Being originally from Finland, yet living in Australia, I have often been asked what a Finnish sense of humour is like. If you are Finnish, you would understand immediately just how difficult that is to explain.

Customs can be explained. Beliefs can be described. But humour is something far more elusive. It lives between the lines, in the pauses, in the tone, in the face that gives absolutely nothing away.

Much has been said about Finnish seriousness, about our awkwardness, and about how comfortable we are with silence. But none of that means Finns are without humour. Far from it. Finns have a wonderfully sharp, deeply dry, and often delightfully mischievous sense of humour. There is a playful self-awareness in it that I have always loved.

Because of Finland’s long history with Sweden, jokes about Sweden are especially popular. But what I love most is the way Finns laugh at themselves. There is something both humble and clever in it. Finns know they are a little quirky, a little peculiar, and perhaps even a little eccentric, and they are quite prepared to make themselves the subject of the joke.

That, to me, is part of the charm.

At times, it can be genuinely difficult to know whether a Finn is being serious or joking. In fact, more often than not, you are left wondering. You listen, you nod, you accept what is being said at face value, and only a few minutes later do you begin to suspect that perhaps what you just witnessed was Finnish wit quietly passing by.

A Finn can tell the most outrageous story with a completely straight face, while inwardly laughing the whole time, and continue on so convincingly that you almost believe every word. That is part of the art of it. The straight face is everything.

I honestly do not know how Finns manage it, but their expressions reveal nothing.

If you were to watch one Finn telling a joke to another Finn, you might not realise a joke had been told at all. The one telling it looks serious. The one hearing it looks equally serious. No smile, no wink, no visible sign of amusement. And yet inwardly, both may be absolutely beside themselves with laughter. It is all so understated, so restrained, so beautifully hidden beneath the surface.

Yes, Finns are civilised. Yes, they are sociable. But there is often a mischievous little spark in the way they express themselves.

There is a Finnish saying that captures this humour so well. In English, people say, “Your eyes are bigger than your stomach.” But the Finnish version is even better.

Imagine a hostess offering more food, and the polite reply comes with a completely serious face, perhaps even while rubbing one’s stomach: “My mouth would gladly eat more, and my stomach could probably handle it, but it is these weak legs that would not carry me out of here if I ate another bite.”

That is so Finnish to me. Dry, unexpected, and delivered without the slightest hint that it is meant to be funny.

The best way I know how to describe Finnish humour is to say that it is dry and subtle. And if British humour is dry, then Finnish humour is bone dry. Finns themselves like to joke that their humour is so dry because they have spent so much of their lives sweating in the sauna.

I love that.

Finns may be shy, but shyness should never be mistaken for humourlessness. Beneath the quiet exterior there is often a quick mind, a playful spirit, and a deep appreciation for the absurd.

I was especially struck by a comment made by Finland’s president, Sauli Niinistö, during an official State Visit to Iceland. He spoke of how Finland and Iceland have much in common, and mentioned that both nations share a peculiar, dark sense of humour that others may not always understand. But then he added something that stayed with me. He said, “We have a very, very light mind.”

I love that expression so much. A very, very light mind.

What a beautiful way to describe a people who have known hardship, silence, long winters, and history’s heavy hand, and yet still know how to laugh — quietly, cleverly, and often at themselves.

Perhaps that is the heart of Finnish humour. It is not loud. It does not beg for attention. It does not always announce itself. But it is there, living in dry remarks, straight faces, absurd observations, and in that uniquely Finnish ability to remain serious on the outside while laughing inwardly.

And perhaps that is not such a bad way to move through life.

May we all remember to laugh and to read every day. May we stay light in mind, body, heart, and spirit.