My name is Kailash Heerah. I will be 44 this month. I am homeless in the UK. I was born in Mauritius and raised in a small town in the east of the island called Bel-Air. I belong to the Indian community who came from the subcontinent at the end of the nineteenth century as low-wage labourers (known pejoratively as “coolies”) to work in the sugar cane fields. Exile and exploitation had been my ancestors’ condition. And like a family curse, this condition has stuck with me, chasing me like an indelible shadow from Mauritius to the United Kingdom, where in those last five years I have tried everything to overcome it. But, I have failed. Like my ancestors, I have been abused and exploited. So much so that this year after four months of homelessness, I have tried to put an abrupt end to the misery of my life. But I have survived. I have been rescued by Emmanuel, a Cambridge PhD student, also a Foodbank volunteer who opened up his heart and home to give me shelter and affection when no one else did. He fed me, housed me, and paid for my kids home. He made me feel human again. And thanks to him I am flying back home at the end of this month (August), and though I come empty-handed with nothing in my luggage, I fly back knowing that I have been given an unexpected second chance. But to fully realise this second chance, I need a sustainable income home. And this is where you, dear reader, could be of great help to me. I would love to set up a small fishing company for me and my two kids, where I could take foreign tourists on an authentic Mauritian fishing experience. But before I set sail, some initial costs of roughly £4,000 are needed for food, a roof above my head, and the necessary equipment and paperwork to begin work. With your support and donation I can launch this family business and ultimately prove the curse of my ancestry wrong. Together, you can give me a second life! But before I go over why and how the funds will be used, let me first tell you something about my first life. My life. My parents, like many Indians of my island, were compelled to marry. Love had not been an option for them. Our dad left the house when I was only 15. As the eldest of four siblings I had to quit school, my budding dreams, as well as the prospect of higher and better education (perhaps university given my good grades) to find whatever first job there was to support mum and my siblings. I started with what I could as an itinerant merchant, carrying chairs and other furnitures on my back which I haggled and sold from house to house, village to village to get a few Mauritian rupees for home. I was a teenager, my body frail and fragile, and I remember the physical pain of the job. But I had no choice. I was the eldest. The money was needed. And so it is that ever since I have been 15, I have worked very hard running from menial jobs to other more menial jobs, usually combining them, to provide for those I love, my mum, my siblings and a few years later my own two children. But my dear mum passed away too early of brain cancer when I was only 21. The family soon divided over the ownership of the house. Then, my wife left me and my kids shortly after I turned 28. I was left with my two beautiful kids, Jhanvi and Jasver, whom I decided to raise on my own with the support of my grandfather. I worked long days, organised morning and afternoon-care, had to console them in the absence of their mother, and progressively taught myself the rewarding but difficult métier of single parenthood. In 2018 I tried my luck. I was 39 then. My kids 13 and 11, were old enough emotionally to stay with their grandfather and survive without me. But above all, they were young and could still be spared from having to enter the workplace too early like I had to do myself. I was ready to do anything for them not to repeat my past, one which had not given me many options in life. I decided to move to the UK for them. I gathered all the money I had saved, asked for a loan from friends, and came to England on a touristic visa. I never visited any site. The exact day after my arrival I was already working. I was an illegal, because I was working and had no right to work. And this, in hindsight, was the costliest mistake of my life. The one that almost cost my life. But, I could not have known then. I thought I was privileged enough to have found work in one of the most prestigious and sought-after industries of the UK, an industry that makes roughly 4 billion pounds a year. I had found work in the horse racing industry, the “Sport of Kings”, doing farm work for a world-renowned trainer whose racehorses compete in big events, such as the prominent Royal Ascot. I was about to work for Seamus Durack, a reputed Irish horsebreaker in Lambourn, Berkshire. I was excited, and I was thankful, because I had been given a shot as an illegal. The English countryside hid a darker and more miserable reality. In all the farms I ended up working in, from Lambourn in Berkshire, East Appleton in the North to Newmarket in East Anglia, from all the trainers I ended up working for, from Seamus Durack, Jamie Magee, Archie Watson, Luke Gibson, Phil Kirby to Adam Kirby, I discovered another side of the equine industry, less royal and flamboyant than it seemed from the outside. I fell back into exploitation. I was back at square one. But this time unlike home I was all alone. I had no family and friends. Far out in the fields, fenced off from social life, I was left at the mercy of trainers and jockeys, who did not bother to know my name. I was simply called Kevin. It was easier to remember than my oriental Kailash. My only source of warmth was the presence of those graceful animals, whom I cared for daily. Every Monday I was forced back to my inhumane condition for another six days. And this condition was not far from the coolie-condition of my ancestors. I never earned more than 150£ a week, sleeping in shared