Jewish & Iranian Comedians Unite for Peace Through Laughter

Conan O’Brien:

Setting: Dim lights, a single mic stand, and Conan standing center stage beneath a swirling dome of fading maps and rising laughter.

Conan:
Ladies and gentlemen — and peace-lovers of every stripe — welcome.

Tonight, we're doing something radical.

We’re not here to debate. We’re not here to accuse.
We’re here to do something much harder…

We’re here to laugh. Together.

That’s right — Israelis and Iranians. On one stage. Sharing jokes. Sharing silence. Sharing something that might just be stronger than fear: timing.

You see, people think comedy is a distraction. But in my experience, it’s a mirror.
And sometimes, it’s the only way two enemies can look each other in the face… without drawing weapons.

Laughter — real, honest, awkward, belly laughter — is a truce. It’s a bridge.
It doesn’t solve everything. But it opens the door.

So tonight, we open that door — gently, boldly, and with a few wildly inappropriate jokes.

Let’s begin.

 (Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Topic 1: The Punchline of History – Can Shared Pain Become Shared Laughter?

Moderator: Conan O’Brien
Setting: A roundtable floating above ancient ruins in Jerusalem and Persepolis, merged into a surreal open-air amphitheater. The sun is setting. The mics are live. The pain is real. The jokes are coming.

Conan O’Brien (opening):

You know, someone once said that history repeats itself — first as tragedy, then as farce. But what happens when you live through the tragedy and get hired to write the farce?

I’ve got six of the funniest humans on Earth here tonight — three Iranian, three Israeli — and we’re diving headfirst into the idea that maybe… just maybe… the path to peace runs through a good punchline.

So here’s what I want to ask first:

“Can we really laugh about our shared history — or is it still too painful?”

Omid Djalili:
Well, Conan, the first time I made a joke about the Iranian Revolution on stage, someone in the audience wept. I thought I’d bombed — but they came up afterward and said, “Thank you for making me laugh at what I’ve feared my whole life.” That’s when I knew: laughter doesn’t erase pain. It just gives it somewhere to go.

Yisrael Campbell:
I converted to Judaism, moved to Israel, got divorced, got remarried, raised kids through intifadas… and people say, “How do you joke about that?” I say, how do you not? If we can’t laugh, the trauma owns us. Humor is how I stitch sacred wounds with ridiculous thread.

Maz Jobrani:
I make jokes about bombs on airplanes, and I’ve been randomly searched 47 times. But each time I walk out of that airport, I go on stage and turn that humiliation into a laugh. Not because it’s okay — but because I refuse to let fear win.

Guri Alfi:
You know how you know it’s not too soon to joke? When your grandma laughs before the audience does. I once told a story about her escaping Poland, and she said, “Tell them the part where I hit the Nazi with my shoe — that always kills.”

Kambiz Hosseini:
Pain is the ink. Laughter is the pen. If we can’t write new chapters in our shared story, we’re doomed to live the same one. I joke because it hurts — and I don’t want that pain to become policy.

Assi Cohen:
Every joke I write about war or checkpoints starts with fear in my chest. But if the audience laughs, we’re healing together. And if they don’t… well, at least I didn’t waste good hummus on a bad crowd.

“What’s one historical event — personal or national — you once thought was off-limits for comedy, but now feel ready to laugh about?”

Kambiz Hosseini:
There was a time I wouldn’t touch the Iran–Iraq War. My uncle died in it. But last year, I joked on my podcast that both countries spent billions to prove that “men with mustaches should never be in charge of anything.” It went viral — and my aunt laughed for the first time in 20 years.

Yisrael Campbell:
9/11. As an American-Israeli living in Jerusalem, it felt like sacrilege. But then I heard an Orthodox rabbi joke, “The world’s ending, might as well stop tithing.” I laughed so hard I cried. That day, I wrote a routine about spiritual panic shopping — and people needed it.

Maz Jobrani:
The Iranian hostage crisis. My parents never let me talk about it. But one night I told a story about being the only Iranian in my middle school class in 1980 — and how my teacher asked if I personally knew the Ayatollah. That broke the ice. Now it’s my closer.

Assi Cohen:
Yitzhak Rabin’s assassination. I couldn’t go near it for years. But in a sketch, I played a guy who misheard “peace process” as “pizza process” — and thought Rabin died ordering anchovies. It was absurd, but somehow… people laughed. And remembered.

