Bassem Youssef: The jester with neither illusions nor a cape

It is fitting, in introducing this piece on Bassem Youssef and his return to an Egyptian screen after 11 years, to remember that unnamed woman. She was among those assigned, after June 30, to protest outside Cairo's Radio Theatre where “El-Bernameg”—the satirical juggernaut show that dared to puncture Egypt’s political pomposity—was filmed. With theatrical moans, she cried out, “Bassem Youssef is just an aragouz!” Then, in a paroxysm, she screamed: “Execute him so I can rest!”

That scene captured several contradictions. She was insulting him with the very label he embraces: “aragouz”—the traditional Egyptian puppet clown, long a symbol of vulgar satire and popular irreverence!

At the same time, both she and Bassem belong to a people that has always loved the irreverent jester, the aragouz who, for centuries, served as a critical mouthpiece of folk culture, shattering taboos and mocking the powerful. And it was precisely this tradition that “El-Bernameg” revived on Egyptian TV between 2011 and 2014: a weekly satire show, first born on YouTube in the wake of the January 25 revolution, then broadcast on ONTV, CBC, and finally MBC Masr.

Over three seasons and 144 episodes, Youssef wielded parody as scalpel, dissecting the hypocrisies of politicians, clerics, and media alike. The show’s popularity was unprecedented, millions tuned in, laughing and raging in equal measure, yet its very success made it a target of lawsuits, censorship, and eventual cancellation.

That legacy of Bassem Youssef’s distinctly Egyptian vulgarity has never quite left him. It follows him no matter the format of his latest show, no matter how far he drifts geographically or thematically from his homeland; the land of bawdy irreverence.

Because it is no longer possible to accuse him of failure, nor to prove he peddles lies or serves suspicious agendas, critics fixate on his “obscenity,” as if they don’t walk the same streets.

Years later, ONTV interviewer Ahmed Salem returns to echo the same accusation in Bassem’s presence: that his performances are indecent, full of suggestive jokes. He tells of a friend and his wife who were “embarrassed” during one of Bassem’s shows in Europe.

Those who level this accusation must overlook the rich, historic tradition of Egyptian comedy in theater, cinema, TV, and cartoons—that is full of and often built upon vulgarity. As though Bassem were Egypt’s first foul-mouthed artist. And these “respectable” media figures never once point out that the beloved superstar Adel Imam built much of his comic appeal on sexual innuendo and crudeness.

An October tribute to Bassem Youssef

A few days after October 7, from a tiny Cuban village whose name none of this article’s readers will likely recognize, a young woman shared on Instagram the now-iconic “Ahha” video Bassem Youssef had hurled at Israel. She doesn’t speak Arabic, has never heard Egyptian colloquial in its raw, mischievous form, and has no idea what kind of genius lies in a single, guttural word like “Ahha”; that untranslatable Egyptian curse of surprise, rage, and defiant mockery. She’s never met an Egyptian, never followed the Palestinian cause. But at that moment, she and thousands of others found in Bassem’s comedic expletive a vessel for rage and solidarity.

Only then did I grasp how wide Bassem’s reach had grown. It was impossible then to predict the full extent of his impact over the next two years, or how he would become one of the world’s most prominent voices defending Palestinians against Zionist propaganda.

Perhaps that’s why, on the second anniversary of the Aqsa Flood, during the hallowed Egyptian military month of October, a state apparatus not especially fond of Bassem allowed his reappearance on an Egyptian screen. As if to honor or thank him for his role. Or maybe to deny the existence of any real rift with a now-global star.

Ahmed Salem sticks to the prepared script, making it seem as though Bassem himself chose to stay away from Egyptian media all these years. The aragouz neither confirms nor denies this version, simply mentioning the persistence of Tarek Nour—veteran advertising mogul and now chairman of United Media Services, the state’s dominant media arm— in getting him on air. He seems to trust that his core audience remembers why “El-Bernameg” was forced off the air, the intimidation he faced, the protest outside his theater, and the orders from at least one security body to erase this unwanted jester from public view.

The nature of the punishment was always vague, and we never learned how far it might go, especially when the most successful host in Arab TV history was its target. His fame and popularity complicated things. The only viable exit was voluntary exile. Especially since the post-June 30 regime would only allow him to stay if he became one of its mouthpieces—like the rest of the top-tier media figures who remained.

But a true aragouz, one truly gifted, can never become anyone’s mouthpiece. To do so is to lose his humor, his main weapon, and betray the essence of his craft: critique.

