BOGOT脕, Colombia 鈥� Estefan铆a Le贸n, a young Venezuelan comedian, once wondered how she could keep making jokes amid so much tragedy.
It was 2017, and she was living in Caracas, Venezuela鈥檚 capital, at the worst point in her country鈥檚 economic crisis. Protests convulsed the nation, while food shortages left millions hungry, and hyperinflation erased savings overnight.
Her father, at the time very ill, would rise at 3 in the morning to line up to buy food before supplies ran out. L茅on was working seven days a week but could not afford his medication.
Her job as a writer at El Chig眉ire Bipolar, a wildly popular website for political satire, required her to churn out jokes on a daily basis. But she was dodging tear gas on the way to the office.
Then the government, controlled by an increasingly authoritarian President Nicol谩s Maduro, passed legislation outlawing many kinds of speech. She wondered if her jokes would land her in prison.
Comedy, she said, had been her trench, the place from which she lobbed political and social critique. 鈥淣ow, there was nothing to laugh at,鈥� she said. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no food, there鈥檚 no money, there鈥檚 a dictatorship, and I鈥檓 scared.鈥�
She fled to Mexico City in 2018. At first she focused on surviving. But eventually, she returned to humor.
And today Le贸n plays a principal role in a larger Venezuelan comedy boom, whose protagonists work and live mostly outside their country, now free, for the most part, to say what they want.
Some nations elevate their novelists or poets to positions of cultural eminence; Venezuela has long viewed its comedians as among its most important societal expositors.
Now, with nearly 8 million Venezuelans having fled their homes since 2015, that talent is moving abroad.
These comedians include George Harris in the United States, Jos茅 Rafael Guzm谩n in Mexico and V铆ctor Medina in Argentina. Medina, known by his childhood nickname Nanutria, performed last year with others at Luna Park, a stadium in Buenos Aires that normally hosts Argentine rock gods like Charly Garcia and international superstars like Shakira.
Le贸n, 33, is one of three producers of El Cuartico, a weekly video sketch and podcast project streaming across social media and audio platforms. On TikTok they have more than 600,000 followers, representing just a slice of their fan base.
When El Cuartico began in 2020, the group started by addressing universal topics 鈥� 鈥淭he Secrets of OnlyFans,鈥� and 鈥淐ontraceptives for Men, please!鈥� were the titles of two early podcasts 鈥� attempting to attract a diverse, Spanish-speaking audience.
But they found themselves drawn to themes closer to the Venezuelan experience, like migration and authoritarianism, that they thought few Spanish-language humorists were touching in a sophisticated way.
Soon, their voices and videos were reaching hundreds of thousands of people in their search for a Venezuelan identity abroad. Today, all three members of El Cuartico make a living from comedy.
Recent video sketches feature Le贸n in a fictional U.S. migration line, trying to charm a border agent named Larry into believing that she鈥檚 just coming for a short visit.
He eyes her belongings, which include four suitcases, an air fryer and an arepa griddle called a budare, which she hugs to her chest like a life preserver.
Finally, under Agent Larry鈥檚 imposing glare 鈥� experienced by pretty much every Venezuelan who has crossed a border in the past 10 years 鈥� she explodes.
鈥淵es! I鈥檓 here to stay!鈥� she admits. 鈥淚 want you to know it and for everyone to know it, the whole world!鈥�
Other sketches feature a belligerent autocrat who won鈥檛 leave a long-finished dinner party, mocking Maduro鈥檚 refusal to give up power, and a government spy too clumsy to conceal his identity, a jab at the government鈥檚 bald efforts to surveil its populace.
Not every episode is so political. Last month the group examined a national obsession with skinny jeans, including a sketch featuring a man who is unable to remove his too-tight pants.
Chucho Rold谩n, 36, Le贸n鈥檚 colleague at El Cuartico, attributed their popularity to the collapse of the Venezuelan entertainment industry amid the political crisis and a near absence of Venezuelan characters in mainstream international entertainment.
鈥淭here is nothing for us,鈥� said Rold谩n, 鈥渁nd we want to see ourselves.鈥�
Leonardo Mart铆nez, 38, who left Venezuela for Puerto Rico in 2014, said that the group had helped him reconnect with his Venezuelan identity, which had been 鈥渢ucked away amid all the anger, frustration and national heartbreak.鈥�
鈥淚 barely see Venezuelans here,鈥� he said of his new home, 鈥渟o things like El Cuartico, you cling to them.鈥�
Just before a recent crackdown on dissidents in the country 鈥� roughly 2,000 people have been detained since a disputed election in late July 鈥� the trio embarked on a risky five-city tour inside Venezuela. There, the three were received like celebrities and filled theaters, including an iconic amphitheater in the capital of Caracas.
Outside their country, the three continue using a distinctly Venezuelan cadence (very fast) and vocabulary (a girl is not a 鈥渃hica鈥� but a 鈥渃hama鈥�; a friend is not an 鈥渁migo鈥� but a 鈥減ana鈥�) and have kept Venezuelan references. (In the migration sketch, Le贸n attempts to bring her air fryer to the United States so she can make teque帽os, beloved cheese sticks whose consumption is practically a patriotic duty.)
Yet an important slice of their audience hails from outside their home country.
鈥淎 sketch about corruption works in all of Latin America,鈥� said Daniel Enrique P茅rez, 34, the third member of El Cuartico. 鈥淎 sketch about dictatorship works in all of Latin America.鈥�
A number of Venezuelan comedians began their careers in Venezuela and then built new ones abroad.
But Angelo Colina, 30, from the city of Maracaibo, began his stand-up career only after moving to the United States, landing in Salt Lake City in 2018.
Now based in New York, since January he has performed in 31 states and Puerto Rico, often at sold out shows, including one at New York City鈥檚 Gramercy Theater.
Unlike the trio from El Cuartico, much of his comedy focuses on the Latino experience in the United States, not on the country he came from.
鈥淥bviously I miss my country, my people, my family, a lot. But at the same time, the most beautiful moments I have had as an adult and in my career have been outside鈥� of Venezuela, he said. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if I would be doing comedy, much less at this level, if I had stayed.鈥�
In recent months the political situation in Venezuela has gone from difficult to dire. Following the July election that Maduro is widely viewed to have stolen, his security forces have detained hundreds of people, many of them everyday citizens.
Despite a crackdown, a small comedy world still exists inside Venezuela, largely centered around a Caracas comedy club called Pizpa.
Alejandra Otero, 41, is a frequent performer at Pizpa who has remained in the country. While most of her humor is not political, she has spent years honing an impression of Maria Corina Machado, the conservative opposition leader who has emerged as a foil to Maduro鈥檚 leftist government.
In a popular sketch, Otero as Machado is seated in a car, following written directions, which instruct her to go to the left. But she refuses to do so. 鈥淰enezuela!鈥� she announces. 鈥淣ever to the left!鈥� In the end, she turns right so many times she never arrives at her destination. 鈥淎nother day,鈥� she declares.
Otero has long had to be careful about what she says and does, and even more so in the post-electoral environment. In preparation for a recent show at Pizpa, Otero cut several political references, she said.
Every passing day, she added, there is less space for comedy in Venezuela.
鈥淗umor is obviously something that makes the regime uncomfortable,鈥� she said, 鈥渂ecause humor was born for that, to make people uncomfortable and to criticize.鈥�
Yet she has no plans to stop performing or to flee. Because now more than ever, she said, 鈥渨e need to laugh.鈥�
This article originally appeared in . 漏 2024 The New York Times