Guri Alfi:
The Gaza conflicts. Too raw, too layered. But I found a joke about a ceasefire announcement coming through WhatsApp after the rockets land. It’s dark, yes. But people in bomb shelters laughed hardest. That’s who the joke is for.

Omid Djalili:
I once said, “Iran has democracy — we just vote between bad and worse.” I thought I’d crossed a line. But the audience — Iranians in exile — erupted. I realized comedy gives dignity to the oppressed by refusing to lie.

“If you could tell just one joke to someone on ‘the other side’ of history — what would it be?”

Assi Cohen:
I’d say, “You know, when Israelis and Iranians finally meet face to face, we’ll probably both say: ‘Wait, you like falafel too?!’” The joke is, we already have more in common than we’re told to believe.

Maz Jobrani:
I’d say, “Why do Middle Easterners never play hide and seek? Because good luck hiding when your mom’s already told the neighbors where you are.” It’s a Persian-Jewish-Arab-Universal truth. That’s how we win — shared mothers.

Guri Alfi:
My joke would be: “We’re not enemies. We’re just relatives who got into a political argument and never texted again.” Funny, right? Because it’s true — and it hurts. And maybe that’s how peace begins.

Kambiz Hosseini:
I’d look someone in the eye and say, “Our dictators talk war, but our comedians talk truth. Which one do you want your children to hear before bed?” That’s not even a joke. But if they laugh — we’re halfway there.

Omid Djalili:
“Iran and Israel don’t need to fight. We’re already united… by everyone else’s sanctions.” Ba-dum-tss! If we can share a punchline, maybe we can stop sharing paranoia.

Yisrael Campbell:
“I used to think we needed a new Middle East peace plan. Now I think we just need one long Shabbat dinner where nobody talks politics until dessert.” If they laugh… maybe I’ll bring the wine.

Conan O’Brien (closing):

You know what amazes me? Every one of these jokes was born from pain… and yet somehow, they ended up as gifts. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

They say comedy is tragedy plus time. But maybe, just maybe — it’s also empathy plus timing.

Let’s keep laughing. Let’s keep listening. Maybe one day, we’ll laugh not in spite of history… but because we survived it.

Topic 2: Weapons of Mass Distraction – Satire vs. State Propaganda

Moderator: Conan O’Brien
Setting: A neon-lit theater built between two television studios—one government-funded, one underground. Teleprompters flicker, and a truth serum bottle sits on the table. Everyone’s mic is hot, and everyone knows it.

Conan O’Brien (opening):

Satire is a risky business — especially when the people you’re mocking have tanks and censorship budgets.

But here’s what I’ve noticed: the sharper the censorship, the sharper the comedians.

Tonight, we’re asking: Is satire still a tool for truth, or has it been co-opted into another form of state theater?

“How do you know when your satire is actually shaking power — versus just being allowed by it?”

Lior Schleien:
If the Minister of Defense calls you at midnight and says, “Hey, that sketch was funny — but maybe don’t air it again,” that’s when you know you struck a nerve. If they laugh too hard, I worry I’ve been domesticated.

Mehran Modiri:
In Iran, it’s not always what you say, but how you say it. I once told a joke where a rooster says, “I crow when I want, not when the farmer says.” People knew. The regime didn’t. That’s the art — landing the blow without leaving a bruise they can trace.

Sina Valiollah:
The day your satire stops getting shadowbanned or pulled from TV? That’s the day you’ve probably stopped being dangerous. Real satire leaks — like truth. If the system isn’t nervous, you’re probably just background noise.

Orna Banai:
Satire is like flirting with revolution: just enough to get a reaction, but not so much that they shut down your show. I once joked that God was gender nonbinary and my inbox exploded. Half loved it. Half wanted me stoned. That’s impact.

Ebrahim Nabavi:
When they exile you. That’s when you know. They sent me out of Iran for my columns — not because they were wrong, but because they were laughing. The laugh is dangerous because it means people see through the lie.

Yossi Marshak:
In Israel, the trick isn’t censorship — it’s distraction. They let us joke about anything, because while we’re laughing, they’re redacting. But satire is still our way of saying: We see you. We’re not asleep.

“What’s the most subtle—or sneaky—way you’ve gotten a political message past the censors?”

