Hunia Chawla’s Permission opens at Tara Theatre this week, and it’s not pulling its punches (see my review here). Flipping the tired trope of the ‘oppressed Muslim woman’ on its head, the play spans rooftops in Karachi and immigration queues at Heathrow, following two best friends whose lives are shaped by state control, protest, and the elusive promise of freedom.
I caught up with Hunia ahead of opening night to talk about growing up in Pakistan during the War on Terror, solo female migration, the politics of friendship – and what it really means to be free.
You grew up in Karachi and now live in London – how have those two places shaped you as a writer?
Growing up in Karachi in the years before and after 9/11, you become politicised very young. There was constant instability – bomb threats, violence, anxiety – and that shaped my worldview. I’m not claiming victimhood, but I do carry that awareness.
Moving to London gave me space to tell those stories. I’ve had opportunities here – Arts Council funding, training at the Old Vic, Soho Writers Lab – and that helped me develop my voice. I came for university, and that’s when I really started participating in change. Permission brings all of that together.
I find it really interesting, what you were saying about growing up in Karachi during the War on Terror. Over here, we only saw it from one perspective. What was it like to be a Muslim in a Muslim country at that time? How old were you in 2001, and how did it affect you?
I was really young – about six or seven. And I think the whole “being a Muslim in the world” thing is more of a diaspora experience. For us, it was about living through regional instability – the Afghan war, the fallout from the ’90s. There was militant activity, weapons were everywhere, and acts of terrorism were part of daily life.
I remember being evacuated from school because of a bomb threat, or seeing horrific images on the news of something that had happened just down the road. For me, it wasn’t about being Muslim – it was about feeling unsafe. I was terrified every time my mum left the house. I’d think, what if she’s held up? What if she’s kidnapped? You’d hear those stories all the time.
So the feeling was constant anxiety. Like anything could happen, at any time.
That just makes me realise how sheltered we are over here. You mentioned in a previous interview that you’ve kept a journal since you were young – when did writing start to feel like more than something personal?
In some ways, it still feels personal. I started writing poetry at 15 or 16 and performing it. It was a way of saying things I couldn’t in conversation. I remember being mad at my parents, writing this whole poem accusing them of being suffocating, and performing it in front of them.
I wrote poetry for about ten years before moving into theatre. It was a natural progression – I had things I wanted to explore in longer form, and seeing other poets transition into playwriting made it feel possible.
So it just evolved naturally over time – moving from something internal to writing for others to experience too?
Yeah, exactly. And the poetry also became something for other people – I was still expressing things I needed to say, but doing it in a way that felt less like complaining and more like… making something out of it. And then being in London, seeing other poets transition into theatre, I thought – maybe this is something I could do too. I had things I wanted to explore in a longer form, and it felt like a natural next step.
And what first sparked Permission? Was there a moment you knew this was the story you had to tell?
It began as a 20-minute solo piece at Camden People’s Theatre, based on my own experience in an immigration line. I felt people like me – first-generation, solo female immigrants – weren’t being heard.
There are a lot of South Asian diaspora stories here, but I was thinking about women navigating the immigration system alone, caught between ideas of Western freedom and the reality of conditional, limited liberation. I’ve always been vocal as a feminist, but Permission pushed me to explore how patriarchy and state power often go hand in hand.
And how has the show evolved since that first version?
It’s changed a lot – partly because I have. It’s no longer about me, it’s about a character with her own traits and flaws. There are three women in the story now: Hanna, her friend in Karachi, and a friend in the UK.
The core question is still: Who gets to define what freedom means? But the way that plays out is much more nuanced now. It’s still a two-hander – one actor plays two roles – but the world has expanded.
The play pushes back against the familiar ‘oppressed Muslim woman’ trope – what did you want to add to that conversation?
So often the story is: girl from a conservative background is exposed to Western liberalism and is saved by it. I love Bend It Like Beckham, but it follows that arc – and so do many others.
It’s reductive. Patriarchy doesn’t look the same everywhere, and oppression is intersectional. It’s not just about being a Muslim woman – it’s about nationality, immigration, geography, exposure to violence, and global politics. We ignore all that and focus only on culture, which lets people justify horrible things using simplistic tropes. I wanted to disrupt that.
And why Permission? What does that word mean in the context of the play – and to you personally?
To me, permission is about how we interact with authority. It can be something small – like Hanna asking her father if she’s allowed to stay out late – but it speaks to something much bigger. We ask patriarchy for permission all the time, even if it’s not explicit. It’s woven into how we move through the world.
In the context of the play, it also takes on a very literal meaning: permission to enter, to remain, to exist in a space. And that kind of permission always comes with conditions. The play is really about interrogating those conditions – what it means to need permission in the first place, and who gets to grant it.
At the heart of the play, you’ve got Hanna and Minza’s friendship. What drew you to that relationship, and how did it evolve during the writing?
