In Tunisia, digital spaces are changing the conversation

In Tunisia, where conversations about reproductive rights are often constrained by stigma and silence, Nadia Cherif has worked to create a space where women and caregivers can speak openly — about motherhood, sexuality, bodily autonomy, and abortion. As the founder of the Tunisian digital platform Omoubou and a lawyer working at the intersection of gender, care, and reproductive rights, she has combined legal expertise with digital activism to challenge taboos and amplify lived experiences.

In this conversation, Nadia reflects on how her personal journey led her to build an online platform rooted in storytelling and solidarity. She speaks about the power of sharing intimate experiences in public, why digital spaces can succeed where institutions fail, and what remains hardest to say out loud about abortion and reproductive rights in Tunisia today.

• Can you tell us about your work and platforms – how you started, what you focus on today, and the audiences you mainly speak to?

I started my work by creating spaces for honest conversations about what women go through when they are thinking about becoming mothers, when they decide to have children, during pregnancy, childbirth, and in the postpartum period. At the beginning, my focus was on breaking the silence around these deeply intimate and often invisible experiences, and on validating women’s doubts, fears, desires, and contradictions.

Over time, this work naturally expanded toward broader questions of gender, social norms, and the unequal distribution of care and emotional labor. I became increasingly interested in how societies organize care, how women’s bodies are regulated and controlled, and how expectations around motherhood, femininity, and sacrifice are constructed.

A central dimension of my work today is a critical reflection on women’s right to bodily autonomy and on care as a political and social issue. I am interested in how access to healthcare, reproductive rights, emotional support, and social protection are shaped by power relations, and how they can either empower women or further marginalize them.

Professionally, my background is in working alongside civil society actors, foundations, and international organizations to design funding mechanisms, programs, and tools that better respond to grassroots needs. My work focuses on strengthening local initiatives, making resources more accessible, and ensuring that funding structures are aligned with real social priorities rather than imposed agendas.

I am also trained as a lawyer, which strongly influences my approach. My legal background gives me a deep understanding of rights-based frameworks, institutional dynamics, and accountability mechanisms. It allows me to connect personal experiences and storytelling with legal, political, and structural analysis.

Today, through my platform Omoubou and through my professional work, I combine advocacy, research, and storytellingI speak mainly to caregivers (women and men) and young people in Tunisia and in the diaspora, but also to policymakers, activists, and practitioners. My goal is to build bridges between lived experiences and systemic change, and to contribute to more just, caring, and inclusive societies

• What made you choose podcasting and digital media as a space to discuss bodies, sexuality, and SRHR in Tunisia?

When I started, I was pregnant, and I didn’t have a strong circle of support around me. Most of my close friends were not going through the same experience, and I often felt isolated in my questions, doubts, and emotions. Digital spaces were simply the most accessible way for me to connect, learn, and share at that moment in my life.

They allowed me to create the kind of conversations I was missing: honest, nuanced, and judgment-free discussions about bodies, motherhood, sexuality, and reproductive health. I didn’t see many spaces in Tunisia where these topics were addressed openly, especially from women’s lived experiences, so creating my own platform felt both necessary and natural.

I don’t strictly define what I do as “podcasting.” After experimenting with different formats, I chose to focus mainly on short-form audio content. What characterizes my work today is anonymity and the centrality of the voice. People share their stories without revealing their identity, and what listeners hear is only their voice and their narrative. It is not an interview format, but rather a space for self-expression, testimony, and emotional truth.

This format creates a sense of safety and intimacy that is essential when discussing sensitive topics like sexuality, reproductive rights, and bodily autonomy. It allows people to speak freely, without fear of social judgment, stigma, or consequences.

Digital media also make it possible to reach a large and diverse audience, beyond social, geographic, and generational boundaries. They enable direct connection and interaction, and they help transform private experiences into collective conversations.

In contexts where discussions around SRHR remain highly stigmatized, these digital and audio spaces offer both protection and visibility. For me, choosing this format was both a personal and a political decision: a way to turn isolation into connection, and individual stories into shared power.

• You use podcasting and digital platforms to talk about bodies, choice, and SRHR. What pushed you to speak publicly about topics many prefer to keep silent?

