Cracking them up in Kandahar

ShareThis

KANDAHAR, Afghanistan -- The most famous comedian in Kandahar, Ahmadullah Mujajo, stares at a flickering light bulb. Then he grabs a man by the neck and shakes him furiously, brandishing a shotgun."The power turns off, then on, then off," he screams, pointing his gun at the man's head. "Where is the man responsible for this? Where is the director of electricity? I'll track him down!"In other places, it might be a frightening threat. In Kandahar, it's popular evening television. Mujajo, 32, is the nearest thing to a celebrity entertainer in a city better known for war than comedy. From his early years struggling to sell his jokes on audiocassettes in refugee camps, to his current status as a local television star, the goofy little trickster with an elastic face has built a career by discovering laughter amid the harshness of southern Afghanistan.At times, he behaves like a court jester in a city where dissent is dangerous. Ordinary people lower their voices and whisper conspiratorially when discussing the latest rumor, and journalists are regularly threatened by both sides of the conflict.Mujajo says he tries to avoid similar problems during his daily recording sessions at Hewad TV, a small private station hidden behind high walls in a relatively quiet downtown neighborhood."We don't take sides," he said. "We don't push too hard against the Taliban or the government."But with a mischievous grin, he admits that his job occasionally allows him to get away with bold commentary. Alongside his harmless wordplay, funny misunderstandings between husbands and wives and off-key musical routines by performers wearing silly costumes, Mujajo talks about difficult issues."We say general things, to avoid trouble: 'Security is not good, electricity is not good, people are moving away from Kandahar, the municipality does nothing about the garbage in the streets.' But we don't say anything about specific leaders."Still, the barbs are pointed. In a recent sketch-comedy routine, Mujajo played a reporter throwing questions at a man dressed like a warlord. The warlord character was revealed to be a government minister. It was a reference to the discomfort many Afghans feel about former militia leaders taking senior government jobs."Why aren't you building factories to employ our young people?" asked Mujajo, playing the journalist."If we make factories for young people, who will fight? How will I get my money from foreign governments?" responded the minister.In another sketch, a news broadcaster delivered mock bulletins."A tree fell on a taxi, injuring the driver," the newsreader said. "Authorities have blamed Pakistan." A ripple of laughter went through the editing room at Hewad TV. Afghan officials reflexively blame Pakistan for so many problems that adding a fallen tree to the list seemed like a witty flourish."In economic news," continued the broadcaster, "everything is more expensive now. Even spoiled Pakistani fruit is selling for high prices. The NGOs try to help by giving us wheat, but people steal it and smuggle it out of the country." Again, snickers of amusement filled the room.Afghans have a history of laughing at their own misfortune. Prisoners smile as they describe suffering torture, and policemen crack jokes as they tell stories about escaping insurgent attacks. A profile of the Pashtun ethnic group, published in 1947 by the poet Ghani Khan, describes the way a quintessential Pashtun handled a lifetime of hardship: "He always covered his sorrow with a smile, and his pain with a joke."Mujajo has also found redemption in comedy in a more personal way. Eight years ago, his son died because of a lack of affordable medical care during the Taliban regime."I went home and looked at my poor house," he said. "I decided to make myself famous and get some money."He started recording jokes on cassette tapes, decorating the covers with photos of himself making funny faces. They sold well among the Pashtuns in the border region. He even smuggled the tapes into Kandahar even though such amusements were strictly banned by the Taliban.He grew a big beard so he could pass by Taliban guards, and slipped into wealthy homes to entertain private parties. He would improvise a drum with a steel tub, he says, or memorize long sections of dialogue from Pakistani films and deliver them to small audiences who hadn't seen a TV or movie screen in years.Even powerful figures in the Taliban movement attended the illicit parties, he said, but that did not guarantee his safety. He could have been hanged for activities the Taliban considered un-Islamic."Security was better in the Taliban times, but everybody was afraid," he said.He still fears for his life under the new government, he says, but it's easier to work as a comedian. Although some of his former performance sites are now off-limits because of the insurgency, he can still perform at weddings and other venues, and his cassettes sell on the open market.His family now includes two sons and two daughters, he says, all of them healthy.But he dreams of much bigger success. He has written a film script about two childhood friends who take different paths in life, one a doctor and the other a thief, and he's trying to find enough money and actors to support a full-fledged movie production. His inspirations are Charlie Chaplin and Mr. Bean, he says, because their wordless comedy makes people laugh in many countries."This is my challenge," he said. For the first time, his eyes contained no hint of humor. "I will become the best comedian in the world."(Distributed by Scripps Howard News Service, www.scrippsnews.com.)