caravans or makeshift sheds, usually without electricity and often without running water. The days were long and the winters were cold. When needed, I was abused. I was insulted, blamed for mistakes I hadn’t committed, and beaten up once. I have two splintered ribs from one of my drunk trainers. When not needed, I was simply thrown out in the streets, and abused again. In the space of five years, I was laid off 8 times, kicked out from one day to the next without any prior notice. Knowing no one in the country, and not being given enough time to plan, I landed in the street 8 times. Every time I scrambled to get food, cardboard to insulate myself from the cold of the concrete, and a small corner where I could stay protected from the rain and make desperate calls to try my luck another time, to find another workplace. Luck usually came after a month or two months. In the meantime, I was crying for help, stinking, and freezing to death. Were it not for the love of my kids back home, and the support of local charities and churches who kindly fed me, the wheel of (mis)fortune would have stopped early for me. For the love of my kids, I somehow learned and managed to survive. I rejoiced at the thought that my son and daughter were safe and warm. Through my own suffering, I knew that they were not repeating the curse of my past. I always managed to transfer £400 every month, and when unemployed, I had saved enough to keep the transfer running. For Christmas and at their birthdays, I usually succeeded in sending a little something extra to make them feel loved. This was the most I could console myself with as an absent father. And this was strong enough to have made me hold on for five years. But then, at the start of 2024, after having been thrown in the streets for an eighth time, I struggled to find my luck again. I was laid off at the end of February in Newmarket, and two months later, after a never ending winter, holding out as much I could through blistering nights, I still had not been able to find anything. This was the longest I had been in the streets. I was looking everywhere, looking outside the horse racing industry. And yet, I was turned away. The weeks unfolded. I knew I was soon going to run out of savings for my kids. My grandfather had passed away after the second wave of COVID in 2024, and I was their only source of support. I had no back up at home. If I failed, my kids would be forced to repeat my curse, if not, worse: become homeless. I searched for every notice about how to go back home, and I stumbled upon the Voluntary Return Scheme of the Home Office. The UK government was offering illegal migrant a ticket back home and some “financial support of up to £3,000 to find somewhere to live, find a job or start a business”. That was it. Why had I not read about it before? Why did no one tell me this before? I felt relieved. I would be back home in a week. I could pay for the pending bills. And then with my kids safe and warm the rest of my sorrows would not matter anymore. Of course, this didn’t go as planned. I didn’t know much about bureaucracy, and I have never understood much about technology either. I tried to apply online, but on the first page of the form, I had to give in my address. How could I ? I had not had shelter for two months. I rang and they put me on hold for two hours to reach a receptionist, and from there it took another two hours to be transferred to an advisor. I know that because I only managed to reach an advisor once. And when I did, in the middle of my call, my phone battery suddenly died. I tried to repeat the process for another week, but to no avail. Either the battery, either my impatience failed to reach advice. I did not manage to apply online. And one morning my mobile contract terminated. It was the first of June. I had forgotten to pay my subscription. And I could not call any more. Worse, it meant I had not sent money to my kids this month. How would they pay their June rent? How would they eat? The anxieties took over. I had tried everything. I cried and despaired like at no point in my five years. I was the sole culprit of their future misery. I had failed at the only thing that mattered, I had failed as a dad. I felt immense guilt. And I desired to punish myself before I would have to hear anything bad from them. One night, I decided to end it all. But, like everything in my life, I failed again. I failed to end my life. Found lying half-dead by the local Police, I landed at Bury St Edmunds Hospital for intoxication and hypothermia. Four days later, I was discharged. I had been saved. But what for? Nothing had changed. The hospital had warmly declined to help me get through my online application. I had been met with an “I’m afraid, we can’t”. I was therefore sent back to Newmarket. Two days later, I intoxicated myself again. I went back to Bury St Edmunds. My health had seriously aggravated then. My body temperature had dropped to a dangerous 33°C. The prognosis was grim, and I needed intensive care. I was rushed to Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge in the middle of the night. And here, at the door of death, as I was slipping into coma, I was given an unexpected second lease of life. Because, I had arrived in Cambridge, and this where I met Emmanuel, my good Samaritan. Cambridge saved me. First, the hospital its doctors and nurses. But this would not have been sufficient. After a week in the ward, I was discharged again. This time, I was sent to Wintercomfort, a social institution in town, which provides advice, lunch, and shower to homeless people, and where I have been met with great professionalism. They took care of my online application from the first day I knocked at their door. And if I am flying by the end of this month on a Voluntary Return ticket, I owe it to their immense support, to the innumerable phone calls and emails they have sent on my behalf. But