Comedy of War Shows Ukrainian Resistance Through Laughter

“After Bucha, it was clear for us that it was genocide,” Kochehura says in a voiceover as the four clamber out of the van in front of the peach library with a decimated roof and cracked walls. “And it’s based on hatred that we are Ukrainians. For me, it was like, I need to uncover everything that makes me Ukrainian because they’re trying to take this away from me.”

This theme reoccurs during their Chernihiv military show as Kachura performs a bit in which he recounts asking an old lady, whom he is helping with her groceries, if they can speak in Ukrainian instead of Russian. In his hyperbolic rendition of the old lady’s reaction, Kachura falls to his knees in a vehement rant that devolves into nonsensical reasons why it’s rude to ask her to switch from Russian. Simply living as a Ukrainian is resistance and joking about the pressures to fall in line with Russia becomes transgressive.

“Russia thinks that if she terrorizes—if she destroys some libraries, some hospitals, some electricity, we go to the government and say, ‘Please stop it, we must do peace,’” Baydak explains. “But no. It doesn’t work like this. What I feel here—I want a victory. I don’t feel that I want … peace, no. … In these places, I feel I want to work harder, that victory will come faster. And it’s cold—” Baydark pauses to exhale a cloud of visible breath as he laughs, “It is very cold here.”

Later, both Baydak and Kachura will reveal they and their wives have only been able to communicate intermittently because of rolling blackouts caused by Russian attacks. I could relate to the lingering anxiety between messages; after 9/11, my father, a Marine, went overseas for tours in Iraq. Communication was infrequent and my family often wondered if this stint of silence was the one that meant the worst had happened. But then we’d hear from my dad and he’d say something like, “Sorry, we were busy golfing.” Humor breaks the tension of uncertainty.

Back in the crumbling Chernihiv library, Kachura tells of his wife’s experience constantly hearing Russian jets fly overhead. When she returns to Kyiv, he says, she cannot stop crying, that the incessant fear of being shelled followed her. Later, we see Kachura perform a joke about how much of a wimp his wife thinks he is because he is always sleeping in hallways to avoid debris from potential shelling damage—Kachura paints her as a battle-hard, seasoned trooper who says, “No, actually, you should sleep in the hall. I’ll take the bed.”

Following the bunker show, an attendee tells the camera person, “It’s beautiful when, during the war, people are given this help…help for your soul.” But the attendees of the comedy shows aren’t the only ones benefiting. Synthesizing jokes from terrible situations is a coping mechanism—and a distracting mental exercise which elevates craft.

Years after returning from Iraq, my father would tell the story of leaving his barracks for a cigarette in the middle of the night. While outside, a bomb destroyed the buildings he had just left. “And that’s how smoking saved my life,” he always says. But he never talks about his friends who were lost. Hyperfocusing on a seemingly innocuous, incongruent element reflects the absurdity of the situation—of war, in general.

“If you want to make a stand-up show better choose shelters. Shelters is the best place for show,” Tymoshenko quips. “You just start war against Russia and your stand-up becomes much more interesting.”

The documentary and the specials are available on Amazon Prime Video, Apple TV, Google Play, and more.