How do you survive as a comedian in Hong Kong, the Chinese territory that has slowly seen freedoms eroded since pro-democracy protests in 2019?
“Don’t make fun of China,” says Jami Gong, a comedian and founder of the TakeOut comedy club. “You could have a pro-Beijing person in the audience. All you need is one complaint to change everything. We just want happy audiences.” He later emails me to emphasise: “We certainly respect China and love our home or else we wouldn’t be here.”
As a big fan of London’s stand-up comedy, on moving to Hong Kong I decided to check out the local clubs. In the wake of Covid lockdowns, the territory’s scene, though small, is on the face of it vibrant — there are open mic nights, a full-time comedy club and comedians working in Cantonese as well as English.
But three years ago, Beijing directly imposed a national security law that gave authorities sweeping powers to punish crimes ranging from secession and subversion to collusion with foreign powers. Comedians now walk a fine line.
Beijing said the law was needed to restore stability after the protests. Activists see it as a tool of repression. The move has reverberated widely through civil society, stamping out dissent.
There are plenty of reminders about how easily humour can tip into dangerous territory. After complaints, Chinese language newspaper Ming Pao this month dropped prominent political cartoonist Zunzi after 40 years. In mainland China, Li Haoshi, performing under his stage name House, joked that watching his dogs chasing squirrels reminded him of a People’s Liberation Army motto. A member of the audience posted a clip on social media; within days, officials had fined his management company $2.1mn and suspended performances indefinitely.
You could hardly blame comedians for coming down with a bad case of stage fright. Some jokes told before the new law would not be told now — those related to the protests, the Hong Kong government, or the handling of the pandemic. The line marking what is acceptable constantly shifts.
“My nerves are usually limited by my stupidity, sometimes you just want to tell a joke,” said one comedian, who did not want their name used for fear of losing gigs from nervous promoters. Mostly, the comedian said: “It is not us getting into the most trouble, whatever happens to the venue or promoter will be worse than what happens to me.”
There are myriad ways authorities can make life difficult for comedy clubs, including visits from health and safety authorities as well as immigration.
Vivek Mahbubani, a comedian who has an English and Cantonese following for his observational humour, said the most political he gets is a joke about racial profiling by Hong Kong’s police.
What advice would he give someone who wanted to tell political jokes? “If you say you want to play a game of poker, understand the game first. Be sure it’s the type of game you want to play,” he says. A joke about domestic politics could go viral, but may also have unexpected repercussions.
Many other countries have their red lines, comedians note. “In Thailand, we respect the country’s laws and don’t make fun of the King,” TakeOut’s Gong points out. Others say it’s best to avoid joking about Buddhism in Myanmar.
Ultimately, comedians say there is a lot to poke fun at in Hong Kong other than politics. A favourite butt of jokes is Singapore, and how lame it is compared to Hong Kong. Another is the meanness of the territory’s billionaires. Then there’s the amazement of Hongkongers, who mostly live in tiny apartments, at the size of basement torture chambers in horror movies.
“I get a thrill making the audience laugh. I could do this forever,” says Gong. “I love watching the audience, we are purging their life by laughter. Laughter is the best medicine. This is my haven. This is my solace.”
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