Why did I feel it was interesting to interview Lina? She is a global women’s rights activist, author, and speaker dedicated to building a better world for women. With nearly three decades of experience across more than 20 countries, she has worked on the frontlines of humanitarian crises and within leading academic and policy institutions. Lina is the Founder and Chief Changemaker of Better4Women, a boutique advisory firm creating practical, transformative solutions for gender equality worldwide. Formerly the Executive Director of the Arab Institute for Women at the Lebanese American University, she continues to serve as a senior advisor and board member for major global organizations advancing women’s leadership and rights. A two-time TEDx speaker and recognized among the Top 100 Gender Equality Leaders Worldwide, Lina is also the author of Gender and International Aid in Afghanistan, Freedom on the Frontlines, and Yalla Feminists. Through her writing, speaking, and activism, she continues to turn feminist ideals into real-world action.

This conversation is more than an interview—it’s a window into the convictions of a woman who has spent her life fighting for equality on the world’s toughest frontlines. Candid, unflinching, and deeply reflective, Lina shares how her experiences across more than 20 countries have shaped her feminist vision and relentless drive for justice. She speaks with clarity about the failures of global institutions, the resilience of women’s movements, and the urgent need to redefine what empowerment really means. Her story challenges, inspires, and calls readers to action—reminding us that the struggle for women’s rights is inseparable from the struggle for humanity itself.

Here’s our exchange:

Where are you originally from, and what was your childhood like there?

I am Palestinian and Lebanese, born in Beirut, and raised first in Saudi Arabia and then in Washington, D.C. I suppose you could say I’m comfortable with extremes! Being originally from places you’ve never actually lived means a constant negotiation of your identity and a cobbled-together understanding of who you are.

My Saudi childhood was limited in space—but vast in imagination. As foreigners, we lived in a compound behind high walls, only leaving when the bus driver took us to the international school not too far away. Within the walls, I roamed freely and made the best use of my creativity, inventing adventures and treasure hunts—and probably creating chaos.

This was also the foundation of my feminism, although I certainly did not recognize it at the time. I was raised with what we’d now call “gender-neutral” toys—stuffed animals and Legos, mostly. My mother did not allow me to play with dolls, and I never asked. I also recognized the disconnect between my mother’s freedom within the walls—wearing shorts, swimming in the community pool—and outside the walls—covered head to toe. I had to make meaning of all these things.

We moved to the U.S. when I was almost ten, in the mid-1980s. I was just in time for the word “terrorist” to have taken hold. And so the bullying began. When you’re the bullied kid, you understand oppression and discrimination in a very visceral way. And perhaps that’s why I dedicated my life to standing up for those who are discriminated against—because I feel it in my bones.

When I was fourteen, in a high school class, I finally acquired the vocabulary for all I’d seen and absorbed as a child. I learned about what happens to women around the world—in every country, context, and time. And so I became a feminist.

What was your family dynamic, and who were the key figures in your upbringing?

My parents were instrumental, clearly. My mother orchestrated my “gender-neutral” childhood—she did this instinctively. My father advocated for education, for career, for financial independence—“because it is a tool no one can ever take away from you,” he’d say.

What is one of your earliest memories, and how do you think it shaped who you are today?

Not my earliest memory, but an important one. I went to my first protest on a freezing January morning in Washington, D.C., when I was fifteen. I stood in the middle of a sea of seasoned activists near the entrance to Planned Parenthood, holding my hand-drawn sign demanding equal rights. Back then, I could not understand—or even imagine—that anyone would disagree. Who argues against equal rights, I thought. Isn’t that what we all deserve as humans?

And today, it feels like I’ve been holding up that same sign for thirty-five years. Because yes, people have found ways to argue against equality. And as long as they do, I’ll keep holding that sign.

Were there any cultural or family traditions from your childhood that helped define your values?

