Tears of The Clowns: Why Comics in Saudi Arabia Are Truly Patriotic

BY: JOSHUA / ST. HILL

Via Official Poster

Under the golden lights of Riyadh’s first international comedy festival, the laughter sounded imported. In a country where satire can still lead to arrest, the punchlines sounded less like protest and more like permission. 

As Jimmy Kimmel’s late-night relevance teetered on the edge of nostalgia, he decided to showcase his morals and grill Aziz Ansari on his contributions to the comedy festival in Riyadh. The Riyadh comedy festival, part of Saudi Arabia’s ‘Vision 2030’ campaign, wasn’t just about laughs; it was about brand equity. 

The common comic consensus, at least in interviews, is that bringing jokes to repressive regimes is an act of rebellion - exporting free speech to where it’s banned. The issue is that their freedom travels only as far as their contracts allow. Beneath the applause, the message was clear: some jokes are only safe when the powerful are laughing. 

Saudi Arabia’s decision to host these Western entertainers is a part of a vision to move its economy away from its dependence on oil. Festivals like it claim to generate 1.6 million tourist-related jobs by 2030. Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salaman’s social reforms are meant to appeal to the country’s younger generation. Of course, Joey Shea, a Saudi Arabia researcher at Human Rights Watch, suspects it's all a grand distraction from the many sins committed.

 It’s cultural diplomacy disguised as entertainment–an attempt to rebrand authoritarianism through laughter. The comics that accepted the country’s offer had a naive optimism that their material could shift the social regime; it also didn’t hurt that there would be lucrative payouts to accompany the strict censorship. Saudi Arabia is modernizing its skyline, not its speech laws. 

Tim Dillon’s slavery material regarding Saudi Arabian migrant workers never made it past rehearsals.

 “Do I have issues with some of the policies they have towards women, towards the gays….towards freedom of speech? Well, of course I do,” said Dillon. Despite the $375,000 offer, his comments and material were still enough to get him dropped from the festival. 

Atsuko Okatsuka posted her contract online, “Artists shall not prepare or perform any material that may be considered to degrade, defame, or bring into public disrepute, contempt, scandal, embarrassment, or ridicule”. Notable comedians such as Kathy Griffin and Mike Birbiglia showed their support in the same thread. 

The revolution, apparently, had comics with spines. When critics questioned their participation, comics once hailed as moral philosophers like Dave Chappelle and Bill Burr dismissed detractors as sanctimonious–a reminder that cynicism pays better than conscience. I don’t support their decisions, but I understand the inevitability of them. 

When the only rule is don’t say what matters, every joke becomes a billboard. There’s a difference between performing under threat and performing with permission. Billie Holiday sang Strange Fruit despite state persecution; N.W.A. shouted against the police, knowing they might be arrested.

 These comics, by contrast, performed within the limits prescribed by their hosts. Perhaps if a few minutes of their sets addressed the late journalist Jamal Khashoggi, Human Rights Watch might have accepted their donation receipts.

 The festival’s timing, near the seventh anniversary of Khashoggi’s state-sponsored murder, makes it feel like less of a celebration and more of a distraction. Though these comics posture as morally progressive, the economic gain remains a higher priority. 

Why would they risk their brands for the greater good? That wouldn’t be the American way; it isn’t rebellion that they’re selling, it’s brand equity, commodified patriotism repackaged as capitalism. 

Money makes America’s world go round. It’s the same choreography as Kylie Jenner’s Pepsi protest or Tom Brady’s crypto grin - dissent reimagined as marketing. The modern conscience is a dimmer switch; everyone thinks they’re keeping the light on. Saudi Arabia is fine with giving minors the death penalty, but Louis C.K. still has a mortgage. 

That’s the gasoline America keeps mistaking for progression. There’s nothing rebellious about performing where rebellion is rehearsed out of you. True comedy has always lived in defiance–in basements, on alley corners, in protest–the uneasy silence before the laugh. When the world’s most censored nation buys front row seats to laughter, it isn’t freedom, it’s marketing. And somewhere, a comic who couldn’t afford the flight is telling a far more expensive truth. That’s the type of patriotism no contract can buy.