After watching a humorous video about a femicide, I found myself repeating the same points to people who argued that this particular topic “is not something to joke about.” Many of my followers thought I would agree.
Many people believe that we shouldn’t make jokes about such tragic events. That’s not true—and not just because I say so. It’s not true because comedy isn’t what you think it is.
Comedy is a weapon of the oppressed against the oppressor. It is a weapon in times of war. It makes the all-powerful enemy appear ridiculous and vulnerable; it gives strength to the frightened and wounded, even when they are doomed. Laughter has always been the resistance of the weak against the strong.
In peaceful times, comedy is a tool that helps democracy function. It does the necessary (and sometimes dirty) work of holding up a mirror to society, exposing the rot beneath the surface, the absurdity within institutional frameworks, the irrationality in “normality,” and the injustice intertwined with privilege and excellence.
That is what comedy is supposed to do. In the femicide case the video was based on, it was essential to expose the absurdities of the system, which they tried to pass off as efficient and effective, simply because “protocols were followed”. That “inappropriate” funny video exposed incompetence, inhumanity, and the tragic way the judicial system fails women.
Comedy can be about anything—as long as it’s on the right side.
And who decides what the right side is? The ones sitting at the bottom of the hierarchy. The right side is on the side of the weak, the oppressed, the unjustly harmed, accused and wronged.
And what makes a joke funny?
A joke is about the unexpected within the ordinary, about subversion, about stereotypes, about timing and rhythm, about repetition, about countless elements that will touch an audience and grant them that precious little mental orgasm. But that’s not our concern here.
Yes, a joke can be at someone’s expense. It can mock misfortune, pain or weakness, appearance, difference or anything that deviates from the “norm”. But it can also rise above. It can tame or even eliminate fear. In times of war, caricatures and sketches that ridicule the enemy were invaluable for keeping morale high.
Beyond war and imagination, in comedy, nothing resonates as much as a true human experience. As much as a story. On some level, we are still gathered around a fire, telling stories. The most important raw material for jokes is personal experiences—the deeply comedic and futile nature of the human condition.
And this is a more significant message than “haha, he fell and got hurt.” It’s that despite our differences, we are more alike than we think.
In stand-up, the comedian puts themselves on display, exposing, opening up, self-deprecating—the joke is at their own expense. You see reality from their perspective, through a peephole you would normally never have access to. They make you laugh at their misfortune, their weaknesses, their fears or failures; they put you in their shoes. You realize that no matter how different they are, you have felt that way too. You can relate.
And then you no longer have to pretend that you’re perfect or that your life is flawless. You can admit that you, too, have weaknesses, quirks, flaws, little disgusting thoughts and habits you fear no one could ever love you for. We’re all like that. And even though we try, we all fail sometimes. Sometimes, we do so spectacularly. But it’s okay. In the end, we survive. If you manage to laugh at who you are or what has happened to you, it means everything will be alright. That’s a great comfort, and it brings Others—whoever they are—closer. Because “they’re like me, I’m like them.”
We owe gratitude to comedians who decode reality, destigmatizing our weaknesses and making the issues that weigh on us more digestible—issues no one wants to sit down and discuss seriously, because true vulnerability is hard (especially for men).
A comedic creator can shine a light on aspects of reality we take for granted, aspects that go unnoticed. Through a well-structured joke, they can talk about a “difficult” and taboo subject without alienating people. They can create a new perspective, a new way of seeing something, they can open a new window.
A comedic creator can show you that things are neither as they should be nor as it makes sense for them to be. That if you look at them a little differently or in their exaggerated form, many of the things we accept without question, are surreal and irrational. And maybe—just maybe—they shouldn’t be that way.
Comedy can hold up a mirror to society, showing it its reflection, its arbitrary rules, its obsessive fixations, its flaws, and its incomprehensible choices. With the hope that if we see them, we might want to fix them. Does that sound like propaganda? Maybe it is.
Good comedy can be a means of social awareness and change.
Jokes become the knife that peels away the layers of reality, the chisel that hammers and breaks layer upon layer of entrenched beliefs that perpetuate inequalities. Humour is invaluable in resisting injustice because it redefines reality. Especially on issues of diversity, sexism, and racism, it is the perfect vehicle.