We were a family of combinations and contradictions. My parents are of two different faiths—Greek Orthodox and Druze—and neither are religious. I was raised between Saudi Arabia and the U.S., with their mix of faiths and traditions. As a result, we inadvertently adopted a variety of traditions, making all of them secular.

In the end, these “religious” holidays served as a pretext for family time, often defined by a long, lazy lunch—as if we needed any excuse!

What motivated you to study what you studied?

I had an early—and strong—sense of injustice. My countries of origin, my childhood, my upbringing, and my own curiosities all contributed to the direction I chose to pursue—and I did so very early in life. I was a teenager when I knew what direction I would follow and to what cause I would dedicate my life.

Yes, I understood violence, oppression, discrimination, and inequality. And I saw this primarily through the lens of women. But for me, the greatest manifestation of this was the existence of male violence against women. What is the point of anything else as long as this violence exists—as long as we’re not safe in our bodies and lives, in our homes and schools, in our workplaces and on the streets?

I started in high school by overlaying this framework onto everything I was learning. My undergraduate studies at Boston College focused on sociology and international relations—examining everything through a feminist lens. My graduate studies at Johns Hopkins SAIS were in international economics and development—again through a feminist lens. And my doctoral studies at the London School of Economics were also focused on international development. But all of this through a feminist lens, with the understanding that ending violence against women is the critical prerequisite to all other rights.

At what age did you start working, and what did your first job involve?

My first paid job (in high school) was at the one-hour photo booth in the mall — a now obsolete piece of history. Today, we can’t even imagine having to wait a whole hour for our photos!

But you likely want to know about my first relevant job, so let me start there. Throughout high school and university, I volunteered with a range of women’s rights organizations — the most memorable being the National Organization for Women, where I was part of a team organizing a conference for 500 people. At the time, it was incredible for me to imagine 500 like-minded people in one room — I was overwhelmed and overjoyed. Today, we number in the millions.

These early volunteer jobs served a strategic purpose I didn’t recognize back then. They taught me to give, to give back, to give further. You can’t do this kind of work — or any work in social justice — if you don’t believe it in your bones. And if you do, there’s never time off. There’s never a moment where I can “park” my feminism. And so I dove in deeper.

My first international job was in Bangladesh in 1997 — and it changed my life. I continued working internationally for the next two decades.

How would you describe your current job and its responsibilities?

Today, after nearly three decades, twenty countries, and a range of international agencies, I now work for myself. I set up my company Better4Women because I believe in building a better world for women — and because I believe that a better world for women is better for all of us.

Our world is in crisis: wars, disasters, climate change, racism, and deep-rooted injustices. But for me, one crisis remains urgent and unresolved — gender inequality. Not a single country has achieved full gender equality. Women and girls are being left behind, denied rights, opportunities, and safety. We know this — and we have ample data to prove it. The Global Gender Gap Report reminds us that we’re still generations away from equality. We cannot accept this.

We also have ample evidence that gender equality makes the world healthier, safer, and stronger. So I started Better4Women, a boutique advisory firm delivering practical and innovative solutions for gender equality. I wanted to move beyond rhetoric to real impact. For women. For everyone.

Better4Women works with organizations and corporations to:

• build diverse, equitable workplaces and communities;

• design high-impact external projects;

• enhance employee engagement and well-being;

• develop progressive policies and programs;

• forge meaningful partnerships between corporate and community actors;

• and provide customized workshops, talks, and trainings.

As the Founder and Chief Changemaker, I take on whatever work aligns with my values. I also speak and write about the issues that matter to me. I blog weekly. I speak on global stages. And I won’t stop — until we’re free.

How do you reconcile the growing global rhetoric on women’s empowerment with the persistent lack of funding and political will to protect women in crisis settings?

The gap between rhetoric and reality is staggering. Everywhere I’ve ever worked — in humanitarian emergencies across the world — I’ve had to argue for funding, for space, for political will. At a very superficial level, we might all agree that women’s rights are a necessity, but nowhere have I seen that commitment matched in practice — and certainly not in the resources allocated.

