Guest of the episode: Natalia Garipova – stand-up comedian, screenwriter, and producer.
Transcript of conversations
Nik Lysytskiy: Nataly, what is humor for you?
Nataly Garipova: For me, it’s a way of being — a way of expressing what I think, what I like, and what I don’t like. It’s how I release tension. Honestly, humor was a survival tool for me when I was a kid, especially in complicated family relationships.
It stayed with me ever since. With humor, I can smooth out any situation. It’s also my profession — I’ve worked in comedy all my life. Humor is how I connect with people, how I build closeness.
And, really, it’s part of my daily rhythm. If a whole day passes and I don’t laugh with anyone — say, I’m home alone, didn’t watch anything funny, didn’t joke with anyone — I start to feel uneasy, like something’s off. I always need that exchange of energy, that back-and-forth of jokes.
It’s like breathing for me. And if I stop for even a moment, I get nervous — it feels like something bad is about to happen.
Nik Lysytskiy: How did your sense of humor show up in childhood? Did you make others laugh, or did you laugh more yourself?
Nataly Garipova: Now I can compare my childhood with my daughter’s. I see that my daughter’s sense of humor isn’t about survival — it’s just about joy. She makes me laugh a lot.
For example, we’ll be riding in a taxi, and she says, “That’s the fourth taxi driver I’ve evicted.” For her, it’s a game — she thinks everyone lives like that. That everyone just naturally has humor in their life.
For me, it was different. I didn’t joke much as a child. I think it came from some childhood trauma — I had to learn to smooth things over, to use jokes to make things safer.
That’s where humor became my tool. I realized that jokes could save situations. I started to use them everywhere.
We had KVN at school — that Soviet-style comedy competition — and environmental campaigns, where I was a scriptwriter and team leader. We’d be thinking up ways to tell people to plant trees.
And for some reason, even as a kid, I understood that if you add humor, people will actually listen. If you just tell them, “Plant trees,” no one cares. But if you make them laugh, they pay attention.
It was intuitive. Like in modern TED Talks — everyone says that if you want to connect with people, start with a joke. It relaxes the audience, breaks the tension. I was doing that as a kid without even knowing it.
When I wrote essays, I’d always slip in jokes — I’d copy from the textbook, but rewrite it so people wouldn’t get bored. And only later did I realize that was my thing. That I could actually write jokes, and that I loved it.
When I’m writing jokes, I get into a state of flow — and that’s how I knew: this is my path.
Nik Lysytskiy: When did you first realize you could make not just one person, but a whole audience laugh?
Nataly Garipova: It started during our ecological expeditions. Every evening we had a campfire, and we’d tell stories or put on small sketches. I remember that laughter — it was addictive. When people laugh, it means they like you. And that, honestly, is the core trauma of all comedians — we need to be liked.
That feeling helped me understand that I enjoy making people laugh. It’s fascinating. And with every new performance, you add a bit more laughter, then a bit more, and it starts carrying you somewhere.
For me, the first real stage was KVN — that old comedy competition format. I wrote my first jokes there. You step on stage and realize everyone around you lives for humor. You’re not the odd one out anymore. You think, “Wow, this is a cartoon world where everyone’s a comedian.” Everyone there understands humor — there’s no one who doesn’t get it. You feel like you belong.
Then came different phases — team projects, various comedy shows. But eventually I understood that I enjoyed it most when I performed alone. I didn’t have to adjust my jokes for anyone. I know exactly how my joke should sound.
If someone else performs it, I start worrying — will they do it right, will it land? When I’m alone, it’s simple: if I mess up, it’s on me. No one else to blame, no one to depend on. That freedom is priceless.
That’s when I started writing my own jokes. And then I discovered stand-up — a genre where people just talk about their own thoughts. You don’t have to play a character or hide behind a sketch.
Before that, I was joking online — back when everyone used VKontakte. I’d post ironic thoughts, small observations. They got likes, and I thought, “Okay, cool — but who’s going to pay me for this? Where does this kind of humor even belong?”
TV formats wanted simple, punchy jokes. But stand-up… stand-up was something else. When it finally came to Ukraine, I realized — that’s it. That’s my place.
It let me talk about what really matters to me — what still hurts, what I can’t deal with, what I want to share. All of that became part of my stand-up. It became my main way of expressing myself, the truest version of me.
Nik Lysytskiy: You’ve been in stand-up and humor for quite a while now. What topics or images never get old — what always works with the audience?
Nataly Garipova: Insults?