When I became pregnant, I deeply understood what it means to be a woman in a world that is largely designed by and for men. This experience unsettled me and transformed me.

During pregnancy and childbirth, I realized how easily women can be deprived of their choices. Decisions about my body were often made by others—doctors, institutions, men—who were seen as more legitimate, more “rational,” and more trustworthy than me. Their voices were considered the “true” ones, while mine was often minimized or ignored. This loss of agency was extremely violent for me, both emotionally and politically.

Becoming a mother made me fully aware of power relations. It revealed how control, pressure, and judgment are normalized around women’s bodies and reproductive lives.

At that time, I started having many in-person conversations with other women. I listened to their experiences, their doubts, their frustrations, and their fears. What struck me was how similar our struggles were, despite our different backgrounds. Yet these stories had no public space in Tunisia. They were absent from media, from public debates, and from institutional narratives.

That is when I decided to start recording and sharing these voices. I realized that this content simply did not exist, and that it was urgently needed.

I also became increasingly aware of how silence functions as a form of control. When women are discouraged from speaking about their bodies, their choices, their sexuality, or their reproductive health, they are more vulnerable to misinformation, guilt, and pressure. Breaking that silence is therefore not just about expression—it is about protection, empowerment, and rights.

Speaking publicly was not something I initially planned. It emerged from necessity and from listening to other women’s stories. I realized that many of us were living similar struggles in parallel, without knowing it. Creating public conversations was a way to make these realities visible and legitimate.

For me, using digital platforms to address these topics is about transforming isolation into solidarity, and silence into collective knowledge. It is about making sure that women know they are not alone, and that their bodies and choices deserve respect, care, and autonomy.

• Tunisia has a legal framework that allows abortion, yet the conversation around it remains complicated. From your experience, what is still hardest to say out loud?

My answer is based on the stories I have been listening to for the past three years, almost four, through Omoubou. These narratives give a very clear picture of what remains most difficult to say out loud in Tunisia today.

Two topics come up repeatedly as major taboos. The first is talking openly about sexuality outside of marriage. The second is saying, clearly and without justification, that we do not want children. These two realities are still heavily stigmatized, and many women feel they must hide them to protect themselves socially and emotionally.

Because of this context, abortion itself is often not discussed in depth, even though it is legally permitted. When it is mentioned, it is mostly through the voices of married women. This shows how narrow the space for legitimate speech still is, and how conditional women’s right to speak about their bodies remains.

At the same time, there is a strong emotional complexity around abortion and reproductive choices. Women are rarely allowed to express doubt, relief, sadness, or ambivalence without being judged. Their inner experiences are often simplified or erased.

There are also things that are difficult to hear. One of them is the questioning of medical authority. Many women speak about medical gestures and practices that they experienced as violent, invasive, or disrespectful. Yet these experiences are rarely acknowledged as such. Challenging medical power remains very sensitive.

More broadly, building a culture of kind, non-judgmental dialogue is still a long process—whether around abortion, sexuality, or motherhood. We are not raised in a culture of deep listening. On the contrary, we often use expressions that close conversations rather than open them, such as “inchallah lebess” or “inchallah rabbi y‘awwedh ‘alik.” These phrases are meant to comfort, but they often silence pain instead of making space for it.

All of this shows that legal rights alone are not enough. What is still missing is a collective capacity to listen, to believe women, and to take their experiences seriously—without moralizing, minimizing, or rushing to “fix” them.

• What kinds of messages or stories do you receive from listeners after episodes that touch on abortion, sexuality, or bodily autonomy?

Overall, the Omoubou community is remarkably kind, respectful, and non-judgmental. Today, it includes nearly 20,000 people on Instagram, almost 50,000 on TikTok, and around 23,000 on Facebook. This community has grown organically over time, without artificial amplification, and I think this is one of the reasons why the exchanges remain thoughtful, engaged, and constructive.

After episodes that address abortion, sexuality, or bodily autonomy, I often receive messages of gratitude, relief, and recognition. Many listeners say things like: “I thought I was the only one,” “I finally found the words for what I lived,” or “Thank you for saying what no one says.” These messages show how important it is for women to see their experiences reflected and validated.

