Nermeen, Health Promotion (HP) Manager

What first motivated you to pursue humanitarian work, and what specifically drew you to MSF?

I chose to work in humanitarian aid because, growing up in Iraq, I saw how conflict and instability take away people’s basic dignity. I couldn't just stand by; I wanted to help.

What drew me to MSF is that they don’t care about your religion, politics, or which side you’re on. They treat people based on need and in a country like Iraq, where trust is broken and divisions run deep, that neutral approach is the only way real help gets through.

Growing up, I often saw news about conflicts that cited MSF as a source or featured their testimonies, so when I was accepted to work with them, I felt honoured.

Could you describe a typical day in your role with MSF so far in terms of what has been rewarding moments or achievements in your MSF career to date?

My day starts with checking in with my team leads, who coordinate our community health workers across the camps. We review what they are seeing on the ground and adjust our approach to make sure we are reaching people effectively.

A big part of my day is overseeing the Activity Room, ensuring sessions are safe and cover key health topics such as mental health, support for survivors of violence, reproductive health, and vaccination. I also work with women in the community to understand what is stopping them from seeking care, and testing whether our health messages are clear and relevant.

I also oversee reporting, training for team members, and coordination with other organisations.

The conditions can be difficult, with challenging terrain and weather, but being present in the camps and working alongside the Rohingya community is what makes the work meaningful.

What has been the most challenging aspect of working in MSF?

The most challenging moment was when we realised that our standard health messages were no longer reaching everyone. The context in the camps keeps changing, with new rumours, fears and crises and so what worked six months ago no longer works.

So, we paused. My team and I went back to the community. We sat with adult women, elderly residents, and local leaders. We listened to what they actually needed, not what we assumed. We then started redesigning our IEC materials, testing them with the same community members, and training our Rohingya volunteers on the new approach.

While it is slow and difficult work, seeing a woman who had refused vaccines for months finally walk into the clinic and ask for her dose made every hard moment rewarding.

What has been the most rewarding moment?

During a focus group discussion with adult women in the camp, we were testing new visual materials about support for survivors of violence. One woman sat silently until my supervisor gently asked her, in her own dialect, if she felt safe. The woman broke down and told us she had been hiding injuries for months, too ashamed to go to the clinic.

We referred her to the specialised care team, following our procedures. Weeks later, she returned to the Activity Room not as a patient, but as a participant. She told my supervisor, "You treated me in your clinic with respect and dignity, not a case number. That's why I came back."

That moment was my real achievement. Not a report or a target, but an adult woman trusting us because we listened and supported her.

How do you mentally exit emergency settings your work revolves around, in order to preserve your own well-being?

Working in the Rohingya camps, the needs never end. If I carried everything home with me every night, I would not last long. So I have learned a few small but essential habits to switch off and preserve my well-being.

I create a clear end to the workday. Before I leave, I take a breath and remind myself the work is over, even if only for a few hours.

I remember my role. I am not here to save everyone. I am here to support our teams, especially local staff who carry this work every day.

I talk to trusted colleagues. Sharing difficult moments helps me process them and move on.

I allow myself to feel, then move forward. The work is heavy, and that is normal. Acknowledging it helps me stay grounded.

I protect my rest. I make time for simple things like sleep, food, family, or a short walk. Rest is what allows me to continue.

Some days I do this better than others. But I keep trying, because protecting my well-being is part of being able to do this work.

What is the one piece of advice you would give to young women in the MENA region who want to follow in your footsteps but are hesitant about the risks?

I grew up in Iraq. I felt many of these things when I started working as an international mobile staff. I know the fears you carry: the fear of family not understanding, the fear of travelling alone, the fear of being a woman in a male-dominated field, fear of the unknown.

But what I learned is this: courage is not the absence of fear but doing something even when you are afraid.

You do not need to start big. Start small. Join a local health campaign. Shadow someone in the field. Learn one new skill at a time. Each small step shapes the woman who will one day lead teams.

The risks remain real, but so are you. The same culture that sometimes holds you back also gives you strength and a sense of community. Those are your assets. You are stronger than you think.

One more thing: you do not have to do it alone. Find other women. Support each other. Celebrate each small win. I would not be where I am today without the women who walked beside me.

So take the first small step, especially if your hands are shaking. The world needs more women like you in humanitarian aid. Not because you are perfect, but because you understand suffering and still choose to help.

What is your primary hope for the organization team that is currently working with in Bangladesh?

My primary hope for my team is simple: that they know how valuable they are.

I work alongside incredible people every day: they live in the camps and face the same struggles as the communities they serve. Yet they show up every single day without fail. My hope is that they feel seen, supported, and proud of their work.

I also hope they grow into future leaders who can one day take my place. I hope they know that protecting their own well-being is protecting the community. Because if they break, the community loses its strongest voices. To my team in Bangladesh: you are not just my colleagues, you are my hope.