Nik Lysytskiy: I mean topics — the ones that always work, that always make people laugh.
Nataly Garipova: Well, relationships, of course. Everyone has them — some people want to love, some are in love, some are already tired of it. That always resonates.
When your audience is a bit older, another universal topic is kids. Practically everyone has children, or at least knows someone who does — it’s always relatable and funny.
Then there are the broader things that really bother people. For women, it’s often about how we look, about beauty trends, spirituality, self-care, therapy — all those things that shape our everyday lives. If you can pass those experiences through reflection and humor, it always lands.
Men have their own stories too, of course. But in general, people respond to jokes about meaning — about what lies at the core of who we are. Like, what is democracy? What is freedom?
Nik Lysytskiy: Freedom-loving?
Nataly Garipova: Freedom, yes — though I’m not sure how often people talk about it directly. It’s more about the conversations we have at the kitchen table — about the past, the future, about how we live.
That’s what stand-up should be — the things people actually talk about, but often don’t dare to say out loud. It always has to be a little on the edge. First and foremost, on your edge, because you have to be completely honest with yourself.
For example, my first stand-up routine was about not feeling sexy. Many people can’t admit that publicly — that they don’t feel desirable, or that they’re hiding something from themselves.
In my most recent set, I joked about libido during wartime, and about relationships when you’ve been together for ten years. I even talked about modern children — how we love them so much, overprotect them, because we’re afraid of giving them the traumas that we had.
And maybe that love itself will become their trauma someday. But at least they’ll grow up, process it, and make jokes about it in their own stand-up.
Nik Lysytskiy: Are there topics, in your opinion, that shouldn’t be joked about?
Nataly Garipova: Well, painful topics. And, in general, topics that you personally have no connection to. For example, if someone who has never served in the army starts joking about soldiers or war — it immediately feels wrong. If you’re not there, if it’s not your experience, then it’s not your story to joke about.
Stand-up should always come from your own life. It’s about what you have lived through. Otherwise, it becomes judgment — and that’s when it hurts.
There are also topics that are still too raw. Because stand-up, in essence, is pain plus time. That’s the formula.
When the pain is fresh — you can’t joke about it yet. Take 9/11, for example. When it happened, no one could imagine ever joking about it. But with time, when that pain began to fade and people needed to process it — the jokes appeared. Even The Simpsons joked about it. Comedy helped people digest the trauma.
So, we will definitely joke about the war too — but only after it’s over, when some time has passed. Right now, the only thing you can joke about is living through the war — about how we adapt, survive, keep going. But not about the war itself.
It’s the same with personal pain. If someone in my family is sick — I can joke about it, because it’s my story. My dad had cancer, and I’ve joked about that. Not to mock it, but to ease the tension — for myself and for others. But I would never joke about that illness if it had nothing to do with me.
That’s the line for me. Comedy can heal, but only if it comes from honesty and empathy.
Nik Lysytskiy: The ability to joke about yourself — that’s a real strength, isn’t it?
Nataly Garipova: It is. But it also takes confidence. I’ve noticed — if I can’t joke with someone anymore, it means the connection between us is already breaking. There’s tension. That person will get offended — and that usually means we’re no longer on the same wavelength.
I joke about myself constantly. My shows — it’s an hour and a half of self-irony: my life, my child, my family. Everything that’s mine. Because self-irony is a sign of inner strength. If you don’t have it — it means there’s still a lot of work to do inside.
Nik Lysytskiy: Ukrainian folklore also has that strong self-ironic tone. Our humor is often directed at ourselves.
Nataly Garipova: Exactly. Take our old folk songs — especially the playful, erotic ones. They show how easily Ukrainians once treated sexuality, flirting, love. It was open, relaxed — just a natural part of life.
Now everything’s more restrained — “don’t talk about that,” “there are kids,” “that’s 18+.” But before, it was just life. Why should you hide it? Kids feel curiosity at ten, not eighteen — what are they supposed to do with it until then? Pretend it’s shameful?
Those old songs were full of humor, openness, and acceptance. I have a friend, Dmytro Mazuriak from the band Kazka — he’s now in Kulturnyi Desant. He can sing those songs for ten hours straight, and not a single one will repeat. That’s how many there are!
And that’s amazing — because humor like that releases tension, especially around taboo topics. It’s a shame that part of folklore faded, but I’m glad artists like Pavlo Ohots and Dmytro Mazuriak are bringing it back into modern culture.
Nik Lysytskiy: You once became the first Ukrainian stand-up comedian to organize your own tour.
