Crowds flock to the clown prince of Kabul
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN— On a street corner, surrounded by unemployed men, Ibrahim Abed is holding court. Wearing a mop-top wig and ragged clothes, his eyes are hazy as he slurs toward a television camera. On this day, he’s a drug addict — and he’s running for office.
“I am so poor, my kids don’t love me. I have no money to buy food. So I am going to nominate myself for a parliament seat,” Abed rants. “If I win, I will give you all free clothes and shoes. But when you guys call me I will not answer your calls. And I will not let you guys meet me.”
The crowd erupts in laughter. Afghanistan’s politicians are known for empty promises.
In a nation convulsed by nearly 14 years of war, a dysfunctional government and social woes, Abed provides an escape, if a temporary one. Every week, millions of Afghans turn on their televisions to watch the comedian’s skits, stand-up routines and talk show. He is so ubiquitous that when he prowls Kabul’s streets for new material, people wave or shake his hands, or simply shout “Abed!”
Humour has long been a part of the social fabric here. Afghans revel in telling jokes, poking fun at other ethnic groups or people from different provinces. But Abed transports his comedy to a new level, zeroing in on society’s faults and peccadilloes. His antics — a meld of Robin Williams, Jim Carrey and Mr. Bean — bring a heightened awareness to the challenges facing the country.
“Ibrahim Abed brings out the reality of the country in terms of comedy,” said Masood Sanjer, head of entertainment for Tolo, the network that runs Abed’s programs. “If you talk about bribes, people won’t pay much attention. But when Abed acts at that, he makes people aware of what’s wrong and what’s right.”
No subject is off-limits for Abed, a slim father of eight in his mid-30s who drives a beat-up blue sedan. This Eid, the Muslim holiday marking the end of the holy month of Ramadan, he irreverently blasted the tradition of men giving gold and other wealth to the families of their fiancées or in-laws. In his skit, Abed offered vegetables — and was then beaten up by his would-be mother-in-law.
The country’s leaders, too, provide fer- tile inspiration. Contorting his face into impossible positions, changing his voice at will, Abed has performed uncanny impersonations of President Ashraf Ghani and his predecessor, Hamid Karzai. He has also taken to task Ghani’s chief executive, Abdullah Abdullah, as well as government ministers.
“We can see the tragedy everywhere in Afghanistan,” Abed said. “People are looking for a cause to love. That’s why I am making them laugh.”
Abed himself is a victim of that tragedy. When he was 12, he picked up a small pen-like object. It was a land mine, and it blew up in his left hand. He lost two fingers and still can’t move a third. That’s why in all his routines, he tucks his left arm behind his back.
In 2007, Abed’s friends encouraged him to compete in “Khaanda Bazaar” (Laughing Bazaar), a competition run by Tolo to find the nation’s best comedian.
Of 10,000 contestants, Abed was a finalist. But he could not afford a bus ticket to the capital, Kabul, to take part in the national finals. So he hitchhiked. Once there, he told jokes about the judges and about the Taliban — and he won.
Tolo offered him a job, and he has forged a presence on several shows a week since. He writes his own routines and said he has full editorial freedom, as long as he doesn’t cross some red lines: no jokes about ethnic groups or religion. And while he can imitate well-known Afghans, he can’t insult them by name, especially the politicians or warlords.
But even comedy has some limits in a country where the economy is sliding and unemployment is rising.
“He’s here to make fun of you guys,” yelled a man named Reza, who like many Afghans uses one name. He was unhappy with Abed’s faux election campaign. “It’s true we cannot find jobs. But we are still humans.”
Abed forged ahead. And soon the crowd again burst into laughter.
“Long Live Ibrahim Abed!” they chanted.