Dear big hearts,
I know it may seem like you’re continually bombarded with emotionally-charged pleas to donate your hard-earned cash to charity, but I only ask for two minutes to read this before you decide whether or not you can support me.
If at that stage you feel my words have no bearing on your life, that’s fine. But I’m keeping my fingers (and toes) crossed that my story will make you feel differently.
So let’s cut to the chase: On September 11, I’m doing a London to Brighton bike ride. That’s 54 miles of huffing and puffing, from the Big Smoke to the seaside. It’s a long way – especially for someone like me, who actively avoids the gym. It’s going to hurt.
But while lots of lycra-clad bike-nuts take on this challenge every year, I doubt any of them have quite the same reason for doing it. Every single mile of my ride will be raising money for The Lotus Flower, which is supporting vulnerable women in Kurdistan, Iraq, whose lives have been shattered by ISIS. Many of these women are living in refugee camps, having been robbed of their homes, their livelihoods and even their loved ones.
The reason their plight matters so much to me is simple: I too am a genocide survivor.
Born in Kurdistan in the 1980s, I was a child political prisoner during Saddam Hussein’s barbaric reign. Jailed with my family aged just four, we escaped a plot to bury us alive when two strangers freed us from certain death. Forced into hiding, we dodged bullets and bombs at every turn, and my father was also poisoned. Eventually, we reached safety when Amnesty International heard of our ordeal and flew my dad to London for life-saving medical treatment.
A year later, in 1988, the rest of us arrived in the UK. We didn’t speak a word of English at first and this strange land with its skyscrapers and busy motorways was utterly bewildering. But we were extremely thankful for our freedom, embracing our new life and the opportunity London gave us.
Blotting out the horrors of my past, my childhood was fairly normal – though worlds apart from everything I’d ever known in Kurdistan. After graduating from university, I began working in the City, juggling full-time employment with my role as a single mum. Life was hectic, but very comfortable, and I never lost sight of how lucky I was to have this second chance.
In the summer of 2014, I watched in disbelief as a new devastating humanitarian crisis unfolded in my homeland. Unsettling old memories resurfaced as ISIS tore through the region, killing hundreds of innocent people and destroying entire communities. I was only 32 at the time; how could I witness the second genocide of my life? It didn’t seem possible.
The tales of suffering and despair flooding every newsfeed made me realise how disconnected I’d grown from my past. As I imagined myself in these women’s shoes, I knew I had to do something to help, and it was then that I took the plunge and quit my job. After arriving back in Kurdistan, I joined the Rwanga Foundation as an aid worker. My eye-opening first day was spent on a helicopter delivering aid to displaced Yazidis, who were trapped on Mount Sinjar after fleeing ISIS.
Witnessing such defenceless people scrabbling desperately for food, water and clothing was heartbreaking, but it changed everything for me. My focus in life had shifted dramatically almost overnight, and I threw myself into working with displaced people and refugees for the next 15 months. While it was mentally and physically exhausting, it was also incredibly rewarding. But then, after returning to London earlier this year, I became fixated on a more effective longterm strategy. Seeing the need for a sustainable approach, I set up a non-profit called The Lotus Flower, which is dedicated to helping vulnerable women and girls.
As you’ll by now have realised, this is where you come in. Our first project is called Sewing Sisters, and is an income-generating scheme funding women to make textile-based products which we can sell. Giving them a chance to work and make money is a huge step in their journey back to independence, while also giving them a space to meet and confide in other women.
Of course, I can’t simply heal their wounds with a magic wand. I still have regular flashbacks to my own childhood, and know personally that such deep-rooted pain never fully disappears. But in the same way my family and I were given reason to believe in a future again, I passionately believe we can offer a true ray of hope to these women.
So far, I’ve raised £25,000 to start the project, but I need £75,000 to sustain it for one year. I’m aiming to hit £2,000 for the bike ride – although naturally, I’ll be forever grateful if you can help me smash that sum to reach the target for one year.
This ride isn’t just a physical challenge. And it isn’t about a random person begging you for a donation. It’s about a woman once saved by the kindness of strangers, who is now desperate to give something back.
My commitment to this cause comes from the depths of my heart, and I hope you may feel inspired to help too – because every penny really will change lives.
If you’ve read this far then thank you. I’ve opened my heart and hope you’ll do the same.
Yours hopefully,
Taban Shoresh
P.S. You can sponsor my bike ride here. If you would like to donate larger amounts please make donations here or contact me directly. Thank you in advance xx