Empowerment is celebrated in speeches and strategies, yet when crises erupt, women are the first to be abandoned. This disconnect reflects political expediency: women’s rights are easy to champion rhetorically, but costly to fund in practice.

Reconciliation lies in demanding accountability — treating funding for women not as charity or an afterthought, but as a non-negotiable obligation tied to human rights.

In your experience, what has been the single greatest failure of the international aid system when it comes to addressing gender-based violence, and why does it keep happening?

The greatest failure is treating violence against women as secondary — “important but not urgent.” Despite decades of evidence, violence against women is still sidelined in humanitarian response plans, underfunded, and misunderstood as cultural rather than systemic.

It keeps happening because institutions reward short-term outputs, not long-term structural change — and because women’s safety is still not considered life-saving in the way food or shelter is.

How do you respond to governments or donors who claim that advancing women’s rights must “wait until stability is achieved”?

I remind them that there is no stability without women. Excluding half the population from rights and protections guarantees instability, fragility, and cyclical violence. Women’s rights are not a luxury of peace — they are the foundation of it. Waiting is not neutral; it actively deepens harm. If women are not at the proverbial table — and in real seats of leadership and decision-making — whatever is decided will be hollow.

Given the rise of authoritarianism and backlash against feminism, what strategies do you believe are most effective to protect the hard-won gains for women in fragile states?

The most effective strategies are collective and rooted locally: amplifying women’s movements, safeguarding civic space, and building solidarity networks that transcend borders. International actors must fund and protect grassroots organizations directly, while feminist advocates must reframe the struggle not just as a “women’s issue,” but as a fight for democracy, freedom, and survival itself.

Where do you see international organizations complicit in perpetuating the patriarchal systems they claim to dismantle?

Complicity shows up in who sits at the table, who gets funded, and whose voices are silenced. International organizations replicate patriarchal hierarchies internally — male-dominated leadership, tokenistic consultations, top-down decision-making — and then export those same systems into crisis settings.

Until institutions examine their own power structures, they cannot credibly claim to dismantle patriarchy. Instead, they reinforce it across every space.

How can feminist leadership reshape humanitarian responses without being co-opted by institutional agendas?

Feminist leadership reshapes response by centering care, collaboration, and accountability — but it must resist co-optation. That means prioritizing women-led solutions over donor-driven agendas, refusing to dilute principles for palatability, and grounding humanitarian work in lived realities rather than bureaucratic templates.

What lessons did you learn from working in places like Afghanistan that the global community still refuses to accept?

One lesson is that progress built without women’s full participation is fragile and reversible. Another is that “imposed” solutions fail when they ignore local women’s voices. The global community still refuses to accept that women themselves are the experts of their own liberation — and that bypassing them guarantees collapse.

I’ll never forget a young Afghan man who told me this: “The world thought they could bring freedom to Afghan women, but freedom is only won from the inside.”

How do you balance being both an insider in major institutions and an outspoken critic of their shortcomings?

I see criticism as a form of loyalty — to the mission, not the machinery. Being inside gives me insight and access; being outspoken ensures I don’t become complicit. The balance is not always comfortable, but silence is worse. Silence has never been an option for me, even when the price is high.

Speaking truth from within is how change begins — and that change starts to build the world we all deserve.

If you could dismantle one myth about gender work in conflict and post-conflict zones, what would it be and why?

The most dangerous myth is that gender work is “soft” or secondary. In fact, it is the hardest security issue of all — because peace, stability, and justice collapse without gender equality. Dismantling that myth is critical to ensuring women’s rights are treated as central, not decorative.

How can research on gender equality translate into real-world impact instead of being confined to reports and conferences?

Research only matters if it shifts power. That requires making findings accessible to communities, translating them into policies with teeth, and tying them to accountability frameworks for donors and governments. Impact comes when data drives action, not just documentation.