Mehran Modiri:
There was a character I created who only said things through idioms. Like, “The donkey who rules the well drinks first.” Everyone got it. But because it was ‘folklore,’ it flew under the radar. Sometimes the oldest words have the sharpest blades.

Lior Schleien:
I aired a fake weather report where storms were “accidentally” targeting poor neighborhoods while sunshine hovered over settlements. No names, no labels. Just… weather. But everyone knew the map. It rained outrage.

Sina Valiollah:
Music. I embedded my satire in song lyrics. “The Leader dances when the crowd is blind” — sounds poetic, but the regime called my mother to ask, “What does your son mean?” That’s when I knew I nailed it.

Orna Banai:
I dressed as a politician’s wife and said, “My husband believes in transparency. That’s why he disappears every time the police call.” No names. No slander. But every viewer saw the ghost behind the punchline.

Ebrahim Nabavi:
I once published a column as a “translation” from an imaginary African dictator who ruled a country just like Iran. Same laws, same tortures. The government praised the creativity — until readers figured it out. Then I disappeared for a while.

Yossi Marshak:
I used a puppet. Seriously. You put the words in a cute sock, and suddenly treason becomes bedtime comedy. They can’t arrest a sock… can they?

“What do you fear more — censorship or apathy? And which kills satire faster?”

Sina Valiollah:
Apathy. Always. A dictator can silence you. But a distracted population scrolls past you. That’s scarier. When truth loses entertainment value, we’re done.

Lior Schleien:
Censorship hurts. But apathy kills. I can fight a ban. I can’t fight indifference. If the audience laughs without thinking, I’ve failed. Satire’s job isn’t just to entertain — it’s to provoke discomfort that feels good.

Mehran Modiri:
In Iran, we fear both — but we live with apathy. People grow tired of fear. They want to laugh, yes — but they also want to forget. I try to make them remember through laughter. That’s the balance.

Orna Banai:
Apathy is when people laugh and go back to brunch. I want them to laugh and then drop their fork halfway through chewing and say, “Wait — is that me in the joke?” That pause? That’s where change begins.

Ebrahim Nabavi:
Satire is oxygen in a locked room. Censorship closes the door — but apathy turns off the lungs. When people stop caring, I stop writing. Or maybe… I start whispering instead of shouting.

Yossi Marshak:
Censorship is violent, but predictable. Apathy is slow poison. You don’t even feel it happening — until your best material sounds like background music in a supermarket.

Conan O’Brien (closing):

You know, I used to think satire was just a clever way to roast politicians. But listening to you six, I realize — it’s the last form of protest that can make people laugh and think before they get tired of caring.

Maybe that’s why regimes fear it. Maybe that’s why we need it.

Because when laughter is dangerous, it means truth still matters.

Let’s keep writing. Let’s keep joking. Let’s keep them sweating.

Topic 3: Holy Jokes – Can God Take a Joke from Both Sides?

Moderator: Conan O’Brien
Setting: An open-air roundtable under the night sky, surrounded by candles, ancient scrolls, Qurans, Torahs, and a soft breeze carrying the scent of incense. Laughter flickers like sacred fire — gentle, probing, reverent, risky.

Conan O’Brien (opening):

Tonight we’re asking a question that has probably gotten people stoned… and not the good kind.

Can God take a joke?
And maybe more importantly — can we laugh with God, not just at religion?

Because where there’s reverence, there’s fear. And where there’s fear… you know comedians are lurking nearby.

Let’s start with this:

“Where is the line between reverence and ridicule in religious humor — and have you ever crossed it?”

Yisrael Campbell:
I’ve crossed it. I’ve tripped over it. I’ve made a minyan at the line. As a convert to Judaism from Catholicism, I joke that I’ve “upgraded guilt.” But seriously, the line isn’t drawn in scripture — it’s drawn in intent. If your goal is mockery, it shows. If it’s connection, people feel that too.

Omid Djalili:
Oh, I’ve crossed it… with a smile. I once joked that God must’ve outsourced creation on Fridays because humans are a bit buggy. Some people gasped. Others laughed. The question isn’t “Is it too much?” — it’s “Does it make us more human?” If yes, then the joke was holy.

Shlomo Bar-Aba:
I once played a rabbi who didn’t believe in God but still loved the Sabbath. That got me hate mail and marriage proposals. Comedy in religion is like dancing in a synagogue — it’s allowed, but you better have rhythm and respect.