People also share their own stories in response. One testimony often opens the door to many others. This creates a chain of trust and mutual support, where personal narratives become collective resources.

If I had to highlight moments when reactions become more polarized, it is usually when women question medical authority. For example, we once shared a story about repeated vaginal examinations and how invasive and distressing they felt. This triggered strong criticism toward the woman who spoke out, with comments suggesting that she should not complain, that “it’s just medical care,” or that she should simply stay home if she does not accept these procedures.

These reactions are very revealing. They show how bodily autonomy tends to disappear when it comes into conflict with institutional power, in this case the medical system. Questioning medical practices is often perceived as illegitimate, ungrateful, or dangerous, even when women are simply describing their lived experiences.

For me, this illustrates how far we still are from fully recognizing women as legitimate authorities over their own bodies. Support for autonomy often exists in theory, but becomes fragile when it challenges established hierarchies.

At the same time, these tensions are also part of the work. They open necessary debates and help expose the limits of our collective understanding of consent, care, and respect.

• Have you ever had to self-censor, reframe, or soften language to protect yourself or your guests? What does that say about public space in Tunisia today?

It’s actually a difficult question to answer, because the process of editing and producing episodes always involves a certain degree of rewriting. Since I am the one who edits and produces the content, my values, my vision, and my approach inevitably shape what is shared, even if I am not always consciously aware of it.I don’t feel that I make an effort to avoid controversy—although that might be something to explore one day with the help of a psychoanalyst.

What I am very careful about, however, is not distorting the words of those who trust me with their stories. I avoid sensationalizing or creating dramatic edits just to shock people or chase engagement. To do so would be deeply disrespectful to the women and men who share their experiences and place their trust in me. Preserving this trust is my main priority.

In addition, I actively monitor comments and moderate discussions to maintain the community’s culture. Omoubou is a space where listening is done with care, respect, and without judgment, and it’s important to reinforce that continuously.

This says a lot about the state of public space in Tunisia today: open, non-judgmental dialogue is still rare, and trust is fragile. People are cautious about speaking publicly, and platforms like Omoubou need to consciously create spaces where stories can be shared honestly and with dignity.

• In your view, how do media, podcasts, and storytelling succeed where laws and institutions often fail when it comes to abortion access?

Laws and institutions are essential, but they often remain abstract, distant, and disconnected from people’s lived realities. They define rights on paper, yet they rarely address fear, shame, misinformation, isolation, or the emotional and social costs that women carry when trying to access abortion and reproductive healthcare.

Media, podcasts, and storytelling work at a different level. They humanize rights. They give them a face, a voice, and a context. Through stories, we understand not only what is legal, but what is possible, what is difficult, and what is risky in real life.

Storytelling makes visible the gap between legal frameworks and everyday experiences. It shows how access is shaped by geography, class, family pressure, medical attitudes, and social norms. These are things that institutions often overlook or minimize.

It also creates identification. When women hear someone who sounds like them, lives like them, and feels like them, speaking openly about her choices, it reduces fear and self-blame. It helps them realize that their situation is not a personal failure, but the result of structural conditions.

In contexts where stigma is strong, stories can circulate information in ways that are safer and more accessible than official channels. They transmit practical knowledge, emotional reassurance, and collective memory.

Most importantly, storytelling builds trust. Institutions often speak in technical, legal, or moral terms. Stories speak in human terms. They create spaces where we feel believed, respected, and taken seriously.

In that sense, media and podcasts do not replace laws. They make them meaningful. They turn formal rights into lived possibilities, and isolated struggles into shared awareness and collective power.

• What myths or misunderstandings about abortion do you find most persistent among Tunisian audiences, even today?

One of the most persistent myths is that abortion is either an easy, careless choice or, on the opposite extreme, something that is necessarily traumatic and devastating for life. People tend to project their own feelings, beliefs, and fears onto women’s experiences, without recognizing that abortion can be lived in very different ways.