On the other hand, stereotypes are essential in comedy. You can’t build a joke without talking about things around us—familiar ideas, recognizable characters, and relatable situations. Otherwise, no one will get the joke. But a comedian can take these well-known and familiar elements, highlight them, exaggerate them, flip them on their head, and ultimately prove how flimsy they are—talking about them in a way no one has before.
A comedic creator can use stereotypes to dismantle them.
Mark Twain once said that humanity has only one effective weapon: laughter. Laughter can fight evil in a peaceful yet powerful way.
Imagination and science fiction, as Ursula K. Le Guin once noted, offer alternatives to the present, existing world. The most important thing, she said, is to provide a fictional yet convincing alternative reality—one that shakes the mind out of its lazy and timid habit of believing that the way we live now is the only way people can live.
She went on to say: This inertia allows unjust institutions to continue existing. The ability and willingness to imagine alternatives to reality as we know it, is always the first step toward making different, better realities possible.
Imagination allows us to envision a better world and a different reality, but comedy shines a light on our own reality and exposes it—showing us how to question it. Because if you don’t question, there’s no reason to envision something new.
Until just a few years ago, we laughed at comedic takes on the differences between men and women. Generations have laughed at gender stereotypes, and many people still do. But the time has come when fewer and fewer people find them funny. The subject has become outdated. More and more people are aware of sexism—they understand that patriarchy is responsible for men and women being trapped in roles they never chose, and they recognize how much harm that causes.
We are entering an era where it is far more interesting to see comedy that focuses not on the differences but on the similarities between genders—and on how we all suffer under patriarchy.
What we laugh at, is a cultural barometer.
If stand-up comedy isn’t your thing, think about the phrase “I have no problem with gay people; I even have gay friends.” The fact that this has become a sort of meme, repeated as a joke, is progress.
We are on the road to change when reality itself starts to appear comedic.
Comedy is a way of awakening—a way of being present in the world you live in. A way of calling things by their real name. But hold on—that’s exactly why many old-school comedians condemn political correctness. Because “it doesn’t let them express themselves.”
But political correctness and woke culture are actually a gift to comedy. Because they prevent humour from staying at a superficial level and push it to dig deeper and seek substance.
In comedy in general, but especially in stand-up, the further back you go, the harder it is to find old jokes funny—even from legendary comedians. It’s difficult to see what made them so ground-breaking at the time. A fresh perspective on reality doesn’t stay “fresh” for long. If it’s successful, it gets repeated, copied, and serves as inspiration for others—eventually becoming normal or even outdated.
Newer generations build upon the insights of the old, taking them for granted, and climb even higher. Higher and higher. That’s evolution.
A truly great comedic creator understands this. If they want to be timeless, they seize the momentum. They become one with the present—mirroring the pulse of now.
Good comedy doesn’t punch down—it punches up.
If it talks about women, LGBTQ+ people, marginalized groups, minorities, or any kind of diversity, it draws humour from their truths. And it awakens the audience to the rotten ways in which society treats them.
A joke that serves up reheated clichés like “you women always…” gets less and less laughter. The old stereotypes of comedy simply aren’t funny anymore. The jokes that shake the foundations of the establishment, that challenge conventions and what is taken for granted, are the ones that leave a lasting impression.
Right now, great comedy is a form of activism.
Of course, a joke is just a joke. Whether it’s good for its audience and its time is almost self-evident—it’s proven within fractions of a second. If it gets a laugh, it’s good. Not all comedians are obligated to change the world or heal society. But if they want to, they can try.
There’s an episode of Esther Perel’s podcast featuring Trevor Noah—actually recorded live—where they talk about the role of comedy in dark times and tragic situations.
Trevor mentions that laughter, as an emotion, is one of the few things that can steal power away from pain.
But the best part is when Esther shares a story. Years ago, she worked on a theater project based on real testimonies—an artistic resistance against political violence. She collaborated with a group of Chilean resistance members who had been imprisoned and tortured in isolation under Pinochet’s regime.
Her team approached the project with deep seriousness and humility, striving to capture the horror of the situation with strong moral messages.
When the Chileans came to watch the performance, they told the team:
“Everything was great, but you missed the most important part.”
The team panicked. Oh God, what did we leave out? What did we overlook?
“Humour,” the Chileans said. “Do you think we survived solitary confinement by being serious?”
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