AP

TWO decades ago, on 14th February 1989, Salman Rushdie received one of history's most notorious Valentine greetings. Ayatollah Khomeini, then Iran's Supreme Leader, issued a fatwa (a religious edict) calling for the death of the Indian-born British author in response to his novel, “The Satanic Verses”. Khomeini called on all “intrepid” and “zealous” Muslims to execute the author and publishers, reassuring them that if they were killed in the process, they would be regarded as martyrs.

Rarely had a book stirred up such intense feelings. Hitoshi Igarashi, its Japanese translator, was stabbed to death. Ettore Capriolo, the Italian translator and William Nygaard, the book's Norwegian publisher, were stabbed and shot respectively, although both survived. Bookshops were bombed and the tome was burned in public across the world. Mr Rushdie, fearing for his life, was forced into hiding.

Horrific though these consequences were, many argued that freedom of speech itself was at stake. To cave in, by withdrawing publication or sale of the work, would represent the crumbling of a defining principle of liberal societies. Britain broke off diplomatic relations with Iran over the threat to kill a British citizen. At no point did Penguin, the original publisher, withdraw the book. It remained possible to argue that Mr Rushdie's intolerant detractors, despite their violence, had lost their battle.

Yet critics today, such as Kenan Malik, a writer and broadcaster, argue that the detractors have gradually won their war. Mr Malik and others suggest that free speech in the West is in retreat. Other publishers, faced with books that were likely to cause widespread offence, have been less resolute. In 2008 Random House was set to publish “The Jewel of Medina”, a misty-eyed account of romance between Muhammad and his wife Aisha. The firm reversed its decision after a series of security experts and academics cautioned them against publication (one American academic described the work as historically inaccurate “soft core pornography”) warning it would be dangerously offensive. Gibson Square, another publisher, took up the novel and saw its offices firebombed in September 2008, 20 years to the day after the publication of “The Satanic Verses”. “The Jewel of Medina” has since been released in America, but it remains under wraps in Britain.

Other examples of political sensitivity abound. In 2006 the New York Theatre Workshop cancelled a planned production of “My Name is Rachel Corrie”, a play about an American student killed by an Israeli Defence Forces bulldozer. The theatre was concerned that the play would be too controversial in the wake of Ariel Sharon's collapse into a coma and Hamas's election victory in the Palestinian territories. In June 2007, the Royal Court Theatre in London cancelled a reading of an adaptation of Artistophanes's Lysistrata which was set in a Muslim heaven, for fear of causing offence. In 2005, the Barbican in London was accused of excising sections of its production of Tamburlaine to remove scenes attacking Muhammad. And in 2004, the Birmingham Repertory, another British theatre, cancelled a production of Bezhti, a play depicting a rape in a Sikh temple, after protests by members of the local Sikh community.

The most notorious example of the trouble that can be stirred up is the cartoons of Muhammad first published by Jyllands-Posten, a Danish newspaper in 2006. The pictures, one showing Muhammad in bomb-shaped headgear, one with him wielding a cutlass, another saying that paradise was running short of virgins for suicide-bombers, provoked a tumultuous response around the world. Many Western newspapers decided it would be irresponsible to republish the cartoons (The Economist decided not to publish them, but defended the rights of newspapers to do so). Some governments, including those in Britain and America, denounced their publication. To free-speech campaigners, all this was seen as further evidence of self-censorship amid increasing fears of upsetting sensibilities of some Muslims.

This week Geert Wilders, a strident anti-Muslim Dutch politician, was denied entry into Britain where he intended to screen his film, Fitna, a nasty rant against Islam. Mr Wilders was deported on the grounds that his opinions “threaten community harmony and therefore public safety”. The film was anyway shown in Westminster despite dire predictions that as many as 10,000 Muslims would turn out in protest. The fears were wide of the mark: not one person turned up to complain.

Two decades after the fatwa was imposed on Mr Rushdie, it appears that many Western artists, publishers and governments are more willing today to sacrifice some of their freedom of speech than was the case in 1989. To many critics that will be seen as self-censorship that has gone too far. But a difficult balance must be struck: no country permits completely free speech. Typically, it is limited by prohibitions against libel, defamation, obscenity, judicial or parliamentary privilege and the like. Protecting free expression will often require hurting the feelings of individuals or groups; equally the use of free speech should be tempered by a sense of responsibility. But that sense should not serve as a disguise for allowing extremists of any stripe to define what views can or cannot be aired.