She grew up as Saddam Hussein’s neighbour. Escaped through an abusive marriage. Then built an organization that proved women in war zones don’t need charity – they need control. Zainab Salbi was born in Baghdad in 1969 into a life most people can’t imagine.

Her father was Saddam Hussein’s personal pilot. Her family lived on the presidential compound. Saddam was a frequent visitor to their home – playing with Zainab and her brother, eating meals with the family, acting like an uncle.

But Zainab saw the truth beneath the performance.

She watched her mother live in constant terror. She witnessed the fear that permeated every conversation, every interaction with the regime. She grew up understanding that proximity to power meant surveillance, control and the ever-present threat of violence.

By the time she was a teenager, Zainab had learned to perform. To smile when Saddam visited. To say nothing that could be interpreted as disloyalty. To survive by becoming invisible.

In 1991, at age 19, Zainab escaped Iraq through an arranged marriage to an older Iraqi man living in the United States. Her family saw it as salvation – a way out before the Gulf War made leaving impossible. Zainab thought it was freedom. She was wrong.

The marriage that saved her from Saddam’s Iraq became its own prison. Her husband was controlling, isolating and abusive. She’d escaped one authoritarian regime only to land in another – this one domestic, private, and just as suffocating.

She was trapped again. Alone in America. No family. No resources. No escape plan.

In 1992, while still in that abusive marriage, Zainab saw news coverage of the Bosnian War. Specifically, reports about systematic rape being used as a weapon of war against Bosnian Muslim women. She watched those women’s stories and saw herself. Saw her mother. Saw every woman who’d ever been trapped by violence and told it was normal.

And she made a decision: she was going to do something about it. At 23 years old, still in an abusive marriage, with almost no money or connections, Zainab Salbi founded Women for Women International. The idea was simple but radical: connect women in war zones directly with sponsors who would provide financial support, job training and rights education.

Not charity. Investment. Not pity. Partnership. Not aid delivered through male family members or community leaders. Direct support to women.

This was 1993. The humanitarian world was dominated by large, male-led organisations that distributed aid through existing power structures, which almost always meant men controlled resources even when women and children were the stated beneficiaries. Salbi’s model disrupted that entirely.

Women for Women International gave money, training and resources directly to women. It taught them job skills, financial literacy, legal rights and health education. It created women-only spaces where they could organise, support each other and build economic independence.

And it worked. The first programmes launched in Bosnia. Then expanded to Rwanda after the 1994 genocide. Then Kosovo. Afghanistan. Iraq. Democratic Republic of Congo. Nigeria. Sudan.

By the time Salbi stepped down as CEO in 2011, Women for Women International had served over 500,000 women in conflict zones worldwide. But success didn’t come without resistance.

Salbi faced scepticism from the established humanitarian sector. Male-led organisations questioned whether a young woman with no traditional credentials could run an international operation. Funders wanted oversight, control, assurances that resources would be “properly managed.”

There were questions about her credibility. Her experience. Whether women-centred aid was really necessary or just duplicating what larger organisations already did. Behind those questions was a deeper anxiety: if women could receive aid directly, organise independently, and build economic power without male intermediaries – what happened to the traditional power structures?

Salbi understood the resistance wasn’t about effectiveness. It was about control.

Traditional aid models keep recipients dependent. They flow resources through existing hierarchies, which reinforces those hierarchies. Male community leaders, male family members, male-led organisations – they remain gatekeepers.

Salbi’s model bypassed the gatekeepers entirely. And that made people uncomfortable. She pushed through anyway.

She built alliances with women donors who understood what she was doing. She documented impact meticulously. She expanded programmes even when funders hesitated. She refused to apologise for centring women’s voices, women’s leadership and women’s agency.

Because she knew something the traditional humanitarian sector often ignored: women in conflict zones don’t need to be saved. They need resources and space to save themselves.

The women who joined Women for Women International programmes weren’t passive victims waiting for rescue. They were survivors, strategists, organizers – people who’d kept families alive through war, genocide and displacement. They didn’t need pity. They needed skills, money and the legal knowledge to protect themselves.

Salbi’s programmes gave them exactly that. And the results were undeniable. Women who completed the programme started businesses. Organised community groups. Sent children to school. Left abusive marriages. Ran for local office. Built economic independence that couldn’t be taken away.

They didn’t just survive. They transformed their communities. And Salbi’s own life mirrored that transformation.

While building Women for Women International, she finally left her abusive marriage. She rebuilt her life on her own terms. She became a powerful voice in humanitarian work, media and women’s rights.

She wrote memoirs – Between Two Worlds (2005) and Freedom Is an Inside Job (2018) – that detailed her journey from Saddam’s Iraq through domestic abuse to international humanitarian leadership. She hosted television programmes, gave TED talks and became a sought-after speaker on women’s empowerment, trauma, and resilience. But she never softened her message.

She continued to argue that women in conflict zones are experts on their own lives. That aid models need to prioritise agency over charity. That women’s leadership isn’t optional – it’s essential.

And she continued to face pushback from people who preferred women to be grateful recipients rather than powerful decision-makers.

In 2011, Salbi stepped down as CEO of Women for Women International to focus on media work and writing. The organisation continues operating today, serving women in multiple countries. Her legacy isn’t just the organisation. It’s the model.

She proved that women-cantered humanitarian work isn’t a niche specialty. It’s more effective than traditional approaches because it actually empowers the people it’s meant to serve.

She showed that young women with lived experience of violence and oppression can build international organisations, even when gatekeepers don’t believe in them. She demonstrated that the resistance women leaders’ face often has nothing to do with their competence and everything to do with power.

Because when women gain agency, traditional power structures lose control. And loss of control terrifies institutions built on maintaining it. Zainab Salbi grew up watching her mother live in fear under a dictator. She survived an abusive marriage that replicated that control.

Then she built an organisation that gave half a million women the tools to break free from similar systems. She was resisted not because her work failed. But because it succeeded in ways that threatened the status quo.

Because women with resources, skills and legal knowledge don’t need male gatekeepers. They just need space to organise. And once they do, everything changes. Salbi proved that. Not through theory. Through impact. 500,000 women. Eight countries. Decades of work.

All built by someone the humanitarian establishment initially dismissed. Because she was young. Female. Not from their world. She built it anyway. And changed what’s possible for women in the world’s most dangerous places. Not by asking permission. By taking action.

• A Tell Media report / Source: The way we were