I’m a comedian. Why do I do what I do?

I was raised by two educated Palestinian parents. They are both refugees, driven from Palestine. They were educated by life, then by prestigious universities. I know this because their prestigious degrees were hanging on the wall above the staircase, a stark reminder as I walked down the stairs every day.

But why did I become a comedian?

Like my parents, I attended a prestigious institution, the University of Michigan, where I obtained a BA, an MA, and a law degree. I loved being in the midst of academic excellence and everything that came with it, the intellectual expression, the diverse backgrounds, and, most important to a Palestinian, the activism. Being on a large, progressive campus was the ideal place for a loud Palestinian like me. I know, “loud Palestinian” sounds redundant.

So what happened to me? How did this highly educated Palestinian child of highly educated Palestinian parents turn into a jokester? Well, when I was a law student at the University of Michigan, an Arab student group invited an Arab-American comedian to perform on campus. This was in 2003. September 11 was still fresh, and Arab-American comedians were just starting to be noticed. The student group needed some volunteers to fill some time on the stage before the headlining comedian performed. I figured, why not? I have a few funny stories to tell, I always liked speaking in front of people (remember, “loud Palestinian”), and this seemed easy enough.

The night of the show came. I was confident. How hard could this be? I had led hundreds in demonstrations. I had been on national TV talking about Palestine. I had written a newspaper column read worldwide. The 200 people sitting in this room were no threat to me.

I took the stage, cool, poised, and self-assured. Then, I looked out into the audience. Everyone was staring at me. And waiting. With high expectations. They were waiting for me to make them laugh. For a few seconds, I froze. I had been trained my whole life to debate about Palestine. That’s in every Palestinian’s DNA. But now I was expected to make people laugh. And it had not struck me until that very moment that there was a possibility I might not succeed. And failure here would not mean the on-going loss of my homeland (which I could handle just fine), but deep personal embarrassment (which I could not).

After snapping out of my trance, I told the following joke:

“When I tell people my background, sometimes they say, ‘Wow, you don’t look Arab.’
I just smile and say, ‘Thank you.’”

And they laughed. They actually laughed. On the outside, I nonchalantly made it seem like that was what I had expected the whole time. On the inside, I was euphoric. This was the best high I had ever experienced (and I experienced a few different highs). This felt amazing. This felt better than the liberation of Palestine. Of course, I don’t know what the liberation of Palestine feels like, but that’s another story for another day.

That first laugh got me hooked. For the next five years, as I found numerous other ventures to make money, I worked on the craft of comedy. I did shows for free. Sometimes I drove four hours just to get on a stage, to be in front of people, and to feel that high of their laughter.

And I realised something very important along the way. When you can make someone laugh, he listens to you. He sits there, listening, waiting for you to make him laugh again. I first thought that stand-up comedy was my drug, but I was wrong. Laughter is the drug, and, as it turns out, I’m the drug dealer. If my product is good, my clients keep coming back. If it’s bad, they never want me to talk to them again.

Being a Palestinian comedian takes on an even deeper character. As Palestinians, we always have stories to tell. In fact, I always say Palestinian dads can’t ever talk to anyone without saying, “In 1948…” Also, when we Palestinians show that we can laugh at ourselves, not only do we find some comfort in our everyday lives, but we become more human to others. And this is an important part of our activist journey. One of the largest challenges we face is the on-going Israeli campaign to dehumanise us. And nowhere does this happen more often and more powerfully than in the news and entertainment media. Israel has had one major goal since 1948: to rid itself of us pesky Palestinians. And anytime we start to tell our story, Israel and her supporters fight back.

In February 2010, I was performing at a private party for about 75 Arab-Americans in a restaurant outside of Detroit. One half was reserved for them while the other half still had regular customers, who were within earshot of my routine. A few minutes into my act, I told the following joke:

Sometimes I accidentally bring out the racist in people. Once, I was sitting in an airport bar because my flight was delayed, and this white guy was sitting next to me. We were both lonely, so we started chatting.
He asked me, “What’s your name?”
I said, “Amer.”
He said, “That’s an interesting name… where are you from.”
I said, “Well, I grew up in Philadelphia, but now I live in Michigan.”
He chuckled and said, “No, I mean, where are you from from.”
This is what white people say when they want to find out where you’re REALLY from.
So I said, “Oh, from from. Well, I’m from from Palestine. I’m Palestinian.”
He said, “Really?!”
I said, “Yeah.”
He said, “REALLY?!?!”
And I said, “Yeah, I didn’t say I was a unicorn, I said I’m Palestinian…we exist.”
He looked over both his shoulders, then turned back to me and said, “That’s cool…”
I said, “Why?”
He said, “Because I don’t like Jewish people either.”
And so I got upset. I said, “Hey, that’s racist! It’s racist of you to assume I’m racist just because of my race. That’s racist!”
And he said, “Fine, man, calm down. You mean you don’t hate all Jewish people?”
And I said, “Well, I’m just sayin’…”

A couple minutes later, the manager of the restaurant tugged on my sleeve and told me, “Don’t tell any more jokes about Jewish people. You offended some of my customers.” I smiled and assured him I would behave. I kept performing, and my crowd was having a good time. After about ten minutes, during which time I did not utter the word “Jew,” the manager reappeared and asked me to step down. “You’ve offended everyone,” he told me. In shock, I asked, “Who?” He said, “Too many people.” And my show came to an immediate end.

See, a few Jewish customers were offended by the joke. But voicing their opinion was not enough. They would not stop complaining until I was removed from the stage, until I was silenced. Now that joke is not even about Jews. It is about how some white people try to associate with minorities in any way that they can. And it is about how we, as Palestinians, sometimes cannot bring ourselves to say we are OK with Jews. The joke is offensive to white people and Palestinians, not to Jews.

But this is what it means to be Palestinian. You can live anywhere you want, except Palestine. And you can talk about anything you want, except Palestine. The few Jews I “offended” that night were not offended by my joke. They were offended by my presence. They didn’t even really hear the joke. They probably heard “Palestinian” and “Jews” and said, “Hey, now wait a minute!”

Supporters of Israel are offended by the mere recital of some sort of Palestinian narrative. It makes them very uncomfortable. Any Palestinian in the room makes them uneasy. Talking about Israel and its policies makes them edgy. Slaveholders didn’t like talking about slavery, so it makes sense.
Since 2009, I have performed in Palestine often. And whenever I do, I am reminded of how connected we all are, no matter how many corners of the world we inhabit. And while I always knew we shouted, argued, and cried about the same things, I now know that we laugh at the same things too. And that makes me happy.

Amer Zahr is a Palestinian-American comedian, writer, speaker, and musician. He is originally from Nazareth. He can be reached at amer@amerzahr.com.