Nataly Garipova: Yes, that’s right.
Nik Lysytskiy: What inspired you to do it back then?
Nataly Garipova: I realized I finally had enough material. Around that time, I was working with two directors — the Volkovinets brothers, everyone called them “the Jews.” They suggested we record a big solo show.
Back then, no one did solo concerts in Ukrainian stand-up. It wasn’t even seen as a thing. But we thought, “We’ve got an hour of material, let’s record it.” So we did — filmed it with cameras on rails, a proper shoot.
Then we thought, why not perform it live — take it to the cities where I’d already done 15-minute sets? So we turned that hour into a tour. Maybe it wasn’t a full hour — maybe 50 minutes — but still, it was strong material.
We even made a bold, cinematic promo video. We filmed in a pavilion, with lights, makeup, costumes — my friends helped, my girlfriends were in it, we did everything ourselves. It looked amazing.
And that became the first real stand-up tour in Ukraine.
Well, yes — there have definitely been bad performances. Mostly at corporate events. Corporate gigs are the worst place for stand-up.
But comedians still go there because, well… it’s money. Usually, if you perform in a bar with five other comedians, you might get two or three thousand hryvnias. For me, two thousand is basically the cost of a taxi to the village where I live now. So, you need those corporate gigs — they pay real money.
But they’re tough. Because people come to a corporate party to celebrate something personal, not to listen. If it’s colleagues, they’re already tipsy, gossiping, wondering who’s going to dance with whom — they don’t care what’s happening on stage. It’s like performing at a wedding or a birthday where everyone’s already drinking — no one’s interested in long monologues about life.
Unless it’s an interactive format, like a host warming up the crowd — fine. But pure stand-up, where you just talk about yourself? Nobody needs that at a corporate party.
The best corporate gigs I’ve ever done were bachelorette parties. Stand-up works perfectly there. I love performing for women — women’s circles are so open, so responsive. It’s easy, natural, and always fun. So yeah, I adore bachelorette parties. Everything else — not so much.
Nik Lysytskiy: And what about the stereotype that audiences are more skeptical of female comedians than male ones? Do you feel that?
Nataly Garipova: That used to be true — but not anymore. Now, absolutely not.
Look, Lera Mandziuk is selling out the October Palace. Nastya Zukhvala is touring Europe and Ukraine with full houses. There are tons of girls on stage now, confident, talented, powerful. They’re not coming in from a weak position — they’re coming in strong.
For example, I recently announced a comedy showcase with Nastya Korotka, Dasha Bilotserkovets, and Inna Gordeeva. All the tickets sold out in seven minutes. And the lineup is entirely female.
So, the balance has shifted. You can’t even compare it to how it was before. And honestly, in stand-up, gender doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is whether it’s funny or not. It doesn’t matter if it’s a man, a woman — or even a dog. The rule is simple: be funny.
Nik Lysytskiy: So, would you say the gender balance in comedy has really improved?
Nataly Garipova: Absolutely. And that’s thanks to the women who started out early, who paved the way — the first girls in stand-up. We did that.
Nik Lysytskiy: Can humor be funny but toxic? The kind that hurts rather than heals?
Nataly Garipova: Humor is aggression. It just is. The question is how you handle it — whether you can balance it or if it comes out lopsided. Because passive aggression is very easy to wrap inside a joke.
Sometimes it’s funny, but sometimes it’s just not pleasant to hear. There are clean jokes, and there are sharp ones. Personally, I really respect clean humor — like Vasya Baydak’s stand-up. His comedy is pure, light, kind. Thank God he’s doing it; otherwise, he’d probably already be canonized somewhere.
But seriously, what he does is a very complex genre. Clean, good stand-up — that’s the hardest thing to write. It’s where you don’t step on anyone, don’t humiliate, don’t provoke just for the sake of it. You simply observe life and make people laugh without cruelty. That’s real mastery.
Anton Tymoshenko also comes to mind — his political humor is smart, measured, intelligent. I love when comedians manage to keep that purity of the genre, when humor lifts instead of crushes.
Nik Lysytskiy: Was there ever a moment when you wanted to give up humor altogether?
Nataly Garipova: Yes, a few times. Usually when I just couldn’t make ends meet. You know, stand-up doesn’t always pay enough to live on. I had to take on heavy projects to survive — like TV shows, with crazy deadlines.
And I knew if I worked on a show like that, I wouldn’t have the time or energy left for stand-up. So I chose money, because I lived alone — I had to pay rent, buy food, clothes. I took a “pause” for a year.
