When the protest demands immunity from humour

By Filip Çakuli

A new category of protester seems to have been born in Albania: the protester who wants to topple the government but does not accept being toppled by a joke.

All it took was a bit of Portokallia humour about the protest and social networks exploded. Anonymous and named alike, indignant and revolted: “A government attack!”, “Servility!”, “You are mocking the protest!”

No, people. It is called humour.

But what has happened to the protest that no one may mock it anymore? From the moment someone takes the microphone on the boulevard, do they also gain immunity from satire?

On the contrary. That is exactly where the material for humour begins.

When a protester goes out on the boulevard and shouts “Arrest Rama!”, the protester has the right to say it. But the comedian has the right to ask: And who arrests him? The crowd with the microphone?

This is not mockery of the right to protest. It is mockery of the way politics and the crowd sometimes turn the microphone into a court, the accusation into a verdict and the cheering into a sentence.

Humour has no duty to take the side of the protest. Nor of the government.

It takes the side of the absurd.

And the protest is part of reality. Therefore it is also part of satire. Humour deals with the strong, with the powerful. And the protesters are such — that is how they hold themselves — so I do not agree with some commentators who write that we are dealing with a few poor wretches.

Humour has made jokes about kings, presidents, ministers, judges, priests and crowds. It has even made humour about God. Aristophanes understood this more than two thousand years ago. Since then, satire has had a bad habit: it does not much respect authority when authority becomes ridiculous.

Indeed, power is the preferred target.

Rama may be prime minister, but he is not the owner of his image. Berisha may be a political leader, but he is not the owner of his public figure. A minister may have power, but he does not receive together with the post a certificate that says: “Mockery prohibited.”

The same applies to the protester. If you step onto the public stage, you become part of it. And the public part is not only applause. It is also criticism. It is also caricature. It is also the joke.

The protest has the right to shout. Humour has the right to laugh at it. These do not contradict each other. On the contrary, a protest that seeks to topple a government should have enough confidence in itself to endure a joke as well. A well-known French president did not feel it was a good day if the newspapers did not mock and caricature him.

I remember a story about Pjetër Arbnori, whom Agron Llakaj imitated beautifully. Many party militants could not stand it and cursed and insulted Agron wherever they found him. “How can you make fun of a man imprisoned for more than twenty years,” were their complaints. But Pjetri himself told me one day: “My birthday is the day after tomorrow and I want Agron to be invited.” For a moment I was stunned, but I embraced him for his dignity and for his perception of humour.

At least come close to Arbnori in your concept of irony and humour.

Because if a joke topples you, perhaps the problem is not with the joke. It is with the fragility of the protest.

And when a society begins to decide who is sacred and who may not be joked about, the road to freedom is not closed by the government. It is closed by those who cannot bear to laugh at themselves.