Stories have a way of sneaking into our subconscious, shaping how we see the world, how we remember the past, and how we imagine the future. But what happens when a story is wrapped in humour? Does it make it easier to dismiss, or does it actually make the message hit harder?

Lately, I’ve been diving deep into Kalila and Dimna, a medieval collection of animal fables packed with political critique disguised as entertainment. What fascinates me isn’t just the storytelling itself, but how humour functions within it—not as mere comic relief, but as a weapon. These stories mock authority, expose contradictions, and make the reader complicit in their own reckoning. It’s the kind of subversion that sneaks up on you, makes you laugh, and then—bam—you realise you’ve just been confronted with something profound.

This same strategy is everywhere in modern comedy, from the biting satire of John Oliver to the personal-political storytelling of Hasan Minhaj and the sharp cultural critiques of Catherine O’Hara (because let’s be honest, Schitt’s Creek was genius). The best comedians don’t just make us laugh; they make us think. Trevor Noah, for instance, uses humour to unpack the complexities of race, migration, and politics, while the internet is flooded with memes that double as sharp social commentary. Even historical figures like Charlie Chaplin wielded comedy as a tool of resistance—The Great Dictator (1940) ridiculed fascism at a time when speaking out against it was dangerous.

Yet, humour is often dismissed as “less serious” than tragedy. But is it really? If comedy was truly frivolous, why have so many authoritarian regimes censored satirists? Why have figures like Voltaire, Jonathan Swift, and Aristophanes used humour to poke at the hypocrisy of their times? Perhaps it’s because laughter, once unleashed, is hard to control—it spreads, it lingers, and it makes authority uneasy. But at the same time, can humour ever be complicit in maintaining power structures? Are there moments when satire dulls urgency rather than sharpens it? These are questions worth considering.

As I work on my thesis, I keep reflecting on how humour functions in my own creative writing. Can it be a bridge between cultures, generations, and perspectives? Can it make weighty themes—identity, history, displacement—more immediate and personal? My research on Kalila and Dimna suggests that humour isn’t just a literary device; it’s a strategy for survival, a means of navigating oppression, and a way to reclaim narrative control. How can this understanding shape the way I write—and how can it shape the way we read?

So, I want to hear from you—have you ever encountered a joke, a story, or a comedian that made you see something in a completely new light? Have you ever laughed at something, only to later realise the deeper implications of that humour? Let’s talk about it!