Humor has always been part of the Jewish people’s way of facing adversity. It is embedded deep in our cultural DNA. Laughter came with the birth of Yitzhak, whose very name means “he will laugh.”
Humor has followed us through centuries of persecution, in the ghettos, in the shtetls, in the mellahs, in the synagogues – and even in the Nazi extermination camps, where it became both a subversive tool and an existential need.
After the Holocaust, it became a coping mechanism, a means of survival and resilience.
That same resilience has astonished the world once again since October 7. In the immediate aftermath of the massacre, laughter vanished for a while. However, laughter is not always humor, and – Jewish humor especially – does not necessarily lead to laughter.
It may lead to tears or a sad smile of recognition. After October 7, comedians hesitated. Some had not the heart to laugh, let alone make others laugh.
The same questions that arose after the Holocaust resurfaced: could one make jokes in the shadow of such horror? Who? How? But soon, humor reappeared, and soon after, the deeply human sound of laughter, slowly, cautiously, and indirectly.
Not in mockery of the tragedy, but in the absurdities of life that followed it. Israeli comics – men and women – began touring IDF bases, gently teasing soldiers, their commanders, and their spouses.
Sketches about children stuck at home, broken routines, endless sirens, and food hoarding spread across social media. It became possible to laugh again. Not at the victims, but at the chaos, the stress, and the shared hardship. Through laughter, Israelis reclaimed control over their experience and their lives.
Much has been written about Jewish humor, which defies easy definition. To begin with, how is “Jewish” defined? The challenge – which is a work in progress – deepens when it comes to Israeli humor.
While still rooted in self-deprecation and irony and in timeless themes such as food, family, health, antisemitism, business, and even God himself, Israeli humor focuses on uniquely local motifs: the army, bureaucracy, ethnic tensions, and, of course, Jewish mothers of every possible background.
Moroccan, Polish, Iraqi, Ashkenazi, and Yemeni – all identity markers become material for affectionate mockery.
Reuniting the diaspora
Now that Israeli comics (such as Yohay Sponder) are increasingly present online and reaching the Diaspora, their sketches also explore the gap between Diaspora Jews and native-born Israelis and all the clichés that come with bridging the gap of cultural differences.
Language plays a major role too. Hebrew lends itself to quick irony and layered puns.
The rebirth of Hebrew as a modern spoken language is itself tied to creativity and improvisation, to constant reinvention and friction between past and present, obsolete and modern – and even religious and secular.
This friction is fertile ground for humor. Humor is also found in the very structure of Jewish learning and especially in the art of pilpul – the method of Talmudic argumentation.
As an intricate intellectual exercise, it is serious, but it is also inherently playful.
Humor, such as that produced by contrast, paradoxicality, and absurdity, reflects an engagement with meaning, a depth, as well as the joy of tackling complex problems.
Primo Levi, reflecting on the contrast between Hebrew and Italian dialects spoken by Diaspora Jews, suggested that the tension between “sacred language,” expressing the Jew’s spiritual aspiration, and the diasporic “profane language,” symbolic of the Jew’s necessarily mundane life in the Diaspora, was intrinsically humorous.
Humor, then, arises from the inherent contradiction of a person, in this gap between the man of spirit and the man of flesh, and between the ideal and the reality.
Levi believed that humor was a way of accepting this inner contradiction as well as the differences between men. He saw humor as a form of survival, resistance, and humanity.
If humor was used as a coping mechanism among Jews during the Holocaust itself, said Levi, it could no longer serve as a bridge between Jews and their environment.
However, in Israel today, humor is building bridges between Jews and Israelis of all backgrounds. By sticking to universal Jewish themes, it often transcends political and ethnic divides.
It’s built on shared cultural codes, wordplay, and a collective sense of absurdity. It’s sharp, fast, and unafraid.
At its core, Israeli humor remains deeply self-aware. The first targets are ourselves, our neuroses, our fears, and our contradictions. Under antisemitic regimes, humor was a way to resist and survive.
In modern Israel, it is a way to stay sane and maintain high spirits and joy.
Last week, as tensions with Iran erupted into open confrontation, humor kicked in immediately. Hours before the first sirens, while waiting for Iran’s response, memes began circulating.
One widely shared video featured a mother – comic influencer Stav Naftali – dressed as an IDF spokesperson, solemnly warning parents that “due to the gravity of the situation of children staying home,” they should prepare emergency supplies such as Bamba, chocolate spread, and stickers.
Others made fun of sleepless nights in shelters, of Zoom meetings interrupted by sirens, and of surviving on lukewarm water and instant noodles.
This humor is not detachment; on the contrary, it is a connecting force, an affirmation of life. It’s how Israelis say, “We are here and more alive than ever.”
On TV news panels, even while discussing life-and-death situations, journalists slip in puns and ironic remarks, offering relief for viewers and panelists alike.
Laughter in Israel is more than resilience. It is defiance. It is growth and spirit – the Jewish spirit. Humor, in the most Jewish way, allows us to go beyond what is visible. Humor, in Israel, is not just a survival tactic; it is a weapon of the spirit.
The writer holds a PhD in cultural studies from Tel Aviv University. Her research focuses on post-Holocaust and Jewish literature.