Missing the joke

Ideas for a Purim shpiel on ChaiFM are debated weeks before the festival. What is too real? Too close to the bone? Too sensitive? Too dated? And most importantly, what feels mischievous enough to work this year without triggering a finger-wagging WhatsApp response beginning with “With respect…”? 

A Purim shpiel is the Jewish version of April Fool’s. Except it generally produces more outrage, a hint of guilt, and very little applause. A regular Shabbat, I imagine, for a community rabbi. 

For a genetically humorous people, we are astonishingly sensitive. 

Like the time, during COVID-19, when we announced on air that King David School would be used as a quarantine centre for South Africans returning from abroad. It was apparently “too soon”, “too upsetting”, “too anxiety-provoking”, and insensitive to those who were … well … anxious. 

Which, at the time, was pretty much everyone. 

We knew this year would be no different. After intense consultation, we narrowed it down to two finalists. 

Option one: that the new Galliot Park would begin operating on a paid, tiered membership system. Shade and benches allocated according to status. Basic membership: partial tree coverage. Premium: guaranteed bench. Platinum: breeze. Essentially a slow lounge for people who aren’t travelling. 

Option two: that street parking across greater Glenhazel would now be charged for. In the interests of employment equity, current car guards would be upgraded with point-of-sale devices and reflective bibs reading “Revenue Enhancement Officer”. Tap. Smile. “Would you like to add a donation?” 

Both were dangerously plausible. Which is always the risk. 

But then Israel and the US decided to attack Iran. News reports veered dangerously in all directions, disinformation became the standard on X, and truth became a precious and rare commodity. 

In a week of war, anxiety, real headlines, and misinformation, it didn’t feel responsible to add theatrical confusion to the mix. 

Besides which, in South Africa, a country that produces breaking news that reads like curated stand-up material, I began to worry no-one would even realise it was a joke. 

If we announced Eskom was launching “Loadshedding Plus” – uninterrupted power for premium subscribers – would anyone question it? If we claimed the municipality had awarded a R48 million tender to study why potholes form in circular shapes, would it feel exaggerated? If we said a new compliance unit would regulate hamantaschen filling ratios under Section 17B of the Pastry Accountability Act, would anyone blink? 

I worry that they wouldn’t. 

And that is the unique Purim problem of 2026. When reality is already wearing a costume, parody struggles to compete. 

So this year, we chose restraint. Not because we lack material. On the contrary. We are drowning in it. But because sometimes the most radical thing you can do in a world that is so noisy is to refuse to manufacture more of it. 

Purim may be loud, but it is less about the noise and more about the quiet hand behind the chaos. The insomnia that changes policy. The overlooked detail that flips the script. The courage that operates behind the scenes. 

That we can still tell the difference between comedy and crisis. 

Which is why instead of a shpiel that blurs the line between joke and headline, we made the choice to sit this one out. After all, when the world is absurd, clarity is the most powerful punchline.