In an otherwise darkened Damascus theater, Sharief Homsi stands under the stage lights. “I want to thank the Ministry of Culture for,” he says, pausing for a beat, “nothing.”
The room erupts in laughter, the nervous kind that conveys relief as much as amusement. Under Bashar al-Assad, such a line could have earned a prison sentence.
After Mr. Homsi’s set, Malke Mardinali takes the mic and starts doing crowd work, zeroing in on a man wearing shorts. The man’s wife, dressed fashionably within Muslim norms, laughs without restraint, paving the way for the couple to become the punchline of repeat, progressively racier jokes.
Why We Wrote This
Damascus isn’t the sort of city people would expect to go to for comedy. But with the Assad regime gone, local comedians are taking the opportunity to establish a new comedy scene – and challenge social taboos – using their own brand of humor.
When power changes, so does humor. In Damascus, the fall of President Assad has opened a fragile new space for free expression. The crowd’s laughter carries the thrill of hearing public jabs at authority and shattering social conventions in a city still recalibrating after political upheaval.
Comedians are seizing the moment, cracking jokes once impossible under the old regime. While old taboos have crumbled, new ones may emerge as society and government begin to reestablish themselves post-Assad. Each performance is a chance to redefine what can be said – and laughed at – in public.
“It takes courage because you are coming out of a dictatorial system,” says Omar al-Khateeb, a journalist from Damascus province who was off duty and part of the audience. “Syrians hold many things as sacred or taboo, so they need to learn to break all that without fear.”
“We need hysterical laughter”
When Mr. Homsi and Mr. Mardinali started the Styria comedy club in December 2022, they were stepping into a void. Syria had never had a stand-up scene, its public humor long suppressed by the Assad regime’s rule through fear and force.
Mr. Mardinali had already been performing but was close to giving up, while Mr. Homsi had just returned from working in Dubai, where he worked in sales and became hooked on stand-up comedy during a workshop taught by Emirati comedy legend Ali Al Sayed.
They launched Styria as an outlet for themselves and for audiences hungry for humor in a country rattled by sanctions and war. The blended name is a nod to Syria, hysteria, and stand-up. “We felt we had hysterical time in Syria, so, we need hysterical laughter, not a normal one,” says Mr. Mardinali.
At first, they kept material largely family-friendly, slipping in occasional, carefully coded political barbs. The red lines were clear: no jokes about the president and his family, the military, or the country’s infamous intelligence services.
Even mild satire was risky. A benign joke about public versus private schools prompted a case from the Ministry of Education; Mr. Homsi was effectively “wanted” for two months. The comedian had other run-ins with the security forces, including being tortured while in detention.
“I used to keep my mind with jokes,” he says, scowling at the memories.
One of his darkest prison jokes tells of two angels arriving to ask him Islamic questions of the afterlife. “Who is your god?” they demand. When he answers “Allah,” they beat him again. They shout at him that the answer is “Bashar al-Assad,” cursing him out – the punchline being that he isn’t dying, just being tortured.
From practicing in a garden to running unpaid open mics, the collective grew into a diverse network of about 20 comedians. Workshops were held in bars, and the group quickly drew loyal crowds on Friday nights at Karma Café.
“Every day, I came back scared,” says Mr. Sharief of those early days under the Assad regime. “Because you are doing art … through freedom of speech in a country when you are not allowed to talk.”
The fall of President Assad on Dec. 8, 2024, transformed the country and Styria’s performances in turn. Their routines expanded into taboo territory – politics, religion, sexuality, drug use, and sectarian stereotypes – that probed the new boundaries in a capital with scrambled demographics.
On a spring night, they share the stage with fellow comedians they have sparred with to sharpen jokes. Standouts include Palestinian-Syrian comedian Omar Jayab and Aya Ibrahim, a Shiite Druze and Syria’s first female stand-up comedian, who cracks salacious jokes about her late-night conversations with pal ChatGPT.
Having staged more than 60 shows before the regime’s collapse, Styria now aims to open its own dedicated comedy venue – one shaped by the diversity and irreverence of its performers, and the newfound freedom of their audience. They also hope to nail down a sustainable business model.
For many spectators, the novelty is part of the draw. “These guys are adorable, so spontaneous and funny,” says Hanna, a 17-year-old high school student in the back row seeing stand-up for the first time. “The whole show was great. I came completely by chance – saw the advertising on the door.”
Others are more cautious. Huda, a housewife in a white hijab, says she enjoyed the show just a bit. “It’s a good show but they say too many bad words,” she says. “We came out with our little kids, so it doesn’t suit us. Even without the kids, there’s no need for such swearing to have a laugh.”
Teaching – and learning – with comedy
The comedians themselves are learning to navigate a new landscape. A viral joke about the conservative mores of fighters from Idlib, the rural area that served as the springboard for President Ahmed al-Sharaa’s rise to power, prompted threatening calls and online harassment.
“We can say what we want but everybody is so sensitive right now,” says Mr. Mardinali, sitting in a hip café. “They don’t understand that every joke has a victim.”
Mr. Sherif concurs. “The problem now is not the government, but the people,” he says. “Fourteen years of war, now all the [psychological] side effects of war are coming to the surface. They are not accepting each other, there is no love, [just] a lot of power struggles.”
Drinking coffee, the friends hear the Muslim call to prayer blaring from a minivan’s loudspeaker. It’s a rare sound in this more liberal pocket of the capital. “It’s like a Facebook poke,” says Mr. Mardinali, annoyed that such calls to Islam are also now made in his predominantly Christian neighborhood.
Mr. Hosmi and Mr. Mardinali speak of healing from the wounds of a war where Syrians turned on each other and from a youth overshadowed by the sense that there was no future. “I want to tell the world what happened to us,” says Mr. Hosmi. “It will help the world reconnect with us faster through laughter.”
Mr. Mardinali puts it simply. “I want to leave a mark,” he says.
The duo sees their crew as heirs to the hakawati – the traditional coffeehouse storyteller – and as pioneers of modern stand-up for Arab audiences. They draw inspiration from English-language routines and plan to write an authoritative guide on how to be a comedian for an Arab audience.
For now, their jokes are landing.
“These guys are trying to convey reality with a bit of sarcasm to make people laugh,” says Mr. Khateeb, the journalist. “It’s a kind of social criticism wrapped in humor. It’s a good effort – and it takes courage.”
