It was my first job interview since October 7, 2023.

I couldn't quite believe it. Nearly three years had passed since I last prepared for something as ordinary as a job interview, since I last looked for formal clothes or worried about making a good first impression.

Dressing for the occasion was my first real battle. All my formal, elegant clothes had burned to ashes along with my house. I wore the cleanest clothes I could find, determined to look good. They had been hand-washed the night before and left to dry in the summer heat. I tried to smooth the wrinkles with my hands. There was no electricity to iron them.
After all, this was my relief interview, my first step toward living again.

I left home two hours early. There was almost no public transportation left in Gaza, so I walked through streets buried under rubble. Rats darted between broken sidewalks, and every damaged building above me felt like another danger waiting to fall. When a livestock cart stopped nearby, I climbed aboard without hesitation. It was uncomfortable, crowded, and humiliating, but it was the only way to arrive on time.

At last, I arrived. I walked into the reception area and, for the first time that morning, sat down on a chair to wait for my turn.

Ten minutes later, my name was called.

I walked into the interview room wearing the warmest smile I could manage. My simple clothes were even more wrinkled from the long, harsh journey, but I forced myself not to think about them.

I sat across from the interview panel.
The first question came almost immediately.

"Could you please introduce yourself?"

My heart froze. The air in the room felt tight, heavy with the sharp, comforting smell of fresh coffee, a stark contrast to the world outside.

It was such a simple question. Yet, after everything that had happened, it felt impossible.

How do you introduce yourself when the life that defined you no longer exists?

What should I say?

Should I introduce the woman I was before the war? Or the woman forged by three years of relentless genocide, displacement, and survival?

Should I tell them I graduated from the Faculty of Commerce? Or that I graduated from three years of surviving?

Which version of me did they want to hire? The woman who managed development projects? The woman who lost her home? The displaced woman? The woman who had forgotten what it felt like to plan for tomorrow? The woman who had learned to measure success by simply surviving another day? Or the woman who was still trying to believe she had a future?

In that breathless second, I finally knew how to introduce myself. Not by the career I used to have. Not by the house I lost. But by the simple, undeniable fact that I was still walking forward.

If I told them about my true experience, would they believe it after looking at my wrinkled shirt? If I spoke to them about leadership, would they notice the deep exhaustion etched across my face first? And if I spoke about resilience, would it just sound like another hollow buzzword people use when they don't know what else to say about Gaza?

My hands were trembling beneath the table, though I tried not to show it.
For a brief moment, I forgot every interview I had ever attended before the war.

I looked up.

No one interrupted.

No one looked impatient.

They simply waited.

The room fell silent.

For the first time that morning, I wasn't thinking about my wrinkled clothes anymore.

I wasn't thinking about washing them by hand because there was no electricity.

I wasn't thinking about cooking over firewood.

I wasn't thinking about searching for an internet signal just to send a single email.

I wasn't thinking about another day of displacement.

I was thinking about one question:

Who was I now?

I took a deep breath.

Then, at last, I found my voice.

"My name is Heba..."

I paused.

“And I'm still surviving."