Wintercomfort could not take me out of the streets, and they could not do anything about the pressing needs of my two children. And this is where things really changed for me, because I met Manu (Emmanuel), someone I can call a friend now. He is a PhD student at Cambridge from Switzerland, and a volunteer at the local Foodbank by Saint Paul’s Church, and for me he is some kind of saviour. I still don’t exactly know why he went so far into helping me. I came to the Foodbank Friday afternoon, after I had spent my morning at Wintercomfort. This was the same day I had been dispatched from the Hospital. I was following a group of rough-sleepers who were heading there to get some food and coffee. I met him, and I told him everything. I wanted to get home. But I couldn’t. He listened. He understood. And, after two hours, we bonded. I could speak French with him. That helped ! But my life story touched him even more. After our discussion, he asked me where I was going to sleep and he promised to visit me there every day. And so he did. For two weeks, he packed me food, talked to me in French, made me laugh, and even bought me a football to take me away from the anxiety that came from being back in the street. We exchanged quite a bit. And I confessed all my sorrows. This helped me a lot. Now, I know from him that this is called abreaction. But, he did not only listen. He heard about my kids, and without me asking for it, he paid for their bills. He sent them money twice through Western Union. He disbursed £600. And for a PhD student, this is a lot of money. But he didn’t care. He only cared about my kids not being thrown in the streets. And then ten days ago, as the weather was about to turn really bad over the sky of Cambridge, Manu decided to take me home. I was not a rough sleeper anymore, neither a victim of modern slavery. For the first time in five years, I was housed as a friend. That same evening, his girlfriend Dodo, and his older brother Tim who was visiting for the weekend from Switzerland joined as well. I had just had a home-made meal for the first time in years. I felt again what it was like to be in the comfort of a family. This same night, curled up in fresh bedsheets, I slept through the night. I was surrounded by loving people, and was ready to go home. The project. The UK government gave me, alongside my flight ticket, minimal financial support to help me get back on my feet, and I am grateful for that. I know how to work, and very hard indeed, but Tim, another angel for me, taught me how to invest. He has supported me to think proactively about my future (he currently works in Switzerland for a foundation that helps unemployed people get back into the workplace). I had revealed to him my oldest passion in Mauritius was fishing. 'If you give a man a fish, he will eat one day. If you teach him to fish, he will eat every day'. Tim realised this was where I could find my place. But the plan is not simply to bring fish to the table as the slogan goes. This would not be enough to live on. Instead, my goal is to buy a boat that takes tourists and visitors on a fishing tour through the blue waters of Mauritius, leaving from the sea village of Trou d’Eau Douce on the east coast, and providing them with an authentic fishing experience involving Creole cuisine. The project is called “Horizon Marin”, and, with my passion for fishing, I hope to reap some of the fruitful revenues of the tourism industry, and work with local hotels and B&B hosts. I speak four languages: French, English, and Hindi, in addition to my Mauritian creole, and even if I have been scarred by my rough time in England, I have not lost my warmth and my sense of hospitality. This is what Manu, Tim, and Dodo keep telling me. And I take their words on this. I am eager to meet good and amicable people through this job, and erase the past. But what I care about most is that this project would enable my two kids to work alongside me and give them a first job experience that does not include the hardship I was left to live through at their age. They can help me prepare Creole food by setting up a tent and making a fire so that our visitors can enjoy the taste of their own catch when back from the fishing tour. I dream that perhaps, some day, my kids will take over the business. This is where one story ends, and where another may begin. But to ensure that the project Horizon Marin works, I ask for your help, dear reader. I am looking for roughly £4,000 in donation. I need it to launch Horizon Marin and make sure it does no sink before it sails. Because from the money £3,000 received from the UK government I will put £1,500 aside, half of the sum, to ensure that during my first 4 months I give myself the time to set up the fishing company, while paying for the house bills and for food, without having to work except for the project itself. I am therefore left with £1,500 to invest in the fishing project, which as you may read from the budget outlined below, is not enough to cover all of the costs, especially those of buying a boat and a motor. This is where your aid could be life-transforming. However big or small your contribution, your support will go a long way into giving me, and my kids, a second life! Thank you very much. The budget (in British pounds). Fishing Fishing boat 1700 Boat motor 900 Fishing equipment 300 Safety equipment 300 Navigation equipment 100 Kitchen Tent 350 Table and chairs 300 Kitchen utensils 100 Cutlery 50 Stoves 100 Coolers 100 Branding Boat branding (i.e. paint) 200 Uniform + Cards 200 Social Network (offered by Tim) Website (offered by Tim) SEA /SEO (Google) (offered by Tim) Administrative Tourism permit (year) 200 Food permit (year) 100 Personal House rent (4 months) 1000 Food costs (4 months) 500 ——————————————————— TOTAL SETUP COSTS £ 7,000 UK VOL. RETURN FUND - £ 3,000 MISSING AMOUNT £ 4,000
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