For a decade, Elissa Freiha has been on a mission to ensure the world sees Arab women not as stereotypes, but as the complex, funny, and ambitious individuals they truly are. As the founder of Womena—the Middle East’s most compelling feminist storytelling platform—and host of the Sage Takes Thyme podcast, Elissa has pivoted from an angel-investment network to a powerful media house dedicated to amplifying voices that are too often silenced. From intimate documentaries to firsthand reporting, her work reminds us that taking back ownership of one’s narrative is a radical act of freedom.
A Forbes “30 Under 30” honoree and a seasoned global speaker, Elissa brings a rare blend of warmth and radical honesty to heavy conversations about identity, leadership, and healing. Whether she’s discussing the battle against social algorithms or the importance of building meaningful work without burning out, Elissa is changing culture from the inside out. We sat down with her to discuss the power of global sisterhood and what it takes to tell the real stories of women across the Middle East today. —Noa Nichol
What was missing from the global conversation about Arab/mena women that made womena HAVE to exist?
When I started Womena thirteen years ago, portrayals of Arab women — and women from the Global South more broadly — were completely lacking nuance. We were spoken for, stereotyped, either pitied or put on pedestals. And in both cases, we were stripped of complexity and humanity.
Women weren’t shown as layered, contradictory, funny, ambitious, or frankly, fully human. That absence of real representation is what made Womena necessary.
Womena doesn’t traffic in gloss empowerment or over simplified narratives. Why was it important to you to show women from the region as complex, contradictory, funny, ambitious and unfinished, rather than “inspiring” in the traditional sense.
I was desperately searching for role models who felt attainable. As a young, ambitious mixed-Arab girl, most success stories felt distant, very western, or polished to perfection.
Real inspiration comes from relatability — from seeing the nuance, the struggle, the doubt, and the perseverance. Women are inspiring not because they’re flawless, but because they’re human and they kept going anyway.
You’ve said that visibility itself can be an act of freedom. Can you talk about a story or voice that reminded you just how radical it is for women to be seen and heard on their own terms?
What always strikes me is how radical simple honesty still is. Whenever a woman speaks openly about abuse, mental health, or the parts of life we’re taught to hide, the response is immediate — support, yes, but also doubt, dismissal, and discomfort.
And that discomfort is exactly the point. It shows how powerful visibility really is.
I’ve seen it through the women we feature and experienced it personally — simply showing up authentically, refusing to shrink and having pride in the imperfection can give other women permission to do the same. Sometimes freedom isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s just saying, this is who I am, and I won’t make myself smaller to be easier to digest.
Much of Womena’s work certes around first hand storytelling, why do you believe WHO tells the story matters as much as the WHAT the story is?
If we believe every story has multiple sides, then the version we hear is usually chosen by those in power. Amplifying stories directly from women who’ve been silenced or overlooked changes everything.
For many global audiences, it’s the first time they hear a woman from the Middle East articulate her own experience with depth, intelligence, humor, and nuance. That moment of being seen and heard is not about content, but it’s about being humanized. In that context, the story itself almost becomes secondary to the power of witnessing the storyteller reclaim her voice. All of a sudden, there’s a new reference point — a new category of human in the audience’s mind — that reshapes how every story that follows is understood.
For global audiences who may only encounter the Middle East through conflict-driven narratives and headlines, how does womena work to quietly, but powerfully shift perception?
I’m not trying to reshape people’s understanding of geopolitics — I’m shifting how they see the people, especially women and children. The region is incredibly diverse: nearly two dozen countries, countless cultures, religions, aesthetics, and lived experiences. Yet we’ve long been flattened into a single narrative.
At Womena, we tell the truth — with nuance, honesty, compassion, and humanity. We choose the right medium for each story and share lived experience as authentically as possible. By simply showing reality in its fullness, perception begins to change.
You balance activisim, media and story telling without positioning yourself as the “hero” of the narrative. How do you think about leadership when the goal is to amplify others rather than yourself?
My flavour of leadership is rooted in compassion and humility. The women in this community have overcome extraordinary adversity — I feel privileged to use my access to open doors and build tables where they can be seen and heard.
I don’t represent all Arab women, but being mixed has allowed me to act as a bridge. I see myself as a facilitator — creating space, cultivating opportunity, and leading by example rather than spotlight.
Through your podcast Sage Take Thyme, you explore healing, identity, and meaning, alongside cultural conversations. How has your understanding of feminism evolved since you’ve held space for these more intimate stories?
I used to think of feminism mainly in terms of rights — equality in the law, in the workplace, and in opportunity. That’s still essential.
But holding space for these more intimate stories taught me that feminism also lives in the everyday — in unlearning expectations and social conditioning, healing from inherited roles, and allowing ourselves to exist fully as we are. It’s not just about changing systems, it’s about changing what we believe we’re allowed to be. This now goes for all genders.
You’ve delivered more than 150 keynote speeches globally, what is a misconception about Arab women, or feminism in the Middle East, that you find yourself gently undoing in those rooms?
There’s a widespread misconception that all Arab women are oppressed and that women don’t make autonomous decisions. In reality, in many parts of the region women experience high levels of freedom, safety, strong community support, and in some cases greater governmental or legal protections than in other parts of the world.
And where inequality does exist, it’s usually part of a global, systemic patriarchy — not something unique to the Middle East.
Building something meaningful over a long period can come with burn out. What boundaries and practices have helped you continue this work without losing yourself to it?
I burned out more than once — and it taught me that sustainability isn’t optional. I stopped chasing perfection, learned to delegate, and became intentional about rest. Protecting my mental health is now part of the work, not something separate from it.
At Womena, we’ve built a culture that prioritizes well-being — flexible schedules, autonomy, compassionate leave — because clear, supported people do better work. I’ve also learned that not every opportunity needs a yes. NO is a powerful word. Boundaries create longevity, and longevity is what allows meaningful impact to last.
Looking ahead, what excited you most about the next chapter of Womena? What do you hope young women from the region will feel when they see themselves reflected in its stories?
We’re entering a chapter of deeper, more intentional storytelling. Instead of chasing the short-form content hamster wheel, we’re focusing on larger projects — films, series, and immersive experiences that bring people together and build real community. We’re also leaning into fiction, because imagined worlds can sometimes reveal emotional truths and social realities in ways nonfiction can’t. With that comes a broader, more global reach for our stories.
And when young women see themselves reflected, I hope they feel that instant recognition — that “this is me” moment. I want them to feel seen, supported, and rooted in belonging. More than anything, I hope they understand they’re part of a powerful lineage of women who were often silenced or erased, and that their voices, dreams, and ambitions are not only valid — they’re necessary.
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