I met Sukri in the women’s ward of a leprosy hospital in rural West Bengal, India. The ward was basic. Women and girls of all ages sat or lay on old-fashioned metal hospital beds wearing their own brightly-coloured clothes.
Their ulcers and wounds – mainly on feet, legs and hands – were laid bare for all to see, as the nurses had removed the dressings for inspection. I took a deep breath knowing that what I would see would be distressing and stomach-turning.As the doctor examined each patient she would tell me a little of their story and show me the impact of leprosy on their body.
Sukri was sitting on the bed at the far end of the ward, and as we reached her I asked if it would be OK to ask her a few questions and take her picture. She nodded shyly as the request was translated.
I asked Sukri how she came to be in the hospital and she chatted to Dr Joydeepa, who explained that Sukri had been found on the railway station, living on the platform. A stranger who knew of the hospital saw her ulcers and brought her there. I glanced down at Surki’s feet, her left foot a stump with all the toes missing, her right foot severely deformed, with a large ulcer deep into the flesh. Her hands were bent, with some fingers shortened and misshapen, and the rest frozen and drawn in towards her palms. I looked at her face, noting the flattened appearance of her nose and deformed jawline.
Dr Joydeepa told me that when Sukri’s mother died, her uncle and cousins turned against her. They poured petrol on her and tried to set her alight. When she survived, managing to put out the flames, they chased her from her home and village with knives and sticks. They wanted to kill her, or at least drive her away, because of her leprosy.
It was a matter-of-fact, straightforward account. I felt a cold wave of emotion hit me, although the ward was hot and humid. This hatred towards Sukri had been fueled by a terror of leprosy – not centuries ago but in 2014.
Sukri had escaped with her life but I was struck by her immense loss – of her home, community, family and friends. My work as a fundraiser changed that hot August day in 2014 when I met Sukri. I realised that without this hospital she would truly be an outcast, a victim of brutality and ignorance. Because of the hospital and its staff, she was welcomed, accepted and valued. In that moment, this seemed so much more important than medical treatment.
A few months prior to this trip, I had joined the Leprosy Mission England & Wales as head of fundraising. This was my first time meeting people affected by leprosy and seeing the charity’s work in action. I was prepared to see the deformities that leprosy causes, stumps where feet had once been, blind unblinking eyes and terrible sores and ulcers.
But I was not prepared for a true story of utter hatred aimed towards an innocent person with a curable disease.
Sukri is the reason I press on when my work is hard. When I am at my desk in Peterborough worrying about how we are going to meet our fundraising targets, I think of Sukri. I know that when our supporters make donations they are giving people like Sukri the chance of a new life and a new family.
As a fundraiser, my job is very much behind the scenes. I’m not the person administering medication to cure people of leprosy, or undertaking surgery on unusable hands. I’m not even the person giving the money to make this work possible. I’m just a conduit between the donor and the beneficiary, telling the donor about the needs of people living thousands of miles away, relaying to them the difference their giving is making, and getting their donations to the doctors who can make miracles happen.
But on that day, in a hospital ward in India, I realised that this flow of giving, leading to needs met and lives changed, wouldn’t happen without me and others like me. Without fundraisers, Sukri would at best still be living on a railway station with terrible sores, begging for survival, rejected by everyone she knew and loved. This was the day I realised that I make a difference.
Sukri is a pseudonym.
The day I made a difference is the Guardian Voluntary Sector Network’s series that showcases the work of people involved with charities. If you have a story you want to share email voluntarysectornetwork@theguardian.com with a short summary of your experience.
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