Maz Jobrani:
I once said Allah must be tired of hearing “Inshallah” used as an excuse for not showing up. People laughed… nervously. But afterward, a cleric told me, “You said what we’re all thinking — just funnier.” That’s how I know I didn’t insult God. I might’ve tickled Him.

Gad Elmaleh:
In Morocco, we grew up joking in three languages — Arabic, Hebrew, and French. I joked once that God has too many names and might just prefer “Hey, You.” The crowd roared. Humor brings us closer — not to mock, but to remind us that faith with fear alone isn't faith.

Hadi Khorsandi:
I’ve made jokes about heaven having a velvet rope and God checking Instagram followers at the gate. People get mad. I tell them: If your God can’t take a joke, maybe you’re worshiping your ego in a robe. And then they get madder. That’s my job.

“Have you ever felt that laughter brought you closer to something sacred — not further away?”

Gad Elmaleh:
Absolutely. Once in a tiny synagogue in Paris, I cracked a joke about Moses being the first GPS system: “Recalculating… 40 years.” People laughed, then someone whispered, “That’s how I explain the Exodus to my grandson now.” That’s sacred.

Yisrael Campbell:
Every Friday night, I light Shabbat candles with my kids. And we joke. We laugh about God giving Adam no instructions for Eve. We joke that Noah needed therapy. These aren’t blasphemies — they’re bridges to tradition. Laughter doesn’t replace the holy. It illuminates it.

Omid Djalili:
During Ramadan, I performed a show about fasting and grumpiness. The imam came. He laughed — belly laughed. Later, he said, “You reminded us that even in hunger, there is joy.” I swear, that moment felt more divine than some sermons I’ve slept through.

Hadi Khorsandi:
I once wrote that paradise for Persian men is a quiet wife and working Wi-Fi. It got laughs — and later, tears. A man said, “My wife passed last year. That joke made me remember her nagging… and miss it.” Sometimes the divine hides in the mundane. And humor unlocks it.

Shlomo Bar-Aba:
In a play, I whispered a prayer… then immediately sneezed. The audience laughed. I didn’t plan it. But afterward, a woman said, “You made God human for me.” That’s when I knew comedy could be a kind of prayer too.

Maz Jobrani:
You know what’s sacred? Standing on a stage in Dubai and telling a joke about Jewish-Muslim misunderstandings — and having both sides laugh. Laughter is not distance from the sacred — it’s the shortest road to it.

“If God were sitting in the audience tonight, what joke would you dare to tell?”

Omid Djalili:
I’d say, “God, if you’re really omnipresent… could you please start showing up during customer service calls too?” I think He’d laugh — and say, “You think I don’t suffer when you’re on hold?”

Yisrael Campbell:
I’d say, “God, thanks for making me Jewish… but couldn’t you have picked a people with a shorter wedding ceremony?” And if He doesn’t laugh, I’d say, “See? That’s why we’re still waiting for the Messiah.”

Hadi Khorsandi:
I’d tell God, “Please don’t take offense… but next time, maybe give free will a user manual?” And if He scowls, I’ll say, “Just kidding — Your updates are always confusing.”

Maz Jobrani:
I’d say, “God, I believe in You — but if you could just send me a sign… something simple… like lowering rent in LA.” If He laughs, we’re good. If not, I’m moving to Canada.

Gad Elmaleh:
I’d say, “God, I thank you for giving me talent… but why did you also give me anxiety?” I imagine He’d wink and say, “To keep you funny.” That would be the most reassuring punchline ever.

Shlomo Bar-Aba:
I’d whisper, “God… are You laughing yet?” And then I’d pause. If I heard even a sigh, I’d know the world is still safe.

Conan O’Brien (closing):

I’ve traveled the world, and one thing I’ve learned is this: the more sacred the space, the more nervous the laughter — and the more necessary it becomes.

Tonight, you reminded us that laughing with God isn’t heresy. It’s humanity.
If there’s a divine spark in all of us, maybe jokes are just how we keep it warm.

Thank you for making the sacred a little lighter — and the heavy, a little holier.

Topic 4: Borders and Other Absurd Inventions

Moderator: Conan O’Brien
Setting: A surreal comedy club on an invisible border — one side Persian tiles, the other Jerusalem stone. A barbed wire line runs through the middle of the stage… but every time someone laughs, the wire dissolves a little.

