by Maz Jobrani
Eventually our Hezbollah fixer showed up and he wasn’t what I expected at all. I was expecting a guy in Fidel Castro military fatigues, maybe with a couple of sidekicks carrying Kalashnikovs. Or maybe a guy in a full Muslim dishdasha with some prayer beads in his hands. You know . . . the outfit. Instead, our guy looked like an employee right out of Ed Hardy—designer jeans, T-shirt, gelled hair, even a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He told us to follow him to Hezbollah territory where we would meet the “main guy.”
The only thing worse than the fixer in these situations is the main guy. The van I was in followed the fixer’s car; one of the guys from our team who was an Algerian Shiite rode with the fixer. The closer we got to Hezbollah territory the more our driver, who was a Christian Lebanese, kept complaining in broken English. “This no good. This no good.” It’s never a good thing when a local is telling you that he’s getting nervous. It would be the equivalent of me driving some guests around Los Angeles and once we got to a bad strip mall, just completely freaking out: “This is the worst stretch of shopping in California! There are just no good restaurants for miles! We could starve and die. Or eat something full of saturated fat!” You’re the local. You’re supposed to keep your cool. But our driver wasn’t holding back. Even when he spoke Arabic, which we didn’t understand, we could make out that he was nervous.
“Blakha blakha blakha BURLAP SACK blakha blakha blakha HOSTAGE!”
Meanwhile, ahead in the fixer’s car, our Algerian friend quickly figured out that the fixer was also a drug dealer, reaching this conclusion when the fixer offered to sell us drugs. I think the fixer did not completely understand who the hell we were. He’d just heard “Americans” and thought we’d probably want to buy some drugs from him. Or maybe he heard “comedians” and thought we would want to buy some drugs from him. Either way, he had drugs and was offering to sell us some.
I’ve come to learn that our fears of people in other parts of the world are usually a bit overblown. The real thing that most of our “enemies” want is simply to have some of our money taking up space inside their pockets. I remember when the “War on Terror” originally began and the military was looking for Osama bin Laden in the mountains of Afghanistan. There was a newspaper article about how the U.S. military had given a satellite phone to a warlord and told him that if he saw bin Laden he should use the phone to call the military. The warlord had agreed, and no sooner had the U.S. military packed up their Humvees than the warlord set up a phone system where his tribesmen could use the satellite phone to call their families in other countries and he would charge them to use the phone. The U.S. military had thought this guy was interested in catching bin Laden like they were, when he was just interested in setting up a for-profit long distance phone service. We wanted justice, he wanted to be AT&T.
So let’s recap: I, a born Shiite Muslim who’s not really religious, am in one car with Aron Kader, one of the Axis comedians whose father is Palestinian and mother is Mormon. We are being driven by a paranoid Lebanese Christian who thinks we’re going to get kidnapped. Another Axis comedian, Ahmed Ahmed, who is Egyptian and Sunni Muslim, is in a second car with another Christian Lebanese driver who’s freaking out as well. A third car has our Algerian Shiite Muslim friend with a Hezbollah fixer who’s trying to sell him some hash. There’s a country of Jews just an hour away and a warlord in Afghanistan selling airtime. Meanwhile, somewhere there’s a State Department guy who thinks we listened to him. “Good thing they took my advice and didn’t go to meet up with Hezbollah. If they had they would be in grave danger at this very moment. By my estimates they would have had their hands cut off by now and be watching as they were fed to goats.” All caught up?
Aron Kader and I were beyond nervous in our car. In the other car our Algerian friend was making excuses to get us out of the potential drug deal, as we got closer and closer to our meeting spot in the heart of Hezbollah territory. We were in a busy neighborhood with shops and families walking around as dusk arrived. There was probably no real reason to be afraid, but the buildup, combined with our nervous driver, had us completely paranoid. The fixer told us he was going to take us into some building where we would meet our guy. That’s when our Algerian friend called the whole thing off. He told the fixer that we were running late for our show that night and that we would try to set up another meeting on another day. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
As we all sped away in our van, our Algerian friend, who was now riding with us, told us why he had gotten nervous—he started thinking that the guy we were meeting might have been more of a low level criminal than a member of Hezbollah’s political party. He didn’t want us to go to this meeting and end up getting kidnapped not for political reasons, but for a ransom. So our meeting with Hezbollah was called off. Part of me was relieved, but part of me was bummed. We were on the verge of telling Hezbollah some jokes. We were going to make them laugh. We were going to make it on Hezbollah’s Top 10 Comics to Watch list. We were going to bring peace to the Middle East. At the least, that must be worth a development deal for your own TV show: Hezbollafeld.
Later that night when we did our show I was nervous. I figured we must be on Hezbollah’s radar now that we had stood them up. And who knew how they took being stood up. Maybe it was a huge insult. “No one stands up Hezbollah! How dare they? The comedians must die!” Also, and more importantly, given that Hezbollah’s biggest financial supporter is the government of Iran and the fact that I did jokes making fun of the Iranian regime, I was worried about doing those jokes in Lebanon. As I performed in front of a thousand people in Beirut, I began to pace quickly back and forth onstage when I got to the jokes about Iran. I figured if someone from Hezbollah had been sent to shut me up with a bullet, they would have a tougher time hitting a moving target. For good measure I pondered doing some jokes that would require me to do somersaults as well. I don’t know if anyone was sent to kill me that night, but I finished my set with no bullets flying and all appendages intact. It’s always a good show when no one gets shot or maimed. Especially you.