For some women, it can be deeply painful. For others, it can bring relief. And for many, it is a complex mix of emotions—sometimes relieving and still emotionally difficult at the same time. This emotional diversity is rarely acknowledged. Women are expected to fit into a single narrative, instead of being allowed to define their own experience.

Another widespread misunderstanding is the idea that legality automatically means accessibility. Because abortion is legal in Tunisia, many assume that all women can access it easily and safely. In reality, access depends on location, financial means, information, and the attitudes of healthcare providers. For many women, especially those in vulnerable situations, the right remains fragile.

There is also a strong belief that abortion is only “legitimate” in certain cases—when a woman is married, already a mother, in financial difficulty, or when the pregnancy fits social expectations. This creates a hierarchy of “good” and “bad” reasons, which undermines the principle of bodily autonomy.

One of the biggest blind spots remains contraception. It is still largely considered a women’s responsibility, while men are rarely involved in a meaningful way. At the same time, contraception is a very complex and sensitive issue, surrounded by misinformation, stigma, and institutional barriers.

Personally, I would like to collect more stories about this and address it more directly. I believe that once I have listened to more women and men on this topic, I will be able to speak about it even more clearly and responsibly.

So far, I have heard many troubling stories: young women being denied tubal ligation because they are still considered “of childbearing age,” even when they clearly express their refusal to have (more) children; men being very reluctant to consider vasectomy, even when they say they do not want (more) children; hormonal contraception having a very bad reputation and being poorly supported; and condom use in married couples being rare, because condoms are often associated with extramarital sex or homosexuality.

All of this shows that abortion cannot be discussed in isolation. It is deeply connected to how society thinks about sexuality, responsibility, masculinity, and women’s right to make decisions about their own bodies.

• What responsibility do you think influencers, podcasters, and digital creators carry in shaping abortion narratives in Tunisia and the region?

I’m not very comfortable with the idea of “influence” or with the label of “influencer.” It often suggests power without accountability, visibility without responsibility, and impact without reflection. What matters to me much more is the positioning, ethics, and vision of the person producing the content.

When dealing with sensitive issues like abortion, bodies, and sexuality, there is a strong ethical responsibility to avoid simplification, sensationalism, and moral judgment. These topics are not “content” like any other. They involve real lives, real risks, and real vulnerabilities.

Digital creators also have a responsibility to question their own position: Who am I speaking for? Who am I excluding? Who benefits from this narrative? Who might be harmed by it? These are uncomfortable but necessary questions.

Finally, in contexts where institutional trust is fragile and public debate is limited, digital spaces become even more powerful. They can either reproduce dominant norms and inequalities, or open space for more plural, inclusive, and honest conversations.

So for me, the real responsibility lies in choosing care over clicks, depth over visibility, and integrity over popularity.

• If you could design one podcast episode that Tunisia still needs about abortion, what would it be about – and who would be speaking?

It is difficult for me to answer this question, because I have too many ideas, and none of them clearly stands out as the only one or the most urgent. This is probably because abortion is still rarely discussed openly, which means that there is still so much to say.

In any case, it would be centered on a personal narrative. My work is always built around one voice, or sometimes two when it is a couple. That voice could be the voice of a woman sharing her experience, of a couple who went through the process together, or of someone who worked in family planning and is willing to speak from a personal rather than a purely professional perspective.

I would also want to listen to voices from older generations. The historical or transgenerational dimension is very interesting. How did women talk about abortion in the past? What was possible, what was forbidden, what was hidden? How have things changed, and what has remained the same?

At the same time, I know from experience that building a narrative around abortion is very difficult. I once tried to do it, and I realized that beyond explaining why a pregnancy was not continued, it is often hard to tell the story itself. There is something complex, fragmented, and sometimes unspeakable about this experience. There is probably a deeper reason for that, and it deserves more reflection.

For me, the episode Tunisia still needs would be centered on one personal story, shared with care and protection, as I usually do. This testimony would then be accompanied by a reflective segment, co-written with experts in the field—healthcare professionals, activists, or researchers—to open up broader questions and invite dialogue.

It would not be an episode that provides ready-made answers. It would be a space for listening, complexity, and collective thinking—where lived experience and critical analysis meet.