For comedian Hasan Habib, stand-up is more than jokes: it is a dialogue on family, migration, and Iraqi identity, where laughter softens trauma and connects diaspora lives to their homeland.

In many Iraqi households, humour often walks hand in hand with hardship—whether through teasing relatives, the sharp wit of elders, or the dark jokes exchanged over tea. For Iraqis living far from home or born abroad, humour becomes a vital tool for navigating the complex space between two worlds: the Iraq left behind and the life they now lead elsewhere. 

This space is precisely where stand-up comedian Hasan Habib finds himself.  

Born and raised in the UK to an Iraqi family, Hasan has been gaining recognition on the British comedy scene with his sharp, self-deprecating humour that explores family dynamics, identity, and the feeling of belonging. 

Yet, for Hasan, the stage is about more than laughter—it’s a place to grapple with questions and realities that resonate deeply with Iraqis, whether in the diaspora or in Iraq itself. 

The weight of a label 

Growing up in a predominantly white area of Birmingham, Hasan faced the kind of prejudice and racism common to many children of Middle Eastern descent living in Western countries. After the events of 9/11, he found himself hiding his Iraqi identity, aware of the stereotypes and misunderstandings that surrounded it. 

He recalls how those early experiences of bullying and discrimination were what pushed him toward comedy. “I remember thinking, how do I make this stop? Especially when the teacher’s the one doing it—who are you supposed to turn to? You’ve got to come up with an alternative strategy. And for me, being funny was that. It started as a protective instinct”. 

On 24 July in Central London’s Covent Garden, Hasan performed his solo show Death to the West Midlands — a funny, often bizarre exploration of his love for both England and Iraq, the sacrifices his father made in moving to the UK, and the experience of growing up Iraqi in a predominantly white area after 9/11. Comedy became a way to reclaim his narrative and confront daily challenges and stereotypes. In one poignant moment from the show, Hasan recalls a teacher asking where he was from. When he answered “Iraq”, the teacher instructed the class to write down on their whiteboards what came to mind. Most wrote “war-torn”. 

This moment captured the harsh and reductive perception many outside Iraq have—seeing the country only through the lens of conflict and devastation. For Hasan, this perception often came with feelings of shame and embarrassment about his heritage, something many diaspora Iraqis grapple with as they negotiate pride in their roots against the weight of such stereotypes. 

A life-changing visit  

Hasan’s first visit to Iraq in 2016 was a defining moment. He travelled with his family to bury his uncle Amer, in Wadi-us-Salaam—the world’s largest cemetery, located in the holy city of Najaf. In his show, he recalls being overwhelmed not just by the sheer scale of the place, but by something more personal: the sense of community he felt there—something he had never quite experienced in the UK. 

Though the occasion was deeply sad, Hasan reflects in the show that he felt a kind of gratitude to his uncle for bringing them to Iraq—for bringing them home. His father had left the country decades earlier, and for Hasan, who had never lived there, it was his first time on Iraqi soil. The visit became not just a farewell, but a reconnection. 

During the trip, Hasan heard firsthand about the daily struggles facing ordinary Iraqis. “Adult illiteracy rate of 20 percent, youth unemployment rate of 75 percent, and 50,000 US Dollars for a visa to the U.S.”, he tells Jummar. 

“I remember thinking, that could have been me”, he says. “I could have been exactly the same as people complaining about these problems. The difference was that thirty years ago, my dad decided to come to the UK and study here rather than in Iraq”. 

This moment of clarity also highlights the complex identity many diaspora Iraqis carry—the trade-offs between the safety and opportunities found abroad, and the deep-rooted connection to a homeland marked by hardship and resilience. 

Both in his show and during the interview, Hasan also reflects on how much his father sacrificed by leaving. Back in Iraq, his father had been more sociable, confident, and connected. In contrast, the man who raised him in the UK was quieter, more reserved—a reflection, perhaps, of what was lost in migration. Hasan recalls this contrast as a quiet testament to the personal cost his father bore in starting over. 

Writing the show, he says, also made him realise just how much his uncle meant to him. “Doing it kind of made me realise also how much I missed my uncle”, he reflects. “Growing up, we’d really valued him in our lives – he became a very important figure”. 

That trip to Najaf—and the act of remembering his uncle through comedy—brought layers of family, memory, and displacement into sharper focus. It reminded Hasan not just of what had been lost, but of what remained, and of how deeply his story is intertwined with both the place his family left behind and the one they’ve tried to rebuild. 

The realisation that lives can be shaped by chance decisions and sudden turns—by the decision to leave, or the necessity to return—runs quietly through much of Hasan’s work. So does the recognition that humour, at its best, doesn’t just deflect pain—it brings it into the light. 

Balancing honesty and humour 

For many comedians with Arab backgrounds, especially those rooted in diaspora communities, there’s a constant balancing act between humour and honesty. Hasan embraces this challenge openly. 

“Someone said to me, which I kind of agree with, that as long as the most outrageous thing you say in a joke is true, then everything else can be modified to improve the joke”. 