Finding Out I’m a Hooker
When you perform in Beirut, you have to go to a government office a few days into your trip and they ask you if the promoter is treating you right. I’ve never experienced that anywhere else, but I’m guessing it’s because there are a lot of shady promoters and the government wants to make sure that they’re not taking advantage of acts that come to Beirut. When our promoter told us that one of us comedians would have to get up at nine o’clock in the morning to go to this office, I took the responsibility. They told me that even when Phil Collins came there a few years earlier, one of his bandmates had to get up early in the morning to make this trip and confirm that Phil and company were being treated properly.
I was a big fan of Phil Collins as a kid—even before I knew I was going to be bald like him. I always thought I would lose my virginity to the song “In the Air Tonight.” I know it’s cheesy, but what a great song to lose it to. Especially if you can time your orgasm to the drum solo. I don’t remember what song I lost my virginity to, or if there was even any music playing in the background. And if I was able to control my orgasms to time them to any drum solo I probably would be in a different line of work. At any rate, the fact that Phil Collins had been expected to check in with this office made me want to do it, too. Granted, Phil had sent some roadie from his band, but still, we were kindred souls. Two artists who had visited Beirut. Two bald brothers on a journey to entertain the world. Two guys who could’ve shared the sanctity of a drum solo had I been able to control my bodily functions with a bit more accuracy.
I figured I would go into this office, sign a piece of paper, and then be on my way. However, once I entered, I was surrounded by a bunch of women who looked like Russian prostitutes. I asked the promoter what band the prostitutes were with and she told me that they were brought into the country as “dancers.” I thought, Wow, these dancers are dressed in their
full skimpy dance outfits at nine o’clock in the morning. That’s commitment! But then my promoter explained that basically, they were prostitutes who had to enter the country under another title so that they would be deemed legitimate. They even had to come to this office to confirm that their promoter/pimp was treating them kindly. I felt cheap. Did this make me a joke-telling hooker?
Hooker or not, Lebanon is a beautiful country, and Beirut is an amazing place because of the spirit of the people. From time to time there is fighting. Sometimes it’s with Israel, sometimes with Syria, and sometimes with themselves. One time when I was scheduled to perform in Beirut some street fighting broke out—and by street fighting I mean different political factions actually shooting at each other in the streets. I contacted the promoters to tell them we had to postpone the shows. When word got out that we were rescheduling, I received an e-mail from a fan who was obviously tougher than me: “Maz, why did you postpone? We were ready for you. You should come. It’s just a little street fighting. If you move fast enough they won’t shoot you. Next time don’t be such a pussy!”
Amman, Jordan
When the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour special came out on Comedy Central, we began getting e-mails from around the country. This was in early 2007, and our YouTube comedy videos were becoming popular. I knew things were getting hot when I kept getting my own clips e-mailed to me more times than I cared to. I was getting fed up—with myself: “Doesn’t this guy have any new material? ‘Persian, like the cat, meow!’ I get it. Now write some new stuff.” Critics aside, people were beginning to know us. Some congratulated us. Some asked when we would be performing near their hometowns. Others just assumed we were al-Qaeda operatives using YouTube to disseminate our propaganda.
If I had been asked where I thought we might be performing outside the United States a year after the special aired, I would have responded England, Canada, Australia—any English-speaking country. I never in a thousand years would have said Jordan. Yet as we began to grow in popularity, that very call arrived.
“Hello. Yes. We would like to have you come do your show in Jordan.”
“Oh, well, thank you very much for the invitation, bro,” I responded. “But our shows are actually in English, so I’m not sure you guys would get it.”
“But I’m speaking English to you right now, you idiot.”
“Um, yeah, that’s a good point.”
I was guilty of stereotyping an entire nation. Many of the people in the Middle East speak English very well and know our culture in great depth. The rest of the world knows a lot more about America than Americans know about the rest of the world. In Jordan, you can do a joke about Lindsay Lohan and they’ll get it: “Oh, that Lindsay . . . always in the rehab!” They know all our pop culture references, whereas some people in the United States couldn’t even name all the different countries in the Middle East. (But they can name all our drug-addicted starlets.) I’ve heard people say we should just “bomb the whole goddamned region.” You tell them that there’s different countries out there and they stare at you blankly. You have to wonder how many Americans were dropped on their heads at birth. Either that or they’ve watched too much Fox News, which is the adult version of being dropped on your head.
The King and I
Once it was confirmed we were going to Jordan to do a show, I received the highest-ranking correspondence of my life. One day, while checking my e-mail, I clicked on something from the Office of His Majesty, King Abdullah II of Jordan. Normally when you get an e-mail from someone named “His Majesty,” it’s asking you to send him your bank account information so he can wire you millions of dollars he intends to share with you when he leaves his poverty-stricken country for a bright future in America. At first I assumed it was a scam. Adding to my doubts was the brevity of the note: His Majesty, the e-mail said, wished to have my mailing address. Things moved quickly from doubt to worry.