Back then, Bassem Youssef refused to turn himself into a hero, or a victim, or a martyr. He held on to his identity and his role; the aragouz who tickles us awake, who offers pleasure to soften a little of the pain. Or he stays silent. And so he left in silence.

A segment of his audience, of his admirers, condemned him for it because he didn’t enter a “political battle” against the authorities in defense of his program, didn’t become a hero or a martyr. As if some of us needed to see him behind bars, or lying in a hospital bed after an attack by “unknown assailants” or someone later described as mentally unstable—just to complete a fantasized mural of the Egyptian revolution, composed of tiny portraits of all its victims.

Eleven years later, Bassem reappears on Egyptian TV. Smiling, joking, throwing quips, trying to offset his host’s stiffness. But often his face drifts into seriousness. He speaks of fears, yet still refuses to don the hero’s cloak, even after all his media clashes abroad defending Palestine. He humbly admits to mistakes, confusion, even ignorance of the Palestinian cause and Israel’s true identity before that fateful October 7.

The cooled audience of a once-fiery show

What’s striking about Bassem Youssef’s return is that, despite the weight of the information and ideas he shares—some of which are open to debate—it hasn’t sparked the kind of public reaction, noise, or heated controversy it arguably deserves. There’s no single explanation for this. Maybe the answer lies in the interviewer’s performance, or how the four episodes were prepared and produced.

Maybe the intended audience is simply exhausted—exhausted by genocide, by Palestine, by Israel, the subjects now consuming Bassem Youssef’s focus.

Maybe his original audience has lost the fire it once had, worn down by the long road of defeats and disappointments.

Or maybe it’s because Bassem reminds us—using his own words—that he’s “the wrong man in the wrong place.” That he’s repeating the same mistake: stepping slightly outside the role of the clown, speaking seriously, grappling with politics, warning us about a future we cannot yet see—for ourselves, and for the Palestinians.

We may know the disaster, but maybe we still don’t want to see Bassem outside the circus, unless he’s in full-on show mode, laughing and making us laugh. We didn’t want him to end the show, didn’t want him to stop “El-Bernameg,” even if he had to become a martyr to keep it. Now, perhaps, we don’t want him to appear as a regular expat, sitting in his faraway home, talking not only about Gaza but also about his family, job, and a new twist on his famous “Ahha”.

Bassem repeats the phrase: “As long as people are watching the circus…” He keeps coming back to that word—circus—to describe the world. And through his anecdotes, we begin to grasp the contours of a deeper problem: that the most influential figures in the world today are a handful of influencers, working—whether knowingly or not—in service of a vast, tangled web of major interests. Or as he calls it, “the machine.”

Bassem Youssef understands the spirit of the global moment we’re living in: that the show is everything. That follower counts and audience reach have become the capital of our age—translating into political and intellectual clout, and of course, financial gain.

But what many of Bassem’s Gen Z fans likely don’t realize is that he was one of the early pioneers. Fourteen years ago, he was among the first to sense where the world was headed. He saw the value of the modern jester—the aragouz—and the weight carried by any influencer willing to engage with the world around them. He knew that humor, wit, and yes, even vulgarity, were the most effective ways to reach people. To shake them. To help them glimpse the justice of our causes—even if only on the surface.

Just Bassem

Ahmed Salem leans toward casting Bassem Youssef as an exception—someone too singular, too unruly to become a model or source of inspiration for those who didn’t witness his beginnings during the days of the Egyptian revolution. He frames him as a man who’s never satisfied—neither with Egypt nor America—as if no degree of freedom is ever enough for him. And in doing so, the problem, conveniently, becomes Bassem himself.

In response to that framing, Bassem Youssef gently reminds us, without confrontation or grand declarations, that he is an ordinary citizen. Like all of us, he carries the age-old human aspiration for a dignified life and real freedom. He steps away from the pedestal, just as he strips his old show, “El-Bernameg”, of any mythical status. He doesn’t treat its cancellation, or his decision not to produce or broadcast it from abroad, as a tragedy or a legend. Instead, he returns it to its roots—as a political and artistic creation born of its moment. A moment called the revolution. And when that revolution ended in defeat, so too did the environment that once allowed “El-Bernameg” to exist.

Nine years ago, I wrote on a now-defunct site that Bassem was a modern, brilliant evolution of the aragouz, the jester who makes you open your eyes. Yes, he is a jester who helps his audience see the foolishness of those fake clowns—the talentless, soulless ones who never made it to the stage but instead reached the palaces of rulers, whose jokes bring no laughter, only blood.