Israelis Find Laughter in Grief: The Only Thing Funnier Than War is Trying to Explain It to Woke College Students

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In the grand circus that is Israel, where war and satire clamor for the limelight like clowns at a sad birthday party, we face a baffling twist: even amidst tragedy, it seems some hearty souls are determined to tickle the ribs of grief. Picture this: the clouds of chaos loom heavy after an October 7 massacre, a time when smiling must feel like playing hopscotch through a minefield. But Omri Marcus, a comedy writer, found himself in the comforting embrace of dark humor. His American writer buddy asked the golden question: “Can you laugh at all?” Well, Omri confessed, “Humor? You mean like trying to find my car keys while blindfolded? Not today.”

But in Israel, where even the bleakest of realities can’t escape a punchline, humor surged back like an overenthusiastic balloon animal. Muli Segev, the showrunner of the beloved sketch show Eretz Nehederet, announced they wouldn’t be skipping a beat. Because what else do you do when the nation is reeling? Hold a therapy session? Nah, you turn tragedy into a stand-up routine, a peculiar Jewish tradition of laughing while clutching a shiva blanket.

And here’s the kicker: instead of laughing at ourselves, the comedic arrows are now aimed outward. Forget introspection; the fresh Target is the endless parade of international absurdities—like woke college students auditioning for a reality show on hypocrisy. Attention, U.S.A.: your campus protests have never looked so ripe for a roast! Picture students in rainbow capes tearing down hostage posters while chanting, "I’m not antisemitic; I’m racially fluid!" Bravo, kids. At least your confusion is amusing, even if your grasp on reality is as tenuous as a threadbare comedy sketch.

With comedy slowly resurfacing from the morass, Edan Alterman jumped in with videos like “Antisemitism for Dummies.” Who knew making a mockery of misguided beliefs could provide relief? And as Eretz Nehederet tackled everything from BBC coverage to Hamas leaders vacationing in Doha, it’s clear: when life gives you war, you grab your sketchbook and start doodling.

The sketches are a cavalcade of what-ifs and could-never-happen scenarios, where even baby hostages get slapped with blame because what’s a little tragedy without a baby to blame it on, right? It’s all in good fun—if fun involves crying after you laugh.

And Racheli Rottner, the queen of prank calls, strode into the Harvard admissions office asking if her son, a participant in a massacre, would be a “strong asset” for admission. The poor admissions officer, trying desperately to maintain composure while wading through this moral swamp, replied, “Well, he can apply.” Just imagine the internal struggle at Harvard: do we admit the ideologically confused or keep our standards? Because nothing screams “I’m ready for higher education” like being a terrorist’s parent.

As Israel spins on this darkly humorous carousel, comedian Orel Tsabari makes prank calls that stir more awareness than politicians ever could. From joking about hotel reservations for Hamas leaders to inquiring about rockets at a duty-free shop, he shows that absurdity knows no boundaries—unless it’s one of those pesky moral lines, but who needs those when you’ve got punchlines?

In this unexplained rise of comedy through chaos, one thing is clear: laughter isn’t just the best medicine; it’s an act of rebellion against a reality that’s far too grim. As they craft jokes out of sorrow, it seems the comedians are not only surviving; they’re thriving, reminding us all that amidst the madness, if you can’t find the light, at least you can poke fun at the darkness.