When Egyptians gathered in Tahrir Square to protest against the regime of Hosni Mubarak in 2011, they brought with them a sense of humour -- a weapon of fun against the guns and tear gas of the military. They carried cartoons, sang parodies and renamed the central garbage heap after one of the president's agencies.
In the short term, their humour was a powerful vehicle for non-violent struggle against a potentially violent regime, and it followed in the footsteps of similar protests in places as disparate as communist Poland and the Bush-era United States.
Humourous protests are a sophisticated -- even tricky -- tool to deploy against authoritarian regimes. As Hannah Arendt wrote in On Violence: "The greatest enemy of authority … is contempt, and the surest way to undermine it is laughter." But laughter has political advantages as well as limitations, as I have discovered while studying how humour has been used to resist an oppressive government in Serbia and in my home country, Thailand.
In both countries, political activists use humour for their campaigns that help reduce fear among the populace and encouraged people to imagine other political possibilities.
Serbia offers a striking example. In the 1990s, this southeastern European nation faced numerous crises stemming from the breakup of the former Yugoslavia, including wars with newly independent neighbouring countries, international sanctions, surging domestic crime rates, and the fearsome rule of Slobodan Milosevic, the president of Serbia and, later, the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. Many civic groups took to the streets to challenge the rule of Milosevic, who retained strong support among rural Serbians. A heavy Nato bombing campaign in 1999 and mounting international pressure weakened Milosevic's authority.
But it took the subversive humour of the Otpor movement (the Serbian word for "resistance") to finally oust Milosevic. Otpor did satirical street theatre, parody protests, and carnivalesque events, all of which were fun and easy to participate in.
One of their most famous street skits was "Beating of a Barrel". In the middle of Belgrade's busy pedestrian streets, activists placed an empty petrol barrel with an image of Milosevic on it. They invited passersby to hit the barrel with a stick they provided. Soon people were lining up to beat the barrel to show their resentment toward the regime. These actions conveyed a critical message to the Serbian public: Milosevic was not to be feared, he was no longer legitimate as a leader, and there was a political alternative to him.
As the confrontation escalated, Otpor ratcheted up the ridicule. When the regime baselessly accused Otpor of being a terrorist organisation, the activists didn't respond by defending themselves with words, but instead dressed up in theatrical military uniforms and paraded around toting toy rifles. The crews walked through the streets ignoring traffic signs. Afterward, they proclaimed ironically, "This is a terrorist act because we didn't obey the traffic sign. This is the kind of terrorist we are."
Otpor also organised rock concerts, and parties (sometimes joined by celebrities) to encourage people across Serbia to imagine a different Serbia without wars, poverty, and political instability. In October 2000, the persistent nonviolent campaigns waged by Otpor and other opposition parties removed Milosevic from power.
A decade later, humourous tactics showed up in Thailand, an unlikely spot because it's a place where anti-elite jokes and gossip are considered weapons of the weak. During that time, Thailand faced increased political polarisation between the two colour-coded political pressure groups: the yellow shirts and the red shirts. The former is a pro-establishment group that gained popular support among the Bangkok elite and the middle-class. The anti-establishment red-shirt group, known as the United Front for Democracy against Dictatorship (UDD), had strong support from the North and Northeast.
In the wake of the government's bloody crackdown on the prolonged red-shirt street protest in the heart of Bangkok in May 2010, a loosely-organised political movement, known as Red Sunday, emerged using humour to shake up traditional Thai society, which has been politically and economically dominated by the elite.
Led by Sombat Boongnamanong, a social activist, freedom fighter, and former theatre performer, Red Sunday's activities were intended to create a friendlier public face for protesting activities that wouldn't run afoul of the government. They fused everyday activities (such as dining, donning certain outfits, shopping, and exercising) with political protest. In this way, Red Sunday's demonstrations did not look exactly like a conventional protest, except that they often used the colour red.
One of Red Sunday's most memorable skits was an aerobic dance at the biggest public park in Bangkok in July 2010. Around 400 participants dressed in red sports outfits and ghost make-up intended to remind the public of the crackdown that had taken place a few months earlier.
Like other park visitors, they gathered for a group aerobic dance routine popular among Thais. But theirs was unusual. The "instructor" led them in dancing to red shirt songs and in different silly steps that made the multi-generational crowd laugh and captured the attention of passersby. At other times, protesters would dress as ghosts, walk downtown and hop on public transport reminding other passengers of the government's repressiveness. Protesters also met up for a picnic in a public park, went shopping at the mall en masse, or rode bicycles through Bangkok streets.
Red Sunday's small acts of defiance carved out a space for political activism in a time of repression and despair. The then ruling government would have appeared ridiculous if it had cracked down on a bunch of aerobic dancers. This tactical advantage, called the "dilemma action" because of the bind in which it places the leadership, is particularly useful for activists trapped under authoritarian -- and unimaginative -- rules.
The experiences of Serbia and Thailand show how humour can be deployed differently, and toward different ends. In Serbia, Otpor used humourous protest actions in a systematic way, with a well-crafted strategy of nonviolent defiance, with hundreds of local chapters across the country attracting broad-based support. As a result, as the number of humorous events increased, their impact was multiplied.
By contrast, Thailand's Red Sunday was an ad hoc group working on a smaller scale.
More importantly, while Otpor used humour offensively, Red Sunday used it defensively. Otpor wanted to step up the political momentum to topple Miloševi and transform the Serbian political landscape. Red Sunday's humour, on the other hand, sustained nonviolence as a movement when the red-shirt movement was becoming increasingly confrontational.
But the two campaigns also had a lot in common. Both helped reduce fear among the populace and induced participation in protest activities. They also drew media attention to protest movements, increasing publicity and political momentum. And they reversed the effects of repression by exposing the incongruity between a regime's claims and the reality of its rule.
Finally, both demonstrate how humourous protest can offer a space for utopian enactment: encouraging people to imagine other political possibilities through parties, concerts, and festivals. This ability to imagine is extremely crucial for social change. People can be politically submissive if they think there is no alternative and change is not possible. For activists, there are no limits to the supply of humour -- after all, it comes from deep within our different cultures -- but there are limits to how it can be used. Joking "with" others rather than "at" others is important, as is knowing what crosses the line and violates norms, and what does not. Jokes do not fly if they are out of context. Activists who know what, culturally, triggers laughter can use that knowledge to their advantage, even against the most seemingly omnipotent governments.
Janjira Sombatpoonsiri is an assistant professor of political science at Thammasat University.