What role should men play in advancing feminist change in humanitarian systems without overshadowing the voices of women themselves?

Men must act as allies, not saviors. Their role is to challenge other men, dismantle patriarchal norms, and use their privilege to open space for women’s leadership. The key is humility — knowing when to step up, when to step back, and when to stay silent.

How do you ensure that “women’s empowerment” programs are not simply box-ticking exercises for donors but truly transformative on the ground?

By measuring transformation, not participation. Programs must be judged not on how many women attended workshops, but on whether women’s choices, safety, and power in their communities expand. Transformation requires shifting social norms and power relations — messy work that goes far beyond donor checklists.

Where do you see technology and digital platforms helping — or harming — the fight against gender-based violence and discrimination?

Technology is double-edged. It amplifies women’s voices and creates solidarity across borders, but it also fuels online harassment, surveillance, and disinformation. The challenge is building digital safety and feminist tech governance that empower women without exposing them to new forms of violence.

What would a truly feminist foreign policy look like in practice rather than as a slogan?

It would mean funding women’s movements as core security actors, embedding gender equality in every diplomatic decision, and ending arms sales to regimes that oppress women. A feminist foreign policy would treat women’s rights not as “soft diplomacy,” but as the litmus test of any state’s legitimacy.

If you were given unrestricted power for one year to redesign the global humanitarian system to serve women better, what would you do first — and who or what would you remove entirely from the equation?

First, I would redirect ample resources directly to women-led organizations on the ground. And I would remove the endless middle layers of bureaucracy that siphon funds, dilute priorities, and silence women. Streamlined funding, paired with feminist accountability, could transform the system in a year.

Which book, film, or piece of art has influenced how you see the world, and in what way?

I lean strongly on foundational figures in global feminism — namely Nawal El Saadawi and Fatima Mernissi — both leaders in Arab and postcolonial feminist thought and essential reading in the global feminist canon.

Nawal El Saadawi’s The Hidden Face of Eve: Women in the Arab World taught me how patriarchy, religion, colonialism, and capitalism intertwine to oppress Arab women. El Saadawi examines taboo topics such as female genital mutilation, sexual violence, and economic dependence in ways that were groundbreaking — a scathing critique of local and global systems of oppression at a time when few dared to speak openly about such issues. It is required feminist reading because it bridges feminism and decolonial critique, situating Arab women’s struggles within global systems of inequality.

Fatima Mernissi’s Beyond the Veil: Male-Female Dynamics in Modern Muslim Society — and everything she and El Saadawi have written — challenges Orientalist and patriarchal interpretations of Arab and Muslim life. Both El Saadawi and Mernissi defied Western feminist narratives that treated Arab and Muslim women as passive victims in need of rescue. They centered women’s own voices, histories, and epistemologies.

They decolonized feminism before many of us understood what was happening. They exposed global systems of oppression and linked patriarchy to colonialism, capitalism, and authoritarianism — offering one of the earliest intersectional critiques before the term became mainstream. They modeled feminist courage. Each faced censorship, exile, and attack for her work. Their insistence on speaking truth to power is itself a form of feminist praxis.

They shaped generations. Their works remain required reading in universities worldwide because they speak not only about the Arab world but about global power structures that affect all women. These books, written in the 1970s, remain as relevant and powerful as ever.

And Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex reshaped my understanding of oppression as systemic, not incidental. It gave me the language to see patriarchy not as isolated acts of discrimination, but as a global structure — and once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

When you look at younger generations, what gives you hope and what worries you?

Their clarity gives me hope — they name injustices without apology and organize creatively across borders. What worries me is burnout: the weight of crises is heavy, and without systemic change, we risk exhausting the very leaders who could transform the future.

If you could spend a full day with any historical figure — not for their fame but for their mind — who would it be, and what would you ask them?

