Somewhere in London.
I should have been at a careers fair at my son’s school tonight. He’s 16 and hasn’t a clue what career he wants to pursue. Here we are in Britain in 2025, where universities are laced with the poison of lies and hatred, where meritocracy is the last thing that counts in getting a job, where every system – from seeing an NHS GP, to complaining that the bank has just shut your account for no discernible reason – is broken and anonymised by faceless messages of unaccountability. My son’s not inspired, and I’m not inspired to inspire him. Not tonight.
So I decide to ditch the career fair and spend my evening going to see Yohay Sponder’s show in town.
I have a lot to thank him for. I love my comedy. I like it when it’s honest and authentic, dark. But I can’t split the performer from their art. And since 7th October, my previous media staples have been shattered. The bubble of anticipation and appreciation of art, that makes someone ‘a fan’, has burst. It’s turned to dissolution and mistrust. I rarely watch mainstream television. Every programme feels as if there’s a narrative being pushed that I don’t care to hear. Much of it is lies and misrepresentation, both of the past and the present. I’m undecided about whether I want to bother with artists whose work I’ve previously enjoyed, tentatively listening to any new material, and always suspicious. The building blocks of my media diet remain only on reruns of my favourite comedies of a bygone generation, only eerily comforting. My trust in sturdy old Britain is broken.
After October 7th, I didn’t know where to turn for comedy. It has always been my drug of choice; through good times, but especially bad, I’ve always needed comedy. I need it for its honesty, its fearlessness to face the truth, to release tension. And to breathe.
I found an antidote in Israel. It had always been there if I think about it. A Jewish girl brought up in a relatively religious yet crazily dysfunctional household, attending Hebrew Classes from the age of 4 until 12, taught at home by a staunchly Zionist father who would have preferred to have sons, but had daughters instead. Judaism was somewhat thrust on me, but I grew up understanding the wonders and tragedies of our people.
Naomi Wyman
Unlike most of my community, I had no close family to visit and build up a familiarity with Israel as a child. But at 16, my first plane journey, my first time away from parents, my first trip abroad was a youth tour to Israel. It was wonderful and strange. The focus of all my Jewish education, being able to read Hebrew, studying various tracts of Siddur, Chumash, history, actually existed in this real place, Israel. When I returned home after 3 weeks, I was a different person. I learnt to be braver, take more chances and to laugh.
My Zionist dad, the fierce Jewish educator, who as I was just born, instructed me not to dare to ‘marry out’, passed away in 2022. I’m actually relieved, because October 7th and the world’s response would have killed him.
So back to the comedy. Whilst fishing around on social media for some drop of truth and hope for Israel and the Jewish people, I stumbled across two Israeli comedians.
I have a ‘nose’ for comedy; I know far more about comedy than all of my ‘conventional’ friends. It’s me who rambles on to them about my latest newly discoverd comedian, and I only bother if the friends will ‘get it’.
But as I scrolled agitatedly through social media for answers and justice, I not only had a ‘nose’ for comedy. I had a big Jewish nose. For, waiting for me were these two shows; one a standup show of Israeli comedians, called Funny Monday and the other a podcast hosted on GLZ Radio called Stand-Up for Israel. Both of these were being hosted by two fascinatingly hilarious guys called Yohay Sponder and Shachar Hasson.
And suddenly I could laugh.
Here was a safe place to laugh at the unlaughable. At the horror at what happened and continues to happen. Who else could deliver this, but Israeli comedians? They have the right, the ownership of people, culture and everything that it is to be Jewish. And what we cry for in the Diaspora, they have fought for and live within. And here they are, living and healing us with comedy. Here was a miracle.
Over the month, I have been turning to Yohay and Shachar to cheer me up and inspire me. I’ve loved their GLZ podcasts for so many reasons. I prefer to watch them rather than just listening as I can follow what’s going on as they interrupt each other, code switch between English and Hebrew and occasionally let their guests join in.
It’s so familiar – like being round a Shabbat table with a load of your favourite opinionated, ADHD people, all arguing the same point. I love the guests on their shows; Israeli musicians, actors, personalities that I would not have known of if I hadn’t have found their show.
I listen to Liad Broyde because of them, I check out each guest to get to know them. And I realise how much worthiness the world misses out on, by not knowing the richness of talent that this tiny country holds. I feel relieved and proud that they exist. And that I exist. For me, the format is great – the comedy and up-to-date commentary of what’s going on in Israel, along with introduction to some amazing Israeli artists. I leave having learned, laughed and with a readiness to live on. And as a British Jew, that’s not been easy to find recently.
So Yohay’s show tonight. First we hear ‘someone’s’ familiar Israeli voice introducing Josh Howie, a great comedian in his own right, Jewish, British and a now familiar face on GB News, the only British news channel I’ll watch.
I believe he’s wearing a fairly new Magen David, his previous one having been snatched when he was attacked a few months ago in the street. It’s good to see him again, safe and present on our British TV screens. He looks really different from the character he played in Hapless.
Next is Yohay. I wasn’t sure whether it would be safe to come to this venue in London. Perhaps they would cancel him like they did in Amsterdam. Perhaps there would be the ugly presence of the Pro-Palestine mob, drumming and jeering as they did outside JW3 a few months ago. Perhaps an extremist would plough a vehicle into the crowds. These are all thoughts that had made the career’s fair at my son’s school perhaps seem more appealing.
But, thank G-d, none of these frightening things happened. Instead, a grateful crowd laughed their heads off whilst simultaneously acknowledging the shared grief of what’s happened to our people.
And I remembered my reason for buying tickets and coming into town on a miserable winter’s night; to show how grateful I am to Yohay for his bravery, self-respect, and willingness to use his gift of comedy to mend societies and stand up for Israel.
- Naomi Wyman is an ADHD coach
