Tamanna

There were no stars in the sky of Baghdad that night. There was no hope in the air, only the smell of smoke and gunpowder. The war drums were far away, but the sound reverberated like waves through the streets of the city. The sound of Surah Yasin floated from the dome of the mosque, and nearby stood some shadowy figures holding guns. Among those shadows was one—the girl—whose name no one knew, no one uttered, but secretly everyone led in prayer. Her name was Tamanna.

Her face was covered, her eyes hard yet deep. She was not a head of state, nor a university scholar, nor a popular speaker. Yet hers was a name that had become a symbol of whispered revolution—a revolution in the entire Muslim world. Some say she was born in Syria, some say she was in Gaza. Some say she once went to Mecca to perform Hajj and never returned. The truth is, she was born in Kuwait, to an Iraqi mother and a Palestinian father.

Her childhood was spent in war and oppression. Her school was bombed one day, her friends died in front of her. Her father disappeared during the war, and her mother was later injured and paralyzed. She was only twelve at the time. But it was then that she first picked up the Quran—not for comfort, but for strength. The verse from Surah An-Nisa' caught her eye:

“Why do you not fight for those who are weak—women, children, and the elderly, who cry out: Our Lord! Bring us out of this oppressed town.” (Surah An-Nisa, 4:75)

From that night, Tamanna began to fight—not only with weapons, but with knowledge, supplication, education, and disciplined preparation. First, she began to teach some local children. Later, she formed a self-defense group with women. At one point, she secretly infiltrated the administrative structure of the occupying forces. Under a pseudonym, she collected information and sent it to Turkey and Qatar. No one realized that this innocent girl was the terrifying 'Tamanna'—whose name kept foreign intelligence agencies awake at night.

Her biggest operation was to dismantle an international arms ring that was smuggling Western weapons through local brokers in Muslim countries. She worked under the guise of a volunteer for a Muslim NGO, collected their files, gave evidence to Qatar-based journalists, and simultaneously exposed them. After that incident, a global search began for her. Many people announced rewards for her capture. But she was invisible.

However, her real battle was with herself. She had many times decided to give up everything and just immerse herself in worship. But whenever she saw a teenage girl who was threatened with rape by soldiers, she woke up again.

Working with her was another feminist mujahideen—Alina, a young Afghan woman who once said, “We are not swords, we are the blood that carries the seeds of honor to every generation.”

Tamanna was once captured. She was held in a secret prison for 43 days. Her hands were broken, but she did not open her mouth. She was freed in a secret operation, the planning of which involved only women—a data scientist, a driver, and an explosives expert—all three women.

No one knows these stories, no one writes history. Because history is still a book written in the names of men. But hidden in the gaps of the pages of that book are some invisible names—those who work in the darkness of the night, to bring back the light of day.

Where is Tamanna today, no one knows. Some say she teaches in a madrasa in Peshawar. Some say she treats orphaned children in Sudan. Some say she is dead—but those who know the truth know—Tamanna does not die. Because she is not just a woman, she is a consciousness, a nameless revolution, a sun of faith that never sets.

There is one question: Is the role of a Muslim woman only within the four walls of the house? Or is the first paragraph of the revolution ever written by his hand?