But after a while, I looked around and thought — what am I doing? I’m writing TV shows… for whom? Why? It wasn’t mine. I realized I hadn’t done what I love for a whole year. So I left television and came back to stand-up.
Then, when the war started, we went abroad — lived in Berlin for a while. I performed there too: Good Evening from Ukraine, small charity concerts, tours with Dantes and Yura Kragodin. It kept me going.
But when I came back to Ukraine… everything hit me. The war, the depression, the heaviness of everyday survival. I just couldn’t write anymore. I had no strength to go on stage and talk about anything.
So I switched to production work, screenwriting — just something stable, something that didn’t require emotional exposure. And then, slowly, I returned again.
Life is long — you can step away and come back. That’s normal. Because humor depends on what’s inside you. Sometimes you simply have nothing to say. And it’s better to be honest and take a break than to go on stage and talk nonsense just to fill time.
Nik Lysytskiy: And when you create humor — can it become a way to work through your own pain and fears?
Nataly Garipova: Humor is psychotherapy. You don’t even have to invent anything — you just take what you’ve uncovered in therapy and turn it into material. For example, you realize, “I’m not confident in myself,” or “I feel undervalued.” There — that’s your premise. You can write ten minutes of jokes from that.
Through humor, you release the tension from whatever state you’re in. That’s why comedy works — it’s self-therapy disguised as entertainment.
Nik Lysytskiy: Is it true that people who make others laugh are often sad inside?
Nataly Garipova: Not me. I’m genuinely a cheerful person. I love life. I love kids, I love spending time with them. I love to laugh, I love fun people. I’m not a gloomy hater type at all.
Of course, some comedians really do write from pain — something inside drives them to turn it into jokes. And those jokes can be even more interesting, deeper, more layered because of that pain.
I also have my own problems, like everyone else, but I see life as a wonderful adventure. So, for me, humor is a way to enjoy that adventure, to keep finding something funny in it.
Nik Lysytskiy: Why do you think Ukrainians keep joking — even in the hardest, most tragic times?
Nataly Garipova: Because that’s how we survive. It’s completely logical — the harder the times, the more jokes appear.
Like, when something happens, memes pop up not the next day, but literally in minutes. Remember when that drone flew into Poland? I woke up to see people online saying, “Damn, I just woke up and already missed all the memes about the drone — and I’m in Poland!” The drone flew in at three in the morning, and by eight there were already thousands of memes.
That’s us. We process fear, shock, absurdity — through humor. We have this need to laugh and to share something funny, especially when everything else feels unbearable. That’s why memes are so popular now — they help us stay connected and remind us we’re still alive.
It’s not like American stand-up, where they’re still talking about Covid. I watch those specials and think, seriously? Covid? We’ve lived through a full-scale war since then! We’ve got bigger absurdities to face.
Like now — Ukrainian soldiers are learning to protect the skies over Europe. Three years ago, we were begging the world to “close the sky.” And now we’re doing it. That’s absurd. That’s surreal.
And when life turns into pure absurdity — what else can you do? You write jokes about it. Humor helps us deal with this surreal reality.
Nik Lysytskiy: Would you say humor sometimes becomes a cover — a way to avoid deep conversations or self-reflection?
Nataly Garipova: Sometimes, yes. It depends on the person. Some people use humor to hide, and it’s visible when they do. But others use it to go deeper — to joke about real pain, real fears, real contradictions.
If you’re mature enough, you can always tell the difference. You can feel when someone is hiding behind jokes — and when someone is using humor to open up. The best part is when you can laugh and talk about serious things at the same time.
Nik Lysytskiy: Today in the studio of the “Archetype of the Nation” project, we’re talking about humor with Nataly Garipova. Now, a more philosophical question — what is the power of humor?
Nataly Garipova: The power of humor is that it divides people — into those who get it and those who don’t. Real humor, true humor, is only possible for thinking people. For the well-read, the curious, those who observe and understand context.
It also divides humor itself — into primitive and intelligent. But regardless of level, humor simply makes life better. You laugh — and suddenly you feel lighter. That’s not a metaphor, it’s physiology. As they say, laughter prolongs life — and it really does.
When you laugh, your whole body works. You breathe deeper, your muscles relax, endorphins flood your brain — dopamine, serotonin — all of it. It’s the easiest, most natural therapy there is.
