Criminal Humour

“Plucking a beard” was an overt insult to authority for Shakespeare’s audiences. Perhaps then, the imprisoned Burmese comedian and filmmaker Zarganar—whose name means “tweezers”—is aptly named. Although he claims his name was a homage to his days as a dentist, the stinging precision of his humour, tugging on the hairs of the Burmese junta, loads the name with double-entendre.

It’s puns like this that made Zarganar a national comedy sensation – and an enemy of the state. Arrested in 1990 for impersonating a General, he was imprisoned for four years and, upon his release, banned from public performances. Gradually, the restrictions became an all-out censorship.

In June 2008, the 49-year-old was arrested over leading a movement to collect money and supplies for the survivors of Cyclone Nargis, and criticising the government’s handing of the relief effort. He is currently serving a 35-year sentence.

It is bizarre to think that comedy can pose such a threat to authority. The truth is, as Amnesty International’s Burma campaigner Verity Coyle says, “comedians and other artists are often right in the front line in the battle for freedom of expression”. They are also among the first to suffer when the government dispenses with such freedoms.

I got a chance to speak to the Burmese contemporary artist Htein Lin, one of Zarganar’s closest friends. He too is no stranger to unjust prison sentences, having lived in a bare concrete cell for nearly seven years. The details are grim: infrequent access to drinking water; 15-minute family visits once every three months; a communal plastic bucket instead of a toilet. Lin is one of the lucky few who got out.

But Lin, now living in exile, didn’t want pity. What he really wanted to talk about was comedy and art – and his friend’s insatiable love for football. He could barely speak through his laughter as he told me about how Zarganar, on a whim, footed the bill for his entire cast and filming crew to catch a football match. “He’s crazy! So crazy!” Lin exclaims, laughing uncontrollably.

The pair first met when Zarganar was a judge at a comedy contest at Lin’s college – incidentally, Lin won. From there, they worked together on several films and comedy routines. During his time in prison, Lin managed to bribe a guard to smuggle some stories out to Zarganar, but Zarganar refused to use them until Lin was released. Together, they proceeded to turn these scrawled prison notes into a successful film. That film was subsequently banned.

While Lin was in prison, Zarganar would make the 445-mile journey from the capital to visit his friend. Upon his release, a homeless Lin, whose family had dissipated, was taken in by Zarganar. “He loves to help people,” Lin says sadly, wishing there was something more he could do now.

Lin does what he can; he participated in a project by photographer James Mackay, which was repeated at a protest outside the Burmese Embassy in London on 14 June 2010. This date marked the 65th birthday of Aung San Suu Kyi, who has spent 14 years under house arrest and is a beacon for democracy and human rights in Burma. The project, Even Though I’m Free I Am Not, photographs former Burmese political prisoners in exile. They are holding up their palms in the Buddhist Abhaya Mudhra—a gesture of fearlessness and reassurance—with the name of a comrade who is currently imprisoned. “I love the idea! It’s very new,” Lin exclaims. Embracing the political force of art, he participated with the name 'Zarganar' printed on his hand.

This project is also being promoted by Amnesty International in support of Zarganar and the "Generation ’88" group of jailed student activists in Burma. Pictures will be collected from all over the world and used to call on the Burmese authorities, at the ASEM summit of Asian and European governments in October, to release Zarganar and other prisoners.

Zarganar is the focus of Amnesty’s festival campaign. In addition to their prodigious Stand Up For Freedom comedy event, Amnesty will be hosting a Comics vs. Critics football match—a fitting tribute to Zarganar’s love of the game. As Verity Coyle pithily puts it, “freedom of expression is at the absolute core of what artists do.” Amnesty’s longstanding support for the Edinburgh festivals is a celebration of these freedoms, and a reminder that not all are so fortunate.