union’s filter for art were just a short distance away from a society totally governed by propaganda, such as during Nazi Germany, when an elite of policy makers decided what is or is not appropriate for the populace.

To repeat, dealing exclusively with the content of a censorship situation will not get us very far, because such instances can often be reduced to one’s personal level of tolerance, one’s subjective tastes, and one’s individual sense of what is threatening and what is not threatening. Moreover, as the fervor around Behzti has demonstrated, actual illegal acts are overlooked and face less sustained criticism than the play itself. Similarly, because communities are rather selective in deciding what to ban, examining how and why one text is chosen over another, or why a community mobilizes to protest one piece of art or not another, although interesting, will also not lead us very far. So there is no need to explore the Bhatti case in detail or to focus on any other case strictly in terms of the content or context. Instead, the question the remainder of this analysis will focus on is the following: regardless of the content or context, why are people motivated to censor? That is, what is the central dynamic of censorship?

In a word, I would claim that the answer is fear. What is not being mentioned in the Bhatti case is the fear that a negative depiction of Sikhs or a Sikh place of worship will lead people to think poorly of the Sikh community.

Such a perception of a text’s direct power sees media as a hypodermic needle. The media says something and the audience believes it without question. The hypodermic needle approach overlooks the role of the spectator as a discerning subject who may be capable of critical thought, in favor of a mindless dupe, easily manipulated by the media. For instance, watching violence causes one to become violent. The hypodermic needle approach ignores the influence of social pressure, cultural beliefs, familial influences, psychological factors, and many other elements that may be just as important and most likely even more important than any single media text. Viewers and readers are capable of processing information, content and context, without their thoughts being totally controlled by a text.

Whether a media text of any sort is based upon an actual event or not, the media text remains a depiction. Even a documentary news report capturing a live event is a representation, not the event itself. Along with the hypodermic fear, censorship often confuses the depiction of an event with an actual event. For instance, there is a major difference between spray paint on the side of a Gurudwara and the fictional depiction of someone spray painting offensive words on the side of a Gurudwara. To digress for a moment, historically, when such vandalism has occurred, the community asks for tolerance and works towards peaceful cross-cultural understanding, rather than initiating a war with the surrounding community or breaking any surrounding windows.

To return to the main focus, by the rationale of those asking for censorship in the Bhatti case, a play, novel, or film could never depict an act that demeans a sacred site, symbol, or value. Because it would illustrate an attack upon a sacred site, a depiction of the 1984 attack on the Golden Temple either in a documentary or in a fictional narrative based on the event should be banned. Seen in this manner, the problem of censorship is one of misguided interpretations. One side of the debate may take an offensive depiction literally, unable to suspend disbelief enough to understand the depiction in a narrative, symbolic, non-literal, satirical, or ironic fashion.

Most importantly, the side advocating censorship is unable to see what is depicted, whether fictional or non-fictional, as something artificial. A depiction or a representation of something, real or imaginary, is not exactly the same as an actual offensive act. Conversely, the other side of the issue insists that the depiction not be taken literally, in favor of a narrative, more abstract, or at least dramatic interpretation. Shocking and powerful images may be disturbing, but that is a weak reason to ban them; rather, because censorship threatens the value of free speech, we could learn how to process difficult images and understand our own personal limits in handling potentially disturbing depictions.

Oddly enough, Behzti itself may have been an insignificant play, had it not been for the problems surrounding it. Personally, I had neither heard of the writer or the play until the sounds of breaking windows echoed across the world. In addition, from Shakespeare to Jerry Springer the media routinely uses shock and controversy to generate interest. As a medium, drama itself explores those issues that are controversial enough to watch, where there are high emotional stakes, such as love, revenge, hatred, and so on. If everything on stage was fine, there would be no conflict and very little dramatic at stake to engage our interests.

Censorship suppresses the artistic freedom of a community that has yet to develop a longstanding dramatic tradition. Rather than censorship, artists should be encouraged to explore ideas openly, allowing the critical test of time to determine what will or will not persevere. Sure that may risk moments of tastelessness or images we may disagree with, but the value of open expression is a fundamental democratic right that we should safeguard. No writer is perfect, but then again, neither is any one of us.