Think about it: someone watches Friends and laughs out loud — that’s already a healing reaction. But another person watches the same show and doesn’t even smile. The ability to laugh — to let yourself feel joy — that’s what makes the difference.
You don’t always need a sanatorium or a psychologist to feel better. Sometimes all you need is a good stand-up show or a warm, kind series like Ted Lasso — something that makes you laugh and reminds you that life is still beautiful.
Nik Lysytskiy: By the way, there’s an old saying that laughter prolongs life for those who laugh — but shortens it for those who make others laugh.
Nataly Garipova: Yes, I’ve heard that. I think it comes from the times of jesters — when if your joke didn’t land, they could literally feed you to the dogs. Or in those old underground theaters where they mocked the king — if you got caught, it could cost you your head.
Now it’s easier, of course — no gallows for a bad punchline. But still, making people laugh is risky. You expose yourself every time.
Nik Lysytskiy: What traits of Ukrainians, as a people, do you see reflected in the way we joke — or in how we laugh?
Nataly Garipova: I think Ukrainians are naturally inclined to laugh. If you go to a village feast — there’s laughter, singing, teasing. But when it comes to public settings, like concerts, it’s different.
In Ukraine, people come to a comedy show with this attitude: “Okay, let’s see if you can make me laugh. Go ahead, impress me.” You have to earn their laughter. They sit there with crossed arms — skeptical, waiting to be surprised.
In America, it’s the opposite. I performed at the legendary stand-up club The Laugh Factory — people there arrive ready to laugh. You tell even a small joke, and they respond warmly — clapping, laughing, encouraging you.
It’s cultural. Americans are very open; they’ll compliment you in the street, tell you your shoes are great or your hair looks nice. That doesn’t really happen here. We’re a bit more closed off, reserved.
But humor requires openness. If you’re open — you’ll laugh. If you’re closed — you’ll sit there thinking, “Well, it was funny, but not that funny.”
I remember back in the early days of the stand-up community — we’d perform every weekend. I’d hear the same jokes from other comics a hundred times. But you know what? Some of them made me laugh every time. Because a good joke lives.
Even with the same words, it feels different each time — new audience, new energy, new rhythm. That’s the magic. It’s only dead if it’s repeated at the dinner table by your dad for the tenth time. But in a live show — it breathes again.
Nik Lysytskiy: You mentioned that in our own circles — at family dinners or parties — we laugh easily, but in public we expect others to entertain us. Why do you think we’re so much more open at home than among strangers?
Nataly Garipova: I think it’s a kind of inherited trauma — this need to keep face. To always look proper in public, though no one really knows for whom.
At home, you can finally relax — even if that means Gosha can get drunk and crawl into bed. But outside, you have to act composed, because “people are watching.” There’s this ingrained social rule: don’t lose face.
Nik Lysytskiy: That actually connects to one of the core Ukrainian values — family. Family is sacred to us. Inside the family, we can be open, authentic, vulnerable. Outside — we keep control, because, as we often say, “What will people think?”
Nataly Garipova: Yes, maybe that’s true for many. Though honestly, not really for me. My mom, for example, doesn’t joke much — and when I do, she doesn’t really get my humor. So I don’t even try to joke at home. It’s the same with my brother.
But my friends — that’s my chosen family. Those are people who match me, who share my sense of humor. With them, I can be completely myself. And among friends, jokes can get dark.
Really dark — “done to a corpse” dark, as we say. But that’s okay, because you trust these people. They understand you, no one’s judging. You laugh — and it releases something deep inside.
We live through a lot of darkness, so those jokes become a way to let it out, to process it. Of course, you can’t tell those jokes everywhere. But in safe company — it’s healing.
Nik Lysytskiy: Today we’ve talked about good humor and not-so-good humor. There’s a fine line between humor and ridicule. How do you stay on the right side of that line? Does it depend on the comedian, or are there any rules?
Nataly Garipova: I don’t know about strict rules. I think it’s simple: a good person won’t make fun of another person. That’s it.
Nik Lysytskiy: So it depends on the person?
Nataly Garipova: Of course. A mean person will always ridicule others. Usually out of insecurity. Cruel humor is almost always a reflection of inner weakness or anger.
And yes, humor is a weapon — but it’s a defensive one. It protects us. It helps us stay sane when the world is collapsing around us.
When everyone worries about Ukrainians, we answer with a billion memes about drones in Poland. That’s our safety net — our way to say, “We’re still here. We’re still laughing.” Humor protects us from despair.
Nik Lysytskiy: But can humor ever turn into propaganda — or be used as propaganda?