Not an easy question, but one incredible option would be Audre Lorde. She reminds us that we don’t live single-issue lives, and that there’s no hierarchy of oppression — our struggles are intertwined. Her work also reminds us that revolution is not a one-time event — a powerful mantra to repeat whenever we feel discouraged.

Lorde’s life reminds us that “tomorrow belongs to those of us who conceive of it as belonging to everyone; who lend the best of ourselves to it, and with joy.”

I would ask her how to sustain rage without being consumed by it, and how to build solidarity across differences without erasing them. And hope — how to hold onto it, despite it all.

If you had to teach a class on something completely unrelated to your career, what would you teach and why?

I’d teach a course on art as resistance. Throughout history, art in all its forms has carried movements, sustained hope, and told truths that politics could not. It’s a reminder that change is cultural as much as political. I’d focus on street art, dance, music, food — on whatever art forms we admire and absorb. These are the ambassadors of social change.

If you could ensure that one value or principle is never lost in society, which would it be?

Solidarity. It is the antidote to despair and division — and the only way we survive crises. Not as isolated individuals, but as communities committed to one another’s dignity.

If you had the power to solve one global problem, which one would you choose and why?

I would solve inequality — because inequality underpins every other crisis: climate, conflict, health, democracy. Leveling the playing field doesn’t erase all problems, but it gives humanity a fighting chance to face them.

What do you think humans owe each other, if anything at all?

We owe each other dignity. That means not just survival, but the right to live free of violence, with voice, choice, and respect. Anything less is a betrayal of our shared humanity.

Interviews often focus on the latest positive news, or interviewees only share what went well. Could you share something from 2024 that didn’t go as expected, and what you learned from it?

This year has been characterized by great losses. As a Palestinian and Lebanese, I feel deeply the pain of violence inflicted on my people. As an aid worker, I’m profoundly saddened by the closure of USAID and the domino effect it has had on my industry. As a believer in global cooperation, I’m worried about UN reforms and what they mean for the future of multilateralism — and for lifesaving aid. As an academic, I’m gravely concerned about the erosion of academic freedom and the silencing of our voices. As a feminist, I’m angered by the loss of rights over our own bodies.

I’ve learned that we need to fight harder than ever, raise our voices louder than ever — but not just within the old systems. The lesson from 2024 is that resilience cannot mean waiting for these institutions to reform. It must mean building new, independent, and sustainable platforms for our work, our voices, and our aid. We must create the structures that the old ones have failed to be.

What didn’t go as expected was realizing that the institutions I was trained to work within — humanitarian, academic, and multilateral — are not just failing to meet the moment; in some cases, they are actively regressing. These failures are interconnected, and we must refuse to let these battles be fought in silos.

The silencing of academics is a tool that enables the violence I see in my homelands. The erosion of multilateralism is what allows the aid industry to collapse. My learning is that our advocacy must be as interconnected as the problems we face. We can no longer separate the fight for bodily autonomy from the fight for humanitarian access or academic freedom. It is all one fight.

What personal goals — if you feel comfortable sharing them — do you have for 2025?

2025 is nearly over, but what I hope for myself in the months that remain is to better monetize what I do — and what I believe in — so that I can sustain a living and build a future. I’m certain this work is critical, even as traditional funding structures and institutions disappear, even when it’s the kind of work society is conditioned to undervalue. I’m working to ensure that this advocacy, research, and voice can continue — robustly and without compromise — regardless of the political climate. My goal is to build sustainability for the mission.

For too long, advocacy, academic labor, and humanitarian perspectives have been treated as things we should do out of passion alone — and that makes us vulnerable. My goal for the rest of this year is to build a model that attaches concrete, financial value to this expertise. That is the only way to make the work sustainable, to build a future for myself, and to ensure I can stay in this fight for the long haul — rather than burning out or being forced out.

Imagine you are in the final moments of your life. What work-related news would you like to hear, and why?

Liberation. At last. For all of us.