Conan O’Brien (opening):

They say laughter knows no borders. But bureaucracy sure does.

Tonight we ask: Are borders real… or just incredibly persistent punchlines?
And can comedy help redraw the lines — or better yet, erase the need for them?

Let’s find out.

“When did you first realize how absurd the idea of borders could be?”

Omid Djalili:
When I flew from London to Tel Aviv and got grilled for being Iranian… and then flew to Tehran and got grilled for being too Western. I thought, “What am I, a spy for hummus?” It hit me — borders aren't lines. They’re mirrors showing people what they fear.

Guri Alfi:
I visited Berlin, saw the remains of the Wall, and people were taking selfies with it like it was Disneyland. That’s when I realized: today’s border is tomorrow’s photo op. And the only thing that survives is the story — hopefully told by a comedian.

King Raam:
I was performing in a border town in Turkey near Syria. A child asked if I was “from the war side or the music side.” That question broke me. Borders aren’t geography. They’re inherited fears… and kids see through them faster than we do.

Yossi Marshak:
I crossed into the West Bank once for a role — and the guy at the checkpoint said, “Aren’t you that actor?” I said, “Yes, but off-camera I’m harmless.” He laughed. That moment was absurd. I had more power as a comedian than a citizen.

Sina Valiollah:
When I was denied a visa to the U.S. but was invited to perform… on Zoom. I was “too risky” to enter but safe enough to entertain. That’s when I realized: the border isn't between nations. It’s between logic and paperwork.

Lior Schleien:
At a comedy festival in Europe, they split the panel into “Middle East A” and “Middle East B.” I asked, “Who’s C?” The organizer said, “The peaceful ones.” That was either the best joke or the worst border policy ever.

“How does your comedy try to blur or erase cultural borders?”

Sina Valiollah:
I make sure Persians abroad and inside Iran laugh at the same jokes — so they remember they’re still one people. If my satire hits in both Tehran and Toronto, I know I’ve smashed a border better than any UN resolution.

Guri Alfi:
I play characters from every ethnic group in Israel — Arab, Ashkenazi, Sephardic, Russian, you name it. When people laugh at all of them, something shifts. Borders blur when we all laugh at the same ridiculous uncle.

Omid Djalili:
I performed in Tel Aviv and joked, “Iran and Israel are like exes who still stalk each other’s social media.” The crowd laughed — because truth hits harder in humor than in diplomacy. My job is to make both sides chuckle… and then wonder why.

Lior Schleien:
I target policies, not people. When you mock the absurdity of a law, not a language, people from both sides nod. You know the border is cracking when your sketch gets translated into four dialects… and still lands.

Yossi Marshak:
I once played a Palestinian taxi driver. People expected offense — but I made him human. Gentle. Funny. Real. That’s when I knew: empathy doesn’t need a passport. It just needs timing and truth.

King Raam:
I use music and comedy together. You sing in Farsi, joke in English, and smile in silence. Borders don’t survive rhythm and laughter — they just sulk in the corner, waiting to be forgotten.

“If you could erase one border with a joke — which one, and what’s the joke?”

Omid Djalili:
The border between Iran and common sense. I’d say, “Our government says we’re a free nation — unless you try to act free.” That line alone would confuse the regime long enough to let some joy slip through.

Lior Schleien:
I’d erase the mental border between Israelis and their own compassion. I’d joke, “We believe in coexistence… as long as it doesn’t block our parking.” People laugh. Then pause. That pause is the crack.

Sina Valiollah:
I’d erase the imaginary border between East and West. I’d say, “You eat sushi, wear Adidas, and drive a German car — but call yourself traditional. Please, Habibi, you're a walking contradiction.”

Guri Alfi:
I’d erase the border around memory. “Every Israeli and Iranian grandparent has the same story: ‘We were poor… but proud!’” That joke unites people over the dinner table more than any peace summit.

King Raam:
I’d erase the wall inside people’s heads. I’d say, “You built a wall around your heart and forgot where you put the key. Good news: laughter picks locks.”

Yossi Marshak:
I’d joke, “The real border is between what we think we know — and what we never bothered to ask.” No punchline. Just a setup. The audience finishes the joke. And that’s where the border disappears.

Conan O’Brien (closing):

Tonight, you all reminded me that borders may be drawn with pens, but they’re erased with punchlines.

