Under the bright lights of Riyadh’s sprawling entertainment district, the inaugural Riyadh Comedy Festival has become the unlikely epicenter of a global debate about free speech, artistic integrity, and the complicated ethics of performing in a country with a notorious record on human rights. Comedian Dave Chappelle, never one to shy away from controversy, found himself at the heart of this firestorm after declaring from the stage, “It’s easier to talk here than it is in America.”
The festival, which kicked off in early October 2025 and is scheduled to run through October 10, has drawn a star-studded roster: Bill Burr, Pete Davidson, Kevin Hart, Whitney Cummings, Gabriel Iglesias, Jack Whitehall, and more. The event, organized by Saudi Arabia’s General Entertainment Authority, was designed as part of the kingdom’s Vision 2030 initiative—an ambitious plan to diversify the economy and project a new image of cultural openness. But for many, the spectacle has raised more questions than it answers.
Chappelle’s remarks, delivered before a crowd of 6,000, were both pointed and paradoxical. “Right now in America, they say that if you talk about Charlie Kirk, that you’ll get canceled,” he quipped, referencing the fraught climate of so-called ‘cancel culture’ in the United States. “I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m gonna find out.” According to The New York Times, the crowd’s reaction was a mixture of amusement and surprise—a testament to the charged context in which the comments were made.
Yet, the irony of Chappelle’s statement was not lost on observers. Saudi Arabia, after all, is a country where dissent can land individuals in prison for decades. In 2022, a Saudi student was sentenced to 34 years for retweeting activists, and the 2018 assassination of journalist Jamal Khashoggi at the Saudi consulate in Turkey remains a chilling reminder of the regime’s intolerance for criticism. Human Rights Watch’s Michael Page was blunt, calling the festival a “textbook definition of white-washing.” For him and many others, the event looked less like progress and more like a calculated effort to launder the kingdom’s image through glitzy Western entertainment.
The festival’s contracts, as revealed by comedians such as Atsuko Okatsuka and Tim Dillon, spelled out strict boundaries: no jokes about the royal family, government, legal system, or religion. Okatsuka, who declined an invitation to perform, posted screenshots of her contract online, highlighting the irony that comics famous for decrying censorship in the U.S. were willing to accept it abroad. “There was censorship embedded in the contracts,” she explained, underscoring her decision to stay away. Tim Dillon, initially slated to appear, was dropped after joking about forced labor in the kingdom on his podcast. He later revealed he was to be paid $375,000 for his set, while top-tier headliners reportedly earned up to $1.6 million—a sum that raised eyebrows even among their peers.
Not all comedians shared the same reservations. Bill Burr, for example, described his experience as “mind-blowing,” telling listeners on his podcast that the authorities were reasonable and the audiences enthusiastic. “Definitely top three experiences I’ve had. I think it’s going to lead to a lot of positive things,” Burr said. Pete Davidson, another marquee name, was characteristically candid: “I just, you know, I get the (flight) routing and then I see the number and I go, ‘I’ll go.’” For some, the lure of a massive payday proved irresistible, despite the festival’s rules and the kingdom’s reputation.
But criticism was never far behind. Marc Maron, who did not perform, took a hard swipe at the festival during a recent set, referencing the Khashoggi killing: “I mean, how do you even promote that? ‘From the folks that brought you 9/11. Two weeks of laughter in the desert, don’t miss it!’ But don’t let that stop the yucks, it’s gonna be a good time!” David Cross, another prominent comic, lambasted headliners for accepting what he called the “definition of ‘blood money.’”
The timing of the festival—coinciding with the anniversary of Khashoggi’s assassination—only intensified scrutiny. Critics argued that the event was an example of “artwashing,” a term used to describe the use of cultural events to distract from or obscure human rights abuses. The The Nation and The Week both pointed out that the comedy festival is just one front in Saudi Arabia’s broader campaign to buy respectability in the West, from investments in sports and gaming to cinema and the arts.
Even among those who performed, the tension between artistic freedom and state control was palpable. Chappelle, in a moment of vulnerability, spoke about his fears of censorship back home, referencing late-night host Jimmy Kimmel being pulled off the air after a monologue about Charlie Kirk. “They’re going to do something to me so that I can’t say what I want to say,” Chappelle said, before joking that he’d use a code phrase—“I stand with Israel”—if he were ever forcibly censored. The joke, equal parts defiant and self-deprecating, captured the uneasy balance artists often strike between speaking truth and protecting themselves.
The debate spilled over into the wider comedy world. Some, like Shane Gillis and Nimesh Patel, turned down offers, citing concerns about integrity and principle. Patel, who lost a U.S. gig after Jimmy Kimmel’s show was censored, joked about making up the lost income by performing 40 extra shows in America. Zach Woods, of “The Office,” quipped on social media, “Name one comedian who hasn’t whored themselves out to a dictator.”
Saudi officials, for their part, touted the festival as “the largest of its kind globally,” emphasizing its role in amplifying Riyadh’s status as a cultural hub. Yet, as the laughter echoed across the festival halls, the real question lingered: Can comedy truly thrive where free speech is tightly controlled, and does participation in such events lend legitimacy to censorship?
As the Riyadh Comedy Festival continues, it stands as a litmus test for how far entertainers will go—and what they’re willing to sacrifice—for global exposure and financial reward. For Dave Chappelle and his peers, the stage in Riyadh was both an opportunity and a risk, a place where the boundaries of free expression were tested in real time. Whether this moment will be remembered as a bold stand or a troubling compromise is for the world, and history, to decide.
