It started, as many things do these days, with a Facebook post. Actor Irfan Sajjad, in what he called a “lighthearted joke,” shared a photo of Rubaba Dowla — the new director of the Bangladesh Cricket Board, with the caption: “If the boys still cannot perform after this, there’s no hope left.”
He probably did not mean harm. Most people never do when they say something that begins with “just a joke.” But that’s exactly how sexism often travels in public, dressed in laughter, disguised as harmless banter.
A friend of mine had her own brush with the “lighthearted”. She went to buy a few books, and her colleague blinked in surprise: “Oh, you read books?” Not in an admiring way, but in that playful, teasing tone that really means, “You? You don’t look like the reading type.”
Another friend told me that every time she posts about a football match, someone inevitably comments, “Since when do women understand offside?” And when she correctly explains it, they call her “one of the boys.”
At work, a young woman gets promoted and the tea-corner humour begins: “You’ll all work harder now that you have a pretty boss.” Sometimes they don’t even come as words, just that smirk across the table when a woman speaks confidently about politics or economics, and the conversation quietly shifts elsewhere.
When a female colleague gives a firm opinion in a meeting, someone half-jokingly says, “Whoa, calm down — someone’s PMS-ing.”
Everyday sexism has excellent comedic timing. It arrives disguised as banter, laced with “don’t take it seriously” and “we’re just having fun.” And we often laugh along, not because it is funny, but because correcting it feels heavier than letting it pass.
And at family gatherings, while women talk about politics or policy, an uncle interrupts with a grin: “These things are too serious — let the men handle it.” Or, my personal "favourite" — a line that has survived generations of bad humour — “One drunk man is better than three PhD women.” People laugh, glasses clink, and the evening goes on.
Everyday sexism has excellent comedic timing. It arrives disguised as banter, laced with “don’t take it seriously” and “we’re just having fun.” And we often laugh along, not because it is funny, but because correcting it feels heavier than letting it pass.
But the truth is, these “little jokes” aren’t little. They quietly draw the map of who gets to be taken seriously, in conversation, in workplaces, even in leisure. They teach us what kind of woman is considered “cool” and what kind is “too much.” They tell us that a man’s success comes from skill, but a woman’s must come with a backstory — charm, luck, or a benevolent boss.
If humour were harmless, it wouldn’t always flow in one direction. But somehow, the punchlines mostly land on women, on how they drive, dress, talk, shop, lead, or even sit in a meeting. I have rarely heard anyone joke that a man got promoted because of his smile.
Simone de Beauvoir once wrote that “one is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” I think in our part of the world, part of that “becoming” involves developing a thick skin, smiling at jokes that sting, turning sexism into small talk.
Of course, the people cracking these jokes don’t see themselves as villains. Most are “nice guys” and “fun friends.” But that’s exactly why it is tricky — the casualness makes it harder to question. The laughter works as camouflage.
Of course, the people cracking these jokes don’t see themselves as villains. Most are “nice guys” and “fun friends.” But that’s exactly why it is tricky — the casualness makes it harder to question. The laughter works as camouflage.
Think about it: how many times have you heard a father say, “My daughter plays cricket better than most boys,” as if it is a miracle? Or a male friend say, “You actually understand politics!” as though your opinion needed an asterisk.
These comments seem flattering but come wrapped in disbelief, the unspoken line being: You’re not like other women.
And that is the hidden work these jokes do — they divide, diminish, and domesticate. They suggest that women’s competence is a deviation, not the default.
This isn’t about policing humour. It is about paying attention to what we find funny, and why. If a joke only works by leaning on old stereotypes, maybe it’s time we got better material. Humor doesn’t have to punch down to land well; it can be clever, kind, and still make people laugh.
The next time someone says, “Relax, it’s just a joke,” we can smile and say, “Exactly — so make it a smarter one.” Because the world doesn’t need fewer jokes; it just needs better ones — ones that don’t make half the room shrink a little before laughing.
As Beauvoir warned decades ago, women are constantly reminded of their difference. But maybe it’s time to remind the world that women don’t need to be exceptions to be respected — or punchlines to be noticed.
And if anyone disagrees, just raise a glass — preferably with that eternal toast: to the drunk man, smarter than three PhD women! Cheers to the kind of humour that keeps us laughing all the way back to the Stone Age.