You make us see the absurd, not to mock — but to melt the imaginary lines we forgot we invented.

The border isn’t out there. It’s in here — in our assumptions, our history, our fear.
And maybe, just maybe… in a shared laugh… we can step across it together.

Topic 5: The Last Joke Before the Missile Launch – What If That Was the Cure?

Moderator: Conan O’Brien
Setting: A bare, dimly lit stage. A glowing red button on a pedestal sits in the background. Six comedians sit in a circle, each holding an old microphone. The silence between laughs feels like the edge of something permanent.

Conan O’Brien (opening):

If the world were ending tomorrow — and you only had time for one last joke — what would it be?

Would it be silly? Sharp? Kind? Would it heal or hold?

Tonight’s question is no joke. Because sometimes… comedy might be the last thing standing before everything else falls.

So here’s where we begin:

“What responsibility — if any — do comedians have in times of real crisis?”

Maz Jobrani:
We’re not just here to make people laugh. We’re here to remind people they’re still human. During war, during riots, even in exile — a well-timed joke is proof that your soul hasn’t been taken. That’s our job: keep the soul alive.

Assi Cohen:
In crisis, truth becomes expensive. Satire is the last affordable way to say what needs to be said. We comedians? We’re the emergency exit. If the world catches fire, someone needs to shout, “Follow the laughter — it leads to oxygen.”

Shlomo Bar-Aba:
Comedians are the only ones who can say the emperor has no clothes… and survive. Barely. When the bombs fall or the headlines lie, the comic walks out and says, “This is crazy, right?” And suddenly the crowd knows they’re not alone.

Kambiz Hosseini:
In crisis, people don’t need comfort — they need clarity. Satire is a scalpel. It cuts. Yes, it hurts. But it also reveals. We’re not just telling jokes. We’re performing surgery on denial.

Guri Alfi:
We don’t offer solutions. But we do break the spell of helplessness. During the worst moments, people turn to comedy not to escape reality — but to survive it. That’s the hidden job description.

Ramin Seyed-Emami (King Raam):
We’re the choir that sings while the ship is sinking — not to pretend everything’s fine, but to give everyone one last song worth remembering. Maybe that’s peace. Or maybe that’s just grace.

“Have you ever felt your comedy stopped something dangerous — even if just for a moment?”

Kambiz Hosseini:
I did a sketch about political prisoners. It was brutal, raw. After it aired, a judge known for harsh sentencing resigned. Did I cause that? I don’t know. But I know I aimed a joke like a slingshot — and something cracked.

Maz Jobrani:
In Dubai, I performed for a mixed crowd — Jews, Muslims, exiles. I made fun of everyone, and they all laughed. Later, a guy from Mossad and a guy from Iran’s old military shared tea. That was the moment. Comedy didn’t stop a war. But maybe it stopped one that night.

Guri Alfi:
During protests, I released a one-minute video mocking the Prime Minister’s emergency powers. It got 5 million views in two days. The government held back a policy announcement. Coincidence? Maybe. But it felt like laughter froze time — just long enough.

Ramin Seyed-Emami:
I once played a song in a dark comedy show in Beirut. People cried and laughed. Afterward, a man said, “I hated Israelis until tonight.” That wasn’t me — that was the joke doing what bullets never could.

Shlomo Bar-Aba:
One time, my sketch on civilian casualties was banned. So I performed it live. People stood up crying and clapping. They didn’t change the policy. But they changed their silence. That matters more.

Assi Cohen:
A kid came up after a war-zone fundraiser and said, “You made my dad laugh for the first time since he lost his leg.” That’s not policy change. That’s heart CPR.

“What would your final joke be — if the world were about to end — and why?”

Maz Jobrani:
I’d say, “So… turns out, we were the weapons of mass destruction — just badly dressed.”
Because if we’re going out, let’s go out knowing we were always the joke — not the punchline.

Shlomo Bar-Aba:
“I asked God for peace. He said, ‘Sure — right after I fix airline food.’”
Let them laugh. Let them gasp. But let them know even the divine has delays… and maybe we should’ve taken responsibility ourselves.

Guri Alfi:
“Breaking news: ceasefire declared — because all the missiles were redirected to influencer mansions.”
That’s the dream, right? We cancel the war… and aim the drama where it belongs.

Kambiz Hosseini:
I’d whisper: “We built nukes before we built empathy. Oops.”
And maybe that’s the final line they remember — the one that feels more like a mirror than a mic drop.