Their friendship is really sweet, but also full of the complexities that come with loving someone deeply while going through similar life experiences – things like competitiveness and jealousy show up alongside real care.
It was definitely inspired by some of my own friendships, especially in the early versions. And it’s been really fun watching the two actors bring it to life – being playful and joyous, but also showing the trickier, messier parts of that bond.
For all the political ideas in the play, it comes down to human relationships. We can’t build a peaceful world without learning how to relate to each other in healthy ways. It’s all connected.
You mentioned the two actors – you’ve been working closely with Anisa Butt and Rea Malhotra Mukhtyar from the start. How have they shaped the play?
Massively. The rehearsal process has been very collaborative, and both of them have brought so much to it. Anisa has been with the piece since the very beginning – she was there for the original 20-minute version – so she’s really grown with the play. Rea joined us last year, but both of them have completely embodied the characters.
We had an R&D week earlier this year where we took the play apart and really dug into the characters. Their insights during that process were invaluable – asking the right questions, challenging the text, helping me understand what these characters want and need, and how they feel about each other in different moments. Their input has been crucial to shaping the dynamic between Hanna and Minza, and to deepening the emotional layers of the play as a whole.
And how much of Minza’s protest energy and Hanna’s self-invention in London comes from your own experience?
Naturally, you write what you know. I’ve seen those traits in myself at different times, or in people around me. Minza’s definitely more grounded and sensible than I am. Hanna’s more reckless and rebellious.
I think I oscillate between the two – and I think most of us do. They represent different ways of responding to the world, and we all move between those states at times.
You’ve said that liberation can’t just mean Western ideas of freedom. What does liberation mean to you?
To me, liberation means safety – and the freedom to say what you need to say, do what you need to do, while being aware of the consequences. It’s not individualistic.
Any liberation movement has to ask: Who are we fighting for? If we’re fighting for people – for a better world – then we have to carry others with us. Not just shrug off the world or create an echo chamber. Liberation means moving in tandem with those who might not fully agree with us. That’s where the real work is.
What does diaspora identity mean to you, and how does that tension between here and there show up in the play?
It’s funny – I’ve been in the UK for almost ten years, which is a lot in terms of my life, but I don’t really identify as diaspora. When I think of diaspora, I think of people who were born here and feel rooted here. And I don’t feel like I fit into that. There’s a whole diaspora culture, and it’s beautiful, but it’s not mine. I sound different, I am different, and my experience is different.
I think I’m in this liminal space – home is somewhere else, but also here. Maybe it’s a first-gen versus second- or third-gen thing. But as a first-gen immigrant, my identity feels caught between two places. And while the word ‘diaspora’ technically applies to me, it doesn’t feel like it fits.
The play jumps between Heathrow and a Karachi rooftop. Why those settings? What did they allow you to explore?
It’s not limited to just those settings – we also see them at university and in other spaces – but the rooftop in Karachi is where the two girls really connect. It’s where they feel free, seen by each other without judgement. It’s a place of solace, of escape – high above everything, under open skies.
Heathrow, on the other hand, speaks to transition – what happens after the friendship changes. But both settings are about escape in different ways. The rooftop is escape from what’s downstairs. Heathrow is escape from what’s behind you. Both are transformative in their own way.
We’ve mainly talked about you as a writer, but you’ve also directed and co-produced your work. How does wearing those different hats change your relationship to the writing?
Last year, I wrote, directed, and produced the play – and it actually made a lot of sense at the time. It all came from the same place: this was my baby, my vision. I’m a visual and spatial thinker, so directing felt natural. It didn’t feel like different hats – it felt cohesive.
This year, Neetu Singh is directing, and she’s doing an amazing job. I’ve done my version of Permission, so I’m really enjoying watching someone else bring their own take to it. I’m still producing, and that definitely feels like a different role – a lot of juggling – but I’m a natural multitasker, so I’m managing. It’s definitely more of a balancing act this time around.
And is there anything Neetu’s brought to the piece that’s really surprised or delighted you?
There’s a lot Neetu’s brought. I’m not a trained director – I read some books and just showed up – but she asks really important questions about every scene, every character’s motivation. She’s solidified the play structurally and brought so much creativity to the staging.
She’s got playful ideas I wouldn’t have come up with, and it’s been amazing to see the story come to life through her vision. It’s hard to pin it all down – you’ll just have to come and see it.
What kind of stories do you want to tell next?
I’m writing a script at the moment with Soho Writers Lab – I won’t give too much away because it’s still in draft, but it’s more of a political thriller. Think something in the tone of The Night Of.
It’s very different to Permission – less personal. I think you have to tell the story that’s sitting inside you, and then you move on. The new one is difficult, maybe even semi-controversial, but I’m interested in things that are hard to say. Those are the conversations we need.
I couldn’t agree more.
Permission is on at the Tara Theatre until the 7th June 2025. Book tickets at taratheatre.com
Words by Nick Barr
Photography Adam Razvi
