Today there is no certainty that the exhibition will be reopened. What I want to show is that every aspect of Wafaa Bilal’'s visit to RPI points back to one fundamental issue: the value of free speech in a democracy.

Bilal was born in Iraq in 1966. He resisted the authoritarian government of
Saddam Hussein, suffered persecution and then escaped the country,
emigrating to the US in the early 1990s to realize a lifelong dream. He
completed an MFA at the Chicago Art Institute in 2003 – and then, due to
circumstances far beyond his own choosing, he became one of the most
controversial artists in America.

He works with photography, video and computer games, using the Internet to
reach beyond the gallery to a wider public. At the heart of his recent
pieces is a single principle: he performs the existence of an Iraqi
civilian. He shows us, tells us and tries to make us feel what life might
be like right now, for those he left behind in his home country. By staging
himself in interactive situations, he asks each of us to chose what we have
to say to the Iraqi people.

Let'’s remember that Iraqis are not necessarily our enemies. US armed forces
originally came to liberate them from a dictator. This apparently simple
premise has given rise to a terribly complex dilemma. An occupying power,
claiming to restore democracy to a foreign nation, is faced with deadly
attacks on its forces and with the parallel development of civil wars
linked inextricably to its presence. A civilian population, which had no
voice and no chance to intervene in any of the events leading up to this
violence, is faced with explosives, assassinations, cross-fire, penury,
immeasurable suffering and death. By the most cautious and thoroughly
documented account available, the liberation of Iraq has been accompanied
by 81,632 civilian deaths by violence since March 20, 2003 (cf.
www.iraqbodycount.org). Each of those who have died, including Bilal's own
brother, is a unique human being, just like each of the 3,974 Americans who
have died in he war. The question that arises today is whether the citizens
of the United States – who, through our elected representatives, did
collectively decide to engage in violence – can still speak in public about
the consequences of that decision.

What does it mean to speak in public? It’s no longer so easy as standing on
a soapbox. We live in an intensely mediated society. Every day,
politicians, journalists, newscasters, movies, recruiting officers,
brochures, posters, blogs and games "speak" about the war. They raise
feelings of the widest variety: fear, revulsion, hatred, pride, a sense of
strength or courage, sadness, horror, anxiety. Amid all these emotions, one
overriding concern is constantly at issue: our relation, as a listening and
viewing public, to the image of American servicemen and women faced with a
strange, seemingly unknowable enemy. That one issue conditions every
political decision made about the war. Yet those whom we came to liberate –
not our enemies, but the Iraqi people – are strangely absent from this
discussion. As if in reality, we wished to know nothing about them.

Wafaa Bilal is now a US citizen. He uses his rights as a citizen to speak
to us symbolically, with photographs, videos, websites, interactive games.
He insists that symbolic speech has its consequences. One of his recent
pieces was entitled “Domestic Tension: Shoot an Iraqi” (2007). He designed
an interactive website allowing anyone, anywhere, 24 hours a day, to aim a
paintball gun inside a gallery and fire it at him. With this work he
addressed the American public. The participants chose their responses. They
could speak with bullets, by firing paintballs at a supposed enemy; or they
could respond in any other way, with words, with letters, with emotions,
with recognition and respect, with solidarity for another human being. Some
of them found that if they "spoke" just right, by a click just in time,
they could divert the paintball which another participant was firing
directly at the artist.

Bilal came to the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute with a video game: "The
Night of Bush Capturing: A Virtual Jihadi." Here, the situation is complex,
like the war itself. Bilal’'s piece is based on the video game "Quest for
Saddam," where American gamers were invited to attack and kill stereotyped
Iraqi enemies during a mission to capture the dictator. This commercial
game was hacked by individuals claiming to be part of Al Qaeda. They
transformed it into a game where Islamist warriors seek to kill the
American president. Then they offered it to people in Iraq, just as the
original game had been offered to young Americans. Bilal hacked the hack,
and placed his own image in the game. He let himself be symbolically
absorbed within it, the way any teenager would be absorbed during the time
of play. And he then made this situation public, as the central element of
his exhibition at RPI.

There is vital meaning in this act of symbolic speech. The artist is trying
to inform you, not only about the ways that a video game pictures Iraqis
for the American public, but also about the ways that Al Qaeda speaks
through games to Iraqi youth. With the image of his own body, Wafaa Bilal
is trying to tell everyone about the consequences of war and hatred, and
the kinds of symbolic speech that are circulating in the world beyond our
borders.

Wafaa still has one project going at RPI: and you can participate, at
www.dogoriraqi.com. He wants your vote to decide which one -- a dog named
"Buddy," or an Iraqi, himself -- will be waterboarded at an "undisclosed
location" in upstate New York.

Are Iraqis our enemies? Should we vote for torture? Is free speech the
essence of a democracy? Would you pull the trigger? To ask these dangerous
questions through symbolic speech, without physical harm to anyone, is a
possibility that art can give us. To make use of that possibility, and
thereby to keep democracy vividly alive, is to fulfill one's civic
responsibility. This kind of challenging and open debate is what we could
expect in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of a great university. Yet precisely
that has been denied, with the closing of the exhibition "Virtual Jihadi"
at Rensselaer Polytechnic. Exercise your right of expression. Write to
President Shirley Jackson in favor of re-opening the show (email:
president (at) rpi.edu). Free speech is now severely threatened. But what we
need today, at a minimum, is to ask many more public questions about the
reasons for remaining involved in this war.