Along with the hypodermic needle and confusion over artifice, censorship often implies an impending threat. For instance, there is a fear that Harry Potter will cause children to become witches. The minds of children are highly impressionable, so we should ban Harry Potter. Gandhi suppresses criticisms against the lawyer turned anti-colonialist, so we should throw away the film. Braveheart offends the sacred value of life by glorifying violence, which in turn, will cause audience members to resort to vigilante violence. While such an impending threat may not always be stated overtly, it is often a fear associated with censorship. As is illustrated here, a text is personified as responsible for a certain effect within society, while the text’s status as art is overlooked. Most narratives tell stories; they do not advocate a course of action. And even if they did, the viewer or reader does not have to follow blindly. Here again, the viewer should learn to process information and think critically.

Adding to the sensitive quality of the debate, in most high-profile cases of censorship, one side is usually offended because something deemed sacred is treated unfavorably. One major problem however, is that almost anything can be deemed sacred, from innocent and impressionable children to places of worship. Art and stories are often offensive to someone, but the right to expression in a democracy is more valuable than the right to be offended by a media text. Controversial art challenges critical thinking, learning, and tolerance towards differing points of view, which also seems to be upheld by the popular janam-sakhi stories.

In the Sikh tradition, there are popular janam-sakhi stories that illustrate the complex balance of respect and risking offense. According to a Hindu ritual, water is thrown towards the sun. When Guru Nanak threw water in the wrong direction, towards his sister’s drought-stricken farm, he was offending the sacredness of the Hindu ritual. Guru Nanak was not saying that Hinduism is a lesser religion; rather, Nanak was pointing out the arbitrariness of religious ritual and the dangers of following a ritual in an empty manner. In addition, by throwing the water towards his sister’s farm, he was demonstrating his concern for his sister’s well being, which is valuable in itself and thus, not offensive. Sacred rituals are not automatically sacred because of tradition. When Guru Nanak lay with his feet towards Mecca, he was being offensive, because there again was a moment that ritual clouded spirituality. Guru Nanak was not saying Islam was a lesser religion, for as he insisted, all paths are one. Instead, Nanak was pointing out that God exists in every direction, not just at a holy place of worship. On the one hand, Nanak was behaving in an offensive manner, but on the other hand, Nanak’s message was one of tolerance. In both instances, Nanak was illustrating how becoming obsessed with the rituals to the point that the rituals mattered more than spiritual love and the individual journey each of us are on. Living requires mental flexibility, openness, and the freedom to express oneself.

It is highly unlikely that the Sikh community would prefer some sort of religious police to enter their lives to censor all that is deemed improper. Iconic worship is not advocated; so many would have to give up those paintings of the Gurus that adorn their walls. Sikh business people who own bars and shops that sell liquor and cigarettes may have to stop their offensive sales. Worst of all, knowing that the mind is a monkey that jumps from one thought to another, each and every one of us would have to be brought up on charges of imaginary offensiveness.

Art is an expression of the imagined and at times, it will and maybe even should offend, if only to help us realize that God exists everywhere, more than in any one sacred place, image, or object. We cannot have our sacred places or icons do the work for us. Rather, we must become active stewards of our own spiritual journey. Life is complicated, full of uncertainties and difficulties. Exploring such issues in an open and uncensored manner is more responsible than avoiding or ignoring them. Looking at the life of Guru Nanak as an example, he spoke with beggars and kings, and whether it was with a cannibal or a holy person, Nanak expressed himself openly, quite possibly offending along the way, but allowing a passion to radiate through all he composed, as an artist, a teacher, and a student of life.

Fittingly, the debate around Behzti exists because differing voices exist and each voice is allowed expression. In a world governed by censorship, we would not be allowed to get upset over a play or defend the principle of free speech. Without resorting to violence or rushing to silence, we should be allowed to express ourselves, to agree or disagree, as we pass one another along our unique journeys.

“Sikh” means to learn and sometimes, sincere learning can be a painful process. Like a snake shedding its skin to grow into a new one, opening ourselves up to new ideas makes us vulnerable. Since we become vulnerable, we may lash out unnecessarily, over-reacting to a perceived threat. We may have to question how we thought of the world previously or how we have become misguided by our own over-confidence in understanding the mysteries of the world. At times, growth requires challenging the world-view we have previously worn in favor of a newer, more intricate skin. When we become too comfortable in our skins and believe we have the world figured out, we should be more afraid of ourselves than whatever stimulus asks us to stretch ourselves.

Copyright ©2005 Dalbir S. Sehmby.   About The Author