He illustrates this with a particularly striking example from his show: a joke about a teacher telling him to ask his dad why 9/11 happened. “That happened”, Hasan says firmly, “so if the details around that change, in theory that’s OK, because that’s the thing people are most shocked by”. 

Yet, Hasan is conscious of boundaries. One significant moment in his show involves a traumatic event his father witnessed in Iraq. He chooses not to make light of the event itself, instead finding humour in his father’s response to it. 

“You’ve got to be careful not to minimise it”, Hasan explains. “Because that event, I return to it at the end of the show. I hope that makes it clear that it’s not a frivolous thing. It’s really bad that it happened”. 

This careful navigation between respecting trauma and making it accessible through comedy reflects Hasan’s deep understanding of his audience’s sensitivities. 

Western influences with an Iraqi flavour 

Diaspora comedians often grapple with questions about how much their humour is shaped by their host culture versus their heritage. Hasan is clear that while his comedy is influenced by the British stand-up scene, it retains a distinctly Iraqi flavour. 

He emphasises that topics common to many comedians—like relationships and sex—are simply not his style. “I don’t really talk about relationships or sex”, he explains, “and I definitely wouldn’t if my dad or my sisters were coming to the show”. 

This conscious choice reflects both cultural sensitivities and his personal comedic voice. Hasan sees his diasporic identity as giving his comedy an even more unique tone. 

“Definitely to an extent a blend, but I feel like I very much have my own voice, which is quite different to anything in UK stand-up right now”. 

This uniqueness isn’t only about subject matter but also delivery. Hasan describes Iraqi humour as blunt, self-deprecating, and rich in storytelling traditions. 

“My mum is quite funny”, he says, “but a lot of her humour comes from making fun of other people or us as kids”. 

He also points to language as a key factor. “Iraqi Arabic is so suited to being funny. There are Iraqi stories that, if you tell them in English, they just don’t work. Sometimes it’s the words themselves—they’re richer or they just don’t translate”. 

Still, Hasan’s approach to avoiding certain topics also stems from family influence—particularly his father’s dislike for swearing in comedy. “My dad really doesn’t like swearing in stand-up”, Hasan notes. After one of his shows, an older audience member approached him with glowing praise: “He grabbed my shoulders and said, ‘You are so funny—and you didn’t swear!’” Hasan laughs, adding, “My dad would be pleased to hear that”. 

Moments like these show how Hasan’s comedy bridges cultures—not by abandoning his roots, but by leaning into them, crafting a style that feels both familiar and fresh. 

Who’s in the audience? 

Hasan’s comedy draws a varied crowd. When asked about the makeup of his audience, he notes, “I guess the second generation would relate more to what I’m saying”. 

But first-generation Iraqis also respond warmly. After performances, many approach him in Arabic, though he often apologises for his imperfect fluency. 

Most of his shows, however, attract mixed audiences, including those with broader Middle Eastern connections or simply people interested in personal storytelling. 

Interestingly, one of the most common remarks he receives is how much his portrayal of his father resonates. 

“People often say, ‘Your dad reminds me so much of my dad’”, Hasan shares. “I got that quite early on, and it made me realise that my dad is a very important figure in the show”. 

This connection across cultures and generations speaks to the universal nature of family dynamics, even when rooted in specific Iraqi experiences. 

Identity, privilege, and perspective 

These personal stories and cross-cultural connections ultimately lead Hasan to reflect on the deeper meaning of identity—a recurring theme in his work. His comedy doesn’t offer neat resolutions, but it does suggest that holding onto multiple identities is not only possible, but valuable. 

“It’s OK to be both”, he says simply. “You can’t ever forego one aspect of your identity. You have to be realistic about these things”. 

Rather than seeing his dual identity as something to reconcile or overcome, Hasan has come to embrace it as a source of strength. “I think if anything, it’s really a blessing”, he explains. “It just broadens your mind. In many ways, it’s a privilege rather than a burden”. 

That sense of privilege isn’t just about cultural access—it’s also a recognition of perspective. Growing up between two worlds has allowed Hasan to view both with clarity and compassion, weaving humour from the awkwardness and beauty of that in-between space. 

And in many ways, that message sits at the heart of his comedy. Beyond the laughter, Hasan hopes audiences walk away with a simple reminder: it’s not about choosing between identities but about learning how they can enrich each other. 

Finding common ground through laughter 

Hasan’s story is more than a tale of stand-up success. It’s a reflection of the lived realities of many Iraqis, whether in Baghdad or London, who balance tradition and adaptation, pride and pain. 

In a country where humour often serves as a tool for survival, his work provides both laughter and reflection—building bridges between Iraqis in the diaspora and those at home. 

For audiences in Iraq and beyond, Hasan’s comedy offers a rare chance to see the complexities of identity, family, and belonging played out with honesty, warmth, and wit on a stage far from home—but unmistakably connected to it. 

This article is part of “Diaspora Voices”, Jummar’s monthly series exploring the stories of Iraqis abroad—building new connections between Iraq and its diaspora.