Nataly Garipova: And what’s so bad about that? It depends on the kind of propaganda.
If it’s propaganda for education — great. If it’s propaganda to protect our people — even better.
Humor works wonderfully in social campaigns. A public service video about inclusion — with humor — will hit deeper. A video teaching how to communicate respectfully with veterans or people with disabilities — with humor — will reach hearts faster than any lecture.
We’re so afraid of the word propaganda, but what does it really mean? Promoting something important.
Why not the propaganda of the Ukrainian language in Ukraine? Hardly anyone funds that, but we need it desperately.
And we need to do it not superficially, but deeply — to touch people’s emotions, their inner “muscles,” to make it truly resonate.
If someone takes that seriously, then yes — let there be this kind of propaganda. Humor will only make it stronger.
Yes, absolutely. The word propaganda itself isn’t evil — it’s just been demonized. Everything today, if you think about it, falls somewhere between propaganda and anti-propaganda.
There’s propaganda of Ukrainization — of speaking our language, living freely in our own country. And there’s anti-propaganda — the pushback against the propaganda of Russification. So really, all content now lives somewhere on that spectrum. It’s just a matter of what values you’re promoting.
Nik Lysytskiy: What do you remember most from the concerts you’ve done during the war — maybe some recent ones from the past couple of years?
Nataly Garipova: Oh, there was a really funny one in Zaporizhzhia. There’s this basement venue — I can’t remember its name — but it hosts everything. Ballroom dance competitions, cooking shows, stand-ups, school graduations — all in that same basement.
And during air raids, it also serves as a shelter. So I’m performing there one evening, the audience is seated, everyone’s laughing, and then suddenly I see some movement in the back.
My manager Vika quietly tells me, “Sorry, but people are coming in — the venue is working as a shelter now.” I’m like, what? And sure enough, during the set, people start coming in from the street, sitting down, taking off their jackets — because there’s an air alert outside.
So in the middle of the show, the comedy club turned into an actual bomb shelter.
And the best part — people just kept laughing. Like, imagine: outside, air raid sirens, and inside, people laughing so loudly you could barely hear them. At the end, I asked, “So how did you like it?” And they said, “It was great — and it’s good to know we can come here during the next alarm too.”
That’s what our concerts are like during the war — a mix of absurdity and resilience. You’re performing in a shelter, people are literally hiding from missiles, but they’re laughing anyway. Because they need it. Because we all need it.
Well, it’s actually quite hard to define what exactly Ukrainian humor is — because, in my opinion, we don’t have a single, uniform style. It’s incredibly diverse.
We’ve got everything — from Dovhonosyky to Vasya Baydak, from the old Gentlemen Show to cheeky folk songs and toasts, from Grandpa Panas to Anton Tymoshenko, from The Shelter to Dzyzyk Show. All of that — completely different in tone and form — is still Ukrainian humor.
So to sum it up as one distinct style is almost impossible.
Nik Lysytskiy: Are there jokes that Ukrainians would definitely laugh at — but foreigners probably wouldn’t?
Nataly Garipova: Right now, yes — of course. Mostly jokes about the war, about how we live now.
For example, when I worked as a producer on the show Leg Dump, we often included very dark, specific jokes — about amputations, prosthetics, the loss of limbs. Harsh jokes, but deeply human.
And the only people who can really laugh at them are those who’ve lived through it. It’s for them. Because they can laugh about it — that laughter is part of healing.
But for someone abroad, far removed from this experience, it would probably look strange, even shocking.
Nik Lysytskiy: And if we look at earlier periods — before the war — was there something in our culture that was funny to us but not to others?
Nataly Garipova: Hard to say. Because, for example, I find Wodehouse hilarious — though it’s very English and not about our world at all. Humor translates when it’s smart.
Maybe someone just needs to do a proper experiment — take Ukrainian jokes, translate them literally, and test them abroad. Would they laugh or not?
Because, say, take George Carlin — he’s still funny decades later. His thoughts cut deep. He was sharp, direct, fearless — about racism, chauvinism, war, everything. And he’s still relevant.
So, yes — I find foreign comedians funny. But would foreigners find us funny? That’s the question.
Although, Anton Tymoshenko did stand-up in English — and talked about the war — and it worked. The audience totally got it. So I think, if it’s truly funny, it’s funny. Humor translates when it’s real.
Nik Lysytskiy: And how do you see the future of Ukrainian humor? Do you think we’ll reach the point where “Ukrainian humor” becomes recognizable worldwide — the way people talk about “English humor”?