Assi Cohen:
“Earth to aliens: Sorry about the mess. We were still figuring out democracy.”
Humor is cosmic perspective. It reminds us we were small, weird, and worth loving anyway.

Ramin Seyed-Emami:
I’d strum a final note and say, “If this is the end, let it echo in laughter — not screams.”
Because even in the last breath, beauty matters.

Conan O’Brien (closing):

I’ve done a lot of gigs… but this one? This felt like church, therapy, and rebellion all wrapped in a laugh.

Maybe the world won’t end in fire. Maybe it’ll end in laughter — and begin again with a smile.

These six comedians — Iranian and Israeli — didn’t just crack jokes tonight. They cracked open a space for peace… fragile, flickering, real.

And if the missiles ever do fall… I hope the last sound they hear is one of you saying:
“Wait! I’ve got one more…”

Final Thoughts by Conan O’Brien

Setting: Same stage. The laughter has faded to stillness. The spotlight softens. Conan returns to the mic with quiet reverence.

Conan:
You know, I’ve hosted a lot of shows.
But this one? This one will sit with me.

Not because it was perfect. But because it was real.
Six comedians. Two countries. One impossible conversation — carried not with anger, but with wit.

I watched as history’s heaviest burdens turned into jokes…
Not to dismiss the pain — but to reclaim the power.

In every topic — war, faith, censorship, borders, the end of the world —
these comedians reached across the chasm and said,
“Before we blow each other up, let’s try a punchline.”

And somehow, it worked.

Because when laughter rises… hatred retreats.
When people laugh together, they start listening.
And when we listen — really listen — we find we’re not so different after all.

So here’s my final message to the world:

Keep your missiles on mute.
Turn your microphones back on.
And let the comedians lead — at least for a little while.

Because if peace ever comes…
I have a feeling it’ll arrive with a joke.

Good night, and thank you.

Short Bios:

Conan O’Brien
American late-night host and comedian known for sharp wit and global curiosity. His travel specials and humor-driven diplomacy make him an ideal peace dialogue moderator.

Maz Jobrani
Iranian-American stand-up comedian and actor. Known for breaking stereotypes and using comedy to build bridges between East and West.

Omid Djalili
British-Iranian comedian and actor. Famed for his energetic delivery and for blending religious and cultural commentary with warm, disarming humor.

Kambiz Hosseini
Iranian satirist, writer, and host of political comedy shows like “Parazit.” An outspoken critic of authoritarianism with a fierce, truth-driven edge.

Mehran Modiri
One of Iran’s most popular comedic actors and directors. Uses subtle satire to navigate censorship while addressing deep societal issues.

Sina Valiollah
Iranian media personality and satirist. Known for his bold takes on censorship, nationalism, and hypocrisy through bilingual comedy and visual media.

Hadi Khorsandi
Veteran Iranian satirist, writer, and poet. Known for decades of exiled humor challenging political and religious orthodoxy.

Ramin Seyed-Emami (King Raam)
Iranian-Canadian musician, storyteller, and dark humorist. Blends music and satire to explore grief, politics, and identity.

Yisrael Campbell
American-born Orthodox Jewish comedian. Converted from Catholicism and uses his personal journey to explore religion, identity, and belonging with warmth and humor.

Assi Cohen
Israeli actor and comedian best known for sketch comedy and emotional satire on “Eretz Nehederet.” Blends absurdity and social critique with heart.

Guri Alfi
Israeli stand-up and television personality. Uses character-driven humor to challenge political, cultural, and religious assumptions.

Lior Schleien
Israeli satirist and former host of “The Back of the Nation.” Known for his fearless political commentary and surgically precise comedic style.

Orna Banai
Israeli comedian and actress. Celebrated for her bold, socially conscious comedy, especially on topics of gender, faith, and political hypocrisy.

Yossi Marshak
Israeli actor with a dry, understated comedic voice. Known for satirical sketches and roles that reflect societal absurdities with subtle power.

Shlomo Bar-Aba
Respected Israeli actor and comedian. Combines religious and philosophical undertones in his humor, often evoking laughter and reflection at once.

Gad Elmaleh
Moroccan-French-Israeli comedian and actor. Performs in multiple languages, weaving Jewish, Arab, and European identities into cross-cultural stand-up.