“I’m on a scholarship studying abroad… how can my citizenship be revoked because of my seventeenth grandfather?”
In a video circulating online, a young man can be heard speaking while walking down the street after being targeted by a renewed campaign to revoke Kuwaiti citizenship. He did not dare reveal his identity, limiting himself to recording his complaint and delivering bitter, angry remarks about a decision that radically changed his life because one of his ancestors did not hold Kuwaiti citizenship.
He is not alone. Thousands of Kuwaiti men and women have been subjected to what many describe as arbitrary decisions. No sooner had the country entered the ceasefire phase between the United States and Iran than the authorities resumed the process of revoking citizenships. Human rights organizations estimate, unofficially, that nearly 300,000 Kuwaitis, directly or by extension, have been affected over the past two years.
For months, Kuwait has been living to the rhythm of a relentless counter. Every few days, new announcements emerge: the revocation of the citizenship of hundreds, then hundreds more, followed by fresh lists awaiting their turn. Citizenship, which is fundamentally meant to be a legal and human bond between an individual and the state, no longer feels like a guaranteed right for many. Instead, it has become a suspended decision, one that can be declared in a news bulletin or official statement and instantly turn an entire family’s life upside down.
The Kuwaiti authorities justify the citizenship revocation campaign as a process of “correcting” citizenship records, targeting those who allegedly obtained nationality through forgery, fraud, or illegal dual citizenship. The Emir and the government present it as a measure aimed at protecting the country’s “national identity” and “supreme national interest,” and at reclaiming citizenship from those the state considers undeserving of it.
Yet this official justification blurs the line between genuine cases of fraud and a sweeping campaign of collective revocation affecting entire families.
The revocation of citizenship in Kuwait has turned into a social earthquake affecting nearly every segment of society: former soldiers, military officers, public employees, doctors, artists, singers, actors, writers, athletes, and women who acquired citizenship through marriage. Even the dead have not been spared. Citizenship has been stripped from people in their graves, along with that of their children and grandchildren by extension.
The names targeted by these decisions, ranging from public figures to doctors and football players, reveal that the issue is no longer limited to isolated cases. Rather, it reflects a broader logic that is redefining who has the right to be Kuwaiti, and who can be stripped of that right through a political or administrative decision.
People’s lives have thus been reduced to a state of anxious waiting and one haunting question: whose name will appear on the next list? Who will wake up a citizen and go to sleep stripped of their legal identity? And who will suddenly find themselves excluded from the protection they had believed, since birth, was inseparable from their name, their home, and their memory?
The issue is not merely about numbers. Behind every figure lies a home, children, schools, jobs, bank accounts, and women and men who spent years believing their belonging was unquestionable. Today, however, they live in a grey zone, suspended between fear and uncertainty, as though citizenship has become a daily test of loyalty rather than a right governed by law and protected by guarantees.
What makes the fear even more brutal is that many of those targeted by these decisions cannot even afford to object. As the persecution of dissenters intensifies, it has become as though those stripped of their right to belong are expected to lose their legal and social existence in silence: not to complain, not to tell their stories. Protest itself may open the door to another layer of punishment: prosecution, imprisonment, restrictions, threats, or even broader forms of exclusion.
Forced Exile
Lulwa Al-Husainan is one of those who paid the price for speaking out. A young Kuwaiti activist known for her outspoken positions on public affairs, she has been living in London for more than a year.
Lulwa recounts how she was subjected to mistreatment after being summoned by the State Security apparatus over her criticism of the citizenship revocation law. She left Kuwait in December 2024 and later faced legal cases and prison sentences on charges of “insulting the Emir.”
Lulwa Al-Husainan told Daraj: “When the citizenship revocation issue began, I publicly expressed critical and opposing views, after which I was summoned by the Ministry of Interior, where I was physically assaulted… Interior Minister Fahad Al-Yousef personally interrogated me and said: ‘If you don’t like the revocation of citizenships, then go criticize the Emir…’”
“He was trying to provoke me into insulting the Emir so he could imprison me, but I told him that I am a citizen with the right to criticize the measures that had been taken, and that I had not insulted the Emir. He became furious and told me to leave Kuwait. He got angry, pulled my hair, and I was placed in a freezing cell, which caused my blood sugar to drop. That was what eventually forced them to release me…”
Lulwa Al-Husainan left Kuwait for London immediately after her detention. Later, she was sentenced in absentia to five years in prison on charges of “insulting the Emir.”