Nataly Garipova: I’d really love that. But honestly — if you think globally — is there even “French humor”? “Greek humor”? It’s hard to pinpoint.
Moldovan humor, for example — they have a lot of jokes, little anecdotes. But would those be funny abroad? Who knows.
If our stand-up starts reaching the global level — translated into English properly — then yes, it could absolutely work. Because funny is funny.
I’ve already written three or four solo specials. And when I look back, I can see overlaps — the same jokes, same themes. But people still laugh. That means the humor is universal.
The real issue is exposure — foreigners just don’t have access to Ukrainian humor yet. There’s no demand for it, no distribution.
But look — once Ukrainian films like Luxembourg, Luxembourg make it to Netflix and get translated, that’s already a huge step. Even if they don’t get every joke — that’s fine. It’s very Ukrainian, very local, but still emotionally understandable.
I would honestly love to see Ukrainian stand-up performed for foreign audiences — just to hear their reaction. That would be fascinating. To see how they perceive our humor — and what they find funny in us.
If we stop joking and laughing? Oh, we’ll all get sick. Seriously. We’ll just start decaying from the inside out.
First, we’ll get terribly sad. Then life will turn gray and pointless. That’s just not our way of living.
If we take two extremes — total absence of humor or constant joking — I’ll always choose the jokes. Constant jokes. Let them be stupid sometimes, but they’ll keep us alive. The absence of laughter would be an absolute catastrophe.
Nik Lysytskiy: You mentioned singers earlier, but there’s also another interesting folklore genre — nebelitsy — those absurd, exaggerated tales. If we were to compare stand-up comedy with a folklore genre, which one would it be closest to?
Nataly Garipova: Probably nebelitsy, yes. Maybe not completely, but close — because stand-up is still based on real life. It’s about what really happens to me, what I’ve lived through.
Though Vasya Baydak, for instance, has a lot of hyperbolic, fictional, absurd humor — and that’s definitely nebelitsy-style.
But you know what else comes to mind? It’s also folklore — games for the dead. Have you heard of that?
Nik Lysytskiy: Yes, there’s such a tradition in Western Ukraine — literally games for the dead. When someone died, especially in rural communities, children or young people — usually from other families — would play games right next to the deceased.
And the point was to transform fear into laughter. To help the family cope with loss. These could be simple games — running games, something like early “twister,” even just joking around, telling funny stories.
It was all about processing grief through laughter.
Nataly Garipova: That’s fascinating. You know, I’ve actually been to funerals where that transformation happens naturally — where at some point, grief gives way to stories and laughter.
I love that moment. Because people don’t really hold on to the day someone died — they hold on to funny memories.
Once, my friend Lesha passed away. He was young, and there were maybe two hundred people at his funeral — all his friends. And he had done so many funny, crazy things in his life that from two in the afternoon until almost eleven at night, people took turns at the microphone just telling stories about him.
The whole hall was laughing. All day.
And I remember watching his mother — she was still grieving, but you could see her face soften. It actually helped her. Because those funny stories said so much about him — about who he was, how he lived, how he made people feel.
That’s the power of laughter — even in mourning, it brings life back for a moment.
Of course you can take themes from folklore for stand-up. There’s so much material there! Fairy tales, for example — or proverbs.
Like, take a saying: “Three mushrooms per spoon.” How did that even come about? What mushrooms? Why three? Why a spoon? You start digging into it, and suddenly there’s a whole absurd story hiding in that one line.
Or fairy tales — you can totally reinterpret them. Most of them are honestly wild. I mean, when I was a kid, people read me Russian folk tales, and they were horrifying. Ivan, Emelya — someone’s always burying two brothers in a pit or killing a dragon every five minutes. It’s all murder, tragedy, trauma.
Even the “gentle” ones — like, Masha lives with her grandparents because her parents are dead, someone’s always cursed, someone’s missing. All tragedy! So yeah, there’s endless material. You can take those stories and say: “Okay, this is what I grew up with — and now I’m reading fairy tales to my daughter, and I just can’t.” You start unpacking what those stories actually mean and how they translate into our lives now — and it becomes stand-up.
Nik Lysytskiy: Another important part of folklore is the tradition of mocking enemies — and it’s still relevant today. What’s that about?
Nataly Garipova: It’s about humiliation — but in a healthy way. You ridicule the thing that scares or oppresses you. You rise above it by laughing at it. That’s how we take power back.
