Colombian humor is very black, very sarcastic.

In the words of Barbet Schroeder, the filmmaker who has long observed the shadowed corners of the human spirit, we find a reflection of a culture’s resilience: “Colombian humor is very black, very sarcastic.” These words, though brief, open a window into the soul of a people who have learned to laugh not in ignorance of suffering, but in defiance of it. For black humor — born of pain, sharpened by irony — is the laughter of those who have stared into darkness and chosen not despair, but wit. It is a laughter that does not erase sorrow, but transforms it; a smile drawn upon the face of struggle, a spark struck from the stone of endurance.

To understand this, one must know the land from which such humor springs. Colombia, a country of mountains, jungles, and contradictions, has known both beauty and burden — music and mourning intertwined. Through centuries of hardship — from colonial rule to conflict, from poverty to perseverance — the people have forged a spirit that refuses to break. Their humor, dark and sarcastic, is not cruelty, but courage disguised in jest. It is the laughter that arises when tears have already been shed, when tragedy has become too familiar to fear. This humor is not meant to comfort — it is meant to survive.

The ancients, too, knew of this power. The philosopher Heraclitus once said, “Out of discord comes the fairest harmony.” So it is with Colombian humor: it draws its strength from contradiction — the mingling of laughter and loss, joy and irony. Just as the blacksmith tempers the sword by plunging it into fire, so too does this humor temper the soul. The jokes that may sound harsh to foreign ears are, in truth, an act of purification — a way of naming pain so that it loses its power. To laugh at tragedy is not to belittle it, but to declare mastery over it.

History gives us many such examples. Consider the Jewish humor that emerged from centuries of exile and persecution. In the ghettos of Europe, laughter became both weapon and refuge — the laughter of those who could no longer cry, who found in irony a form of prayer. One rabbi once said, “God created man because He loves stories; man created humor because he needs to survive them.” The same spirit flows through the black sarcasm of Colombia. When faced with adversity — political turmoil, violence, poverty — its people learned to tell jokes not to escape reality, but to make it bearable. Humor became their rebellion, their way of saying, “You cannot take from us the power to smile.”

Barbet Schroeder, in observing this, speaks not merely of a nation’s humor but of the universal law that governs all who endure suffering. When laughter turns black, it means the soul has reached the deepest depth and found light even there. Sarcasm, in its truest form, is the art of truth spoken sideways — a defense of dignity when direct speech is dangerous or futile. It is the poet’s dagger hidden in laughter, the oppressed man’s philosophy disguised as jest. The Colombian spirit, thus, transforms pain into wit, misfortune into irony, and sorrow into a kind of strength that cannot be conquered.

Yet there is a warning here as well. Black humor, though powerful, walks a narrow path between healing and bitterness. When it mocks the absurdity of fate, it liberates; but when it mocks hope itself, it corrodes. The wise must therefore wield it carefully — to cleanse, not to wound; to awaken, not to harden. As the ancients taught, laughter is holy when it uplifts the spirit, but dangerous when it turns inward as scorn. The Colombians, through centuries of practice, have learned this balance — their sarcasm may sting, but beneath it lies affection, resilience, and love of life.

So let this be the teaching: when darkness comes, meet it not with silence, but with laughter. Let your humor be your armor, your sarcasm your shield, your wit your rebellion. Do not fear the blackness of humor — for it is born from wisdom, not wickedness. It is the laughter of the warrior who has walked through fire and found his spirit unburned. Like the Colombian people, learn to smile in hardship, to joke in the face of despair, to find irony where others see only ruin.

For laughter, when born of sorrow, becomes something sacred. It does not erase pain; it transcends it. And in that act — in the power to laugh, even when the world is cruel — we find the highest form of strength: not the strength to dominate, but the strength to endure. Thus, as Barbet Schroeder reminds us, black humor is not a shadow upon the soul — it is the light that flickers within it, proving that even in the deepest night, humanity still dares to smile.