“Oh shit. Now I’ve pissed off the king of Jordan. And he’s coming to get me!”
These Arabs don’t mess around. I sat sifting through my old material, trying to figure out which joke he’d taken offense to. Was it the one where I made fun of how Arabs talk fast, as if they’re perpetually on cocaine? Why did they need my mailing address? Did they really think I’d just give it to them? How stupid was their intelligence service?
“Yes, hello, we would like to kill you. Can you please give us your address so we know where to find you?”
I wasn’t falling for that one. You’ve got to get up pretty early in the morning to trick this Iranian-American comedian. Like any good spy with a hit out on him, I did my research to see what this was all about. I felt like Jason Bourne in The Bourne Identity trying to determine who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. No one was to be trusted. I contacted the other Axis of Evil comedians to bend their ears, but I had to be careful. For all I knew, they could be in on “the plot”—double-secret-agent comedians. I broached the topic carefully.
“Hey, it’s Maz. Just calling to say hello. Has anything weird happened to you lately?”
“Weird! I’ll tell you what’s weird,” one of the panicked comedians shout-whispered into the phone. It sounded as though he hadn’t slept in days. “I got an e-mail from the king of Jordan asking for my mailing address! I think he’s trying to kill me!”
Now we both were panicked. This was a bigger conspiracy than I originally thought. Turns out we had all gotten the same e-mail. It appeared that the Jordanians planned to take out all four of us before the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour really got its momentum going. Just like the president and vice president, it was imperative—for the future of comedy, as well as our own lives—that we not appear in the same place at the same time, lest we make it easy on the assassins. We had to think quickly. How were we going to dodge this? Should we just pack our bags and move to Brazil without even saying anything to our families or booking agents? Should we rename the tour and try to keep touring under the radar? The Axis of Not So Evil Comedy Tour? The Kinder Gentler Axis of Evil Comedy Tour? Or The Don’t Shoot Us, We’re Just Comedians Tour? Whatever we were going to do we had to decide fast because His Majesty was waiting for our reply. I’m fairly certain that if you take too long to reply to someone named His Majesty, that will just make the impending death that much more violent.
We were nervous. We were scared. We came up with a plan that only dumb comedians thinking the king of Jordan has time to assassinate them would contrive. Ahmed Ahmed, the Egyptian of the group, had a P.O. box. Apparently he’d had other kings come after him in the past, so he was better prepared than the rest of us.
“Let’s give the king of Jordan that address,” I suggested. “That way, if he wants to mail us a bomb, he’ll just kill the mailbox guy.”
Ahmed sent them his P.O. box address. A few days later, we received letters on His Majesty’s official letterhead. The gist of it was, “I saw your Axis of Evil comedy special and really enjoyed it. Thank you for doing what you’re doing. It is helping break stereotypes of Middle Easterners in the West.”
I was in shock. Was this all part of a more diabolical plot? Was he trying to trick us into letting down our guard before coming after us? Upon conferring with the other Axis guys, we concluded—not just because it was true, but also because the stress of being hunted was taking its toll—that this was actually a very nice and sincere letter from the king of Jordan. It was the most amazing letter I had ever gotten. And to think my mother wanted me to be a lawyer. Hah! If I had been a lawyer I never would have gotten a letter from a king! Maybe a magistrate, but who wants a letter from a magistrate? What the hell is a magistrate anyway? Try explaining that term to my mom. “You got letter from a magistrate? Is that a magician who is eh-straight? I thought all magicians vere gay!”
Of course, one of the first people I told about the letter was my mom. Telling your Iranian mother that a king has written a personal letter to you saying that he enjoys yo
ur comedy is one of the best ways to finally get her off your back and accept that you have made the right career choice. That said, never underestimate a Persian mother’s persistence.
“Mom, guess what? I just got a letter from the king of Jordan. He loves my comedy.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Dat’s nice.”
“That’s nice?”
“Vhat else did he say?”
“Nothing. Just that he saw it on DVD and enjoyed it.”
“So nothing else came in deh letter?”
“What else should have come in the letter?”
“He is a king. Gold? Cash? A virgin?”
“No gold, no cash, no virgins.”
“Vhat kind of king is he? Tell me vhen deh king of Kuwait writes you. He vill definitely send a virgin. Perobably vearing gold and carrying cash.”
People wouldn’t know this, but the king of Jordan is actually a really cool dude. He was educated in the West and is very big on showing a positive image of Middle Easterners, Arabs, and Muslims throughout the world. He is also a fan of Western film and TV. As a matter of fact, he was an extra in an episode of Star Trek a while back. You can find the clip on YouTube. Just enter “king of Jordan Star Trek.” He’s the guy in the background as the scene begins. That’s right—the king of Jordan is a Trekkie! How many other kings do you know who are Trekkies? I can see him attending a Star Trek convention and mingling with the other Trekkies.