Nik Lysytskiy: And it’s really effective, isn’t it? If we remember Soviet times, there was also a genre of jokes — political anecdotes. But you rarely hear that kind of humor now. Why do you think that is?
Nataly Garipova: Because the form is outdated. Those “a Pole meets an American” setups — they just got boring. And most of them were about Soviet life anyway — mother-in-law jokes, drunks, scarcity, queues. That was everyone’s shared reality, and that’s why it was funny.
Now life has changed. Humor has evolved. Those old anecdotes have basically turned into memes.
Memes have it all — absurdity, timing, brevity. The perfect form for our fast world. No one’s going to listen to a five-minute setup anymore. Not everyone can tell a long joke, but anyone can share a meme — quick, visual, immediate.
Nik Lysytskiy: There’s an opinion that all folklore forms tend to compress over time — like long fables once turned into short jokes, and now everything’s compressed into memes or short sayings.
Nataly Garipova: Yes, exactly. Everything gets shorter. Though, thankfully, the interview form still exists.
Nik Lysytskiy: Yes, and that’s great — because we have the chance to actually talk. People can watch, listen, and share their thoughts in the comments. Modern technology gives us that.
Another question — about humor and power. Historically, jokes were often directed at authority. When we joke about politicians — is that a sign of democracy and freedom of speech, or is it more a sign of distrust toward authority?
Nataly Garipova: It can be both, of course. But if there are no such jokes — that’s when you should really worry. That’s the sign of a regime.
Look at what happened recently in the U.S. when one of the late-night shows was canceled — people panicked, because that’s a warning bell. When satire disappears, totalitarianism starts creeping in.
As long as we can laugh at power, we still have freedom of speech. And that means we can still change things, build the kind of country we want to live in — for ourselves and for our children.
Because if freedom of speech dies, if corruption suffocates everything, people will leave. Everyone wants their children to live in a free country — and humor is one of the ways we keep that freedom alive.
Nik Lysytskiy: On the one hand, there are public jokes — the ones told on stage or online — and on the other hand, there are those private “kitchen” jokes, like during Soviet times, when people joked quietly among friends, passing those stories around about the government.
So here’s the question: if people don’t joke about politicians at all — does that mean they actually like that politician or government representative?
Nataly Garipova: Hmm… Since I rarely spend time in other circles, it’s hard for me to say whether people still joke about politicians “in the kitchens.”
In my circle, we practically don’t talk about politics at all. We talk about what we can change. Because if there’s something you can’t influence — why waste your energy?
So, jokes about politicians — they’re basically absent in our community. But if you get a bunch of taxi drivers together somewhere, I’m sure they’ll have plenty to say and plenty to joke about.
Nik Lysytskiy: Let’s finish with a short blitz round — seven quick questions and seven short (or not so short) answers.
What character trait do you value most in people?
Nataly Garipova: Kindness.
Nik Lysytskiy: And what do you consider the worst?
Nataly Garipova: Envy.
Nik Lysytskiy: What inspires you?
Nataly Garipova: Everything beautiful.
Love inspires me. Nature inspires me. People’s emotions inspire me.
Devotion, friendship, art — all of it.
Music, painting, everything that belongs to art — I can draw energy from that endlessly.
Nik Lysytskiy: What scares you?
Nataly Garipova: War. Death. The death of loved ones.
And the thought of not seeing a bright future for our country — that really scares me too.
Nik Lysytskiy: What helped you hold on through the hardest moments in your life?
Nataly Garipova: A sense of humor — and meditation.
Nik Lysytskiy: What would you say is the main goal or mission of your life?
Nataly Garipova: That’s a tough one. But I think everything I do now flows from one space — the space where time disappears, where I can give people humor, share the awareness that’s passed through me, and make someone a little happier, even for a moment.
That, I think, is my mission.
Nik Lysytskiy: If you had to choose three words that best describe Ukrainians, what would they be?
Nataly Garipova: Strong. Desperate. And cheerful.
Nik Lysytskiy: Thank you very much for this conversation — it was fascinating. I wish you all the best.
Nataly Garipova: Thank you — and the same to you.
Nik Lysytskiy: Let me remind our audience that you can watch the episodes of Archetype of the Nation on YouTube, listen to them on your favorite podcast platforms, or read them on magicworld.com.ua.
There, you’ll also find popular-science essays by folklorist Maryna Demediuk, as well as recordings of folklore performances by well-known Ukrainian actors.
Thank you for watching — and see you next time.