From abroad, Lulwa continues to follow developments in Kuwait and tries to express her anger through videos and social media posts. Along with others who have settled outside the country, she is attempting to raise awareness about a national issue that many inside Kuwait are too afraid to speak about openly.
“What happened is a humanitarian catastrophe and a tragedy… I don’t know if there is any word that can truly describe what has happened to Kuwaitis. There is a state of total social destruction affecting thousands of people, estimated at around 300,000, and unfortunately no one is speaking out. I feel immense sadness over what is happening in Kuwait… We have squandered the relative democracy we once had, and now the situation for women and families is deeply alarming…”
Anyone following news from Kuwait, whether through official outlets, social media platforms, or personal connections, is bound to encounter shocking stories and testimonies about the profound transformation taking place within Kuwaiti society. The country is witnessing the largest citizenship revocation campaign in the Arab world, yet the issue continues to receive far less attention than it warrants.
How Did the Story Begin?
Many trace the citizenship revocation campaign back to an identity crisis that took shape in Kuwait after its liberation from the Iraqi invasion in 1991. Before the invasion, Kuwaiti society was broadly divided into three categories.
The first consisted of “original Kuwaitis,” meaning those who had settled in Kuwait before 1920 and remained there until the nationality law was issued in 1959. This group holds full political rights, including participation in parliamentary life.
The second category included naturalized Kuwaitis, who, along with their children, were denied the right to political participation.
The third group is made up of the so-called “Bidoon,” who the government refers to as “illegal residents”, people who hold no nationality despite having been born and raised in Kuwait.
According to analysts, the discourse surrounding Kuwaiti identity grew as a reaction to the decisions taken after the Iraqi invasion, which expanded democratic gains to include naturalized citizens and women, and nearly extended them to the Bidoon as well. Several groups called for revisiting what they viewed as manipulation of citizenship files during the pre-invasion period, which had enabled many people to obtain “original” Kuwaiti citizenship or naturalization through questionable means.
This discourse intensified sharply after Mishal Al-Ahmad Al-Jaber Al-Sabah assumed power at the end of 2023. He immediately dissolved the National Assembly and suspended constitutional provisions, greatly expanding his powers to the point that they became almost absolute.
On December 20, 2023, Mishal Al-Ahmad Al-Jaber Al-Sabah referred, in his first speech after taking the oath before the National Assembly, to the “citizenship file” as one of the issues that had, according to his remarks, altered Kuwaiti identity. From the outset, he placed the matter at the heart of the debate over the state, identity, and legitimacy, rather than framing it merely as a narrow procedural violation.
Following that speech, Kuwait launched the largest citizenship revocation campaign in its history, and the official rhetoric became markedly more explicit. The issue was no longer presented solely as a legal matter concerning fraud or dual nationality. Instead, it evolved into one of the country’s most sensitive and divisive files: a question tied to defining who is truly Kuwaiti, who possesses the right to full belonging, and who pays the price when that definition shifts from a legal text into a political and social instrument affecting the lives of thousands of families.
Now, after many months of ongoing citizenship revocations, it has become clear that women were the primary targets. Tens of thousands of Kuwaitis have been stripped of their nationality, the majority of them women. How did this happen, and why has there been so much silence surrounding it?
Why Kuwaiti Women?
The Kuwaiti government relies on an old decree issued in 1987 to justify stripping citizenship from women who obtained it through marriage to Kuwaiti men. The decree stated that granting citizenship to a Kuwaiti man’s wife had to be approved through an Emiri decree rather than a ministerial decision. However, this law was later repealed by parliament in 1995.
The problem is that the new law issued in 2024 once again expanded the government’s powers to revoke citizenship while reducing the safeguards that protect individuals from losing their nationality or falling into statelessness. As a result, the issue no longer appears to be merely about correcting legal violations, but rather about granting the executive authority broader powers to strip people of their citizenship.
To make the campaign more acceptable to public opinion, the government blurred the distinction between revoking citizenship from women and more publicly palatable narratives such as combating fraud or dual nationality, even though these cases differ significantly in both legal and human terms.
Yet even discussing the issue has become fraught with fear. In December 2024, a women’s event addressing the citizenship revocation decisions was canceled under government pressure. Commentators criticizing these measures, even on social media, were subjected to State Security surveillance. The crackdown went so far that former MP Saleh Al-Mulla was sentenced to two years in prison over a tweet deemed to have “challenged the Emir’s authority.”
