I laughed out loud, in spite of myself, as I watched a rape victim tell her best friend what had happened to her. Yes: “laughter,” “rape,” and “victim,” all in the same sentence. To the average hypercritical Columbia student, that statement likely sets off several alarm bells. Yet it’s possible that there is a way that comedy can be helpful in rape narratives, that laughter is the easiest way to effectively communicate trauma, and that we actually need comedy to help us construct a new narrative around this taboo topic.

Jessie Kahnweiler’s YouTube film, “Meet My Rapist,” released in September, is amusing, bewildering, and sometimes painful to watch. The film depicts Kahnweiler running into her rapist at a local farmers’ market and goes on to show scenes from her daily life, with the rapist as her constant companion. We watch as her rapist follows her to a job interview, has dinner with her parents, tags along on a hike with her best friend, and sits on the couch during her therapy appointment. The film shows her struggle to negotiate her identities as both a strong, independent feminist and a victim who never allowed herself to feel victimized. The disconcerting peppiness with which she deals with her trauma is precisely what makes the film so powerful, forcing the audience to contemplate the traditional ways in which society treats rape.

The reactions to the film are varied, but many people I talked to appreciated the film all the more after learning that Kahnweiler was actually raped and had made the film as part of her healing process. When I interviewed Kahnweiler, she explained that her inspiration for making this short film was in large part due to her frustration with her recovery: “I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve told my parents, I’ve meditated, I dated, I was single. … I’ve done all the ‘right things.’ … I was still angry, mostly at myself for not getting over it. Making the film was hard, but it was necessary.”

There are moments in the film that would make even the most stoic viewer cringe. Take, for instance, when Kahnweiler’s best friend asks her, “But were you, like, really raped? Like, were you drunk? Was he cute? Was he white?” We see Kahnweiler’s friend, unable to fathom the fact that her innocent friend was the victim of such a random and inhumane crime, resort to victim-blaming in an uncomfortable scene that leaves the viewer evaluating their own views on rape.

There are other scenes that talk about rape so candidly that they force the viewer to laugh out of shock and discomfort, such as when Kahnweiler’s mother meets the rapist and exclaims, “We’ve never heard her talk so much about a boy, you must’ve made quite an impression!” The dark comedy breaks the silence surrounding rape by exposing the many ways in which our society thinks—but does not talk—of sexual assault. “The salient point is that each scene shows common rationalizations in victim-blaming, from other people and from herself,” School of Engineering and Applied Science sophomore Adam Jaffe explains. Whether it is Kahnweiler’s friend asking if she was drunk or Kahnweiler saying to her rapist, “I know why you did it, I’m fucking adorable,” the film shows the myriad of ways in which we try to rationalize acts of evil.

In many ways, our society has become desensitized to the idea of rape. It’s joked about on Twitter (remember #LiberalTips2AvoidRape from last spring?), and it’s a part of our colloquial vernacular, with people frequently throwing around sentences such as, “I just got raped by my calculus exam!” So how can we joke about rape in a productive way? Jezebel writer Lindy West praised Kahnweiler’s film for being “rape comedy done right,” and explained how rape jokes can be funny, as long as the victim is not the butt of the joke. For example, the movie Borat has an infamous line: “In Kazakhstan, the favorite hobbies are disco dancing, archery, rape, and table tennis.” While this joke is not very fair to Kazakhstan, it does not blame the rape victim and instead uses humor for social commentary, which provokes a larger discussion. Another example would be one of comedian Ever Mainard’s most famous jokes: “The problem is that every woman in her entire life has that one moment when you think, ‘Oh! Here’s my rape!’” Mainard’s joke doesn’t target rape victims or even rapists, but focuses instead on the blasé attitude surrounding rape and on the assumptions that rape jokes often insinuate.

In some ways, Kahnweiler is “allowed” to talk about rape because she is a victim, in the same way that comedian Joan Rivers (née Rosenberg), who lost most of her family in Auschwitz, makes jokes such as, “The last time a German looked this hot was when they were pushing Jews into the ovens.” She defended the joke, saying, “I have always made it a point to remind people of the Holocaust through humor.”

Many comedians argue that comedy is a complex art form and that an integral part of it is its capability to push boundaries and make us question social norms. Kahnweiler admits that she has made several controversial comic films before—she did a full series on being Jewish, made a film about white girls working on “Latino Labor Day,” and made another about black guys being attracted to her—yet she explains that “comedy is very subjective, and it comes down to your own morality. If I feel like I’m moving the conversation forward, and I’m being honest to my story, then I make the film.”

Kahnweiler did not set out to make a comedy, yet ended up producing one that has the potential to change the way we think about rape comedy and, more importantly, rape. “If you are having mixed feelings and are uncomfortable while watching, that speaks to the larger reality of how we all process trauma. Watch it, be confused, and then think about it, talk about it,” she tells me. Columbia College sophomore George Joseph felt exactly as Kahnweiler wanted him to. “I kept expecting her to break away from the act and critique all the people around her for being so insensitive, yet her rom-com ending was so much more thought-provoking. It left me questioning so many ideas I had held onto previously,” he says.

Barnard College sophomore Lizzy Wolozin believes that the film’s social commentary is effective because Kahnweiler “doesn’t use humor dismissively … she has a clear idea of what she is trying to say.” The humor does not trivialize rape. Instead, it captures a different aspect of the trauma, humanizing it via the absurd. Kahnweiler elaborates on this: “I only knew this guy for an hour of my life, he doesn’t even speak English. I’ve created this persona in my mind. … He has had a significant impact on my life—but who even knows if he remembers that night? Or was it just another night to him?” After interviewing Kahnweiler, I went back to the film and experienced it in a new light. I saw Kahnweiler giving her rapist a tour of her life, showing him how he impacted even the most unexpected situations, explaining to him that an hour of his time had tainted eight years of her life.

Many of the jokes in “Meet My Rapist” can be related to broader problems and stereotypes that are present in our culture, which—though people may not realize it—hinder recovery. Whether it is an “angry feminazi” who is judged in the office for hating men, or a crying victim who just can’t get over it, or a lesbian who only loves women because of her past experiences with men, there are many stereotypes that can hinder a survivor’s healing process. Victims are often medicated rather than encouraged to work through the issue and heal. These are just a few examples of the many ways in which victims are silenced instead of being heard.

The film reminds us that, in order for victims to recover, society must acknowledge that there is a process beyond the stereotypical anger, sadness, and fear—there is healing. Kahnweiler’s story is representative of a larger story, of a battle with one’s own agency, of staying true to oneself, of being more than a stereotype. The message is one of hope, of laughing through the tears, of being able to emerge as a survivor.