Amid this enforced silence, one affected woman broke through the barrier of fear: Salwa Al-Sayed. On March 8, she spoke on X about the racist and sexist insults she faced because of her defense of the rights of women affected by Article Eight. Less than 24 hours later, the Ministry of Interior announced her arrest and referral to the deportation department, in preparation for deporting her to what it described as her “country of origin.”
The Ministry of Interior used a short audio clip of Salwa Al-Sayed in which she said she wanted to reclaim her Kuwaiti citizenship “whether everyone likes it or not,” portraying her as though she were challenging the state. The post spread widely online, accompanied by mocking comments targeting her Egyptian-Kuwaiti accent.
Days later, Al-Sayed reappeared on X and stated that during her detention she had been subjected to insults and threats by Interior Minister Fahad Al-Yousef and officers within the ministry. She also described humiliating searches, being denied her medication, and being forced to clean floors.
On March 10, she was deported to Egypt, according to her account, while handcuffed and shackled, without being allowed to say goodbye to her two daughters. Her bank accounts were also frozen and her unpaid salaries withheld.
Salwa Al-Sayed’s case is not an exception. Rather, it reveals part of the suffering endured by women who have been arbitrarily stripped of their citizenship in Kuwait. Human Rights Watch has warned that the country’s restrictive nationality laws are creating new cases of statelessness and are also being used to target the Bidoon community and outspoken voices among them.
The “Execution Queue”
Kuwaiti women describe waiting for their names to appear on citizenship revocation lists as standing in an “execution queue,” where an administrative decision becomes an all-encompassing threat to daily life and the future.
The mass revocation measures fail to account for their legal, social, and economic consequences on those affected. Many women suddenly found themselves facing threatened jobs, temporary work contracts, suspended pensions and insurance benefits, and invalid passports. Some also have no clear path to reclaiming their original nationalities, having renounced them decades ago in compliance with Kuwait’s naturalization requirements.
Divorced women and widows are particularly vulnerable, as they are subjected to smear campaigns portraying them as “fraudsters” or “fortune hunters,” narratives echoed in pro-government media. Meanwhile, they now live as “foreigners liable to deportation” at any moment.
As international criticism has intensified, the Kuwaiti government established a committee to receive grievances and appeals. Yet this step has done little to ease fears, especially since the authorities have already abolished the very legal provision under which many women originally obtained citizenship, making the chances of recovering it both limited and uncertain.
The Targeted Groups
A legal adviser, who requested anonymity, described what is happening in Kuwait in an interview with Daraj as “a state of collective depression.” He said: “Thousands of families have been condemned to a slow death. Fear has become widespread, the media is tightly restricted, and official newspapers have gone so far as to justify what is happening and even call for more. Citizenship accusations are now being handed out as though they were something ordinary.”
In a country whose citizen population does not exceed roughly 1.5 million, citizenship revocation decisions have affected at least 3 percent of citizens. Yet the impact extends far beyond the numbers. Naturalized citizens in Kuwait have long represented the weakest link in the state’s definition of who belongs and who remains on its margins, an old dilemma tied to the formation of the modern state, one that also left tens of thousands of Bidoon outside full legal recognition.
The government later attempted to contain some of the public anger by announcing that women who acquired citizenship through marriage would retain their pensions and certain benefits. It also issued them civil identification cards through which they would continue to be treated as Kuwaitis in some areas of rights and services. In addition, authorities announced the formation of a committee to receive grievances and appeals.
But these measures did little to dispel the confusion and fear, because losing citizenship triggers a chain of restrictions affecting property ownership, employment, licensing, travel, and access to bank accounts. The Financial Times reported testimonies from affected individuals stating that Kuwaiti banks had restricted their access to funds after their citizenship was revoked.
Despite the magnitude of the crisis, civil society organizations in Kuwait have remained almost entirely silent. In fairness, however, this silence cannot be separated from the climate of fear, surveillance, and shrinking public space. The citizenship revocation campaign remains ongoing, and no one knows where it will stop, amid broad Arab and international indifference and an official determination to silence any critical voice.
As for those stripped of their nationality, they have begun learning how to live a new kind of life, one that barely resembles life at all: a suspended existence, without certainty and without a voice.
