Meet The Woman Who Writes Her Daughter A Goodbye Letter Every Time She Travels

Shannon Galpin, 41, first travelled to Afghanistan to help empower women when her daughter Devon was just three. Here, she explains why she writes her a farewell letter every time she visits the war-torn country...

goodbye letters

by Harriet Hernando |
Published on

Devon, if you're reading this, then the worst will have happened. I want you to know how much I love you. You’ve made me so proud and it has been such a gift watching you grow every day into a strong young woman. I want you to know that I died fighting to make the world a better place for you and girls like you. We all have a responsibility to contribute to the global community and to help others who are less well off. Be grateful for the opportunities you have and use them to give back. I’m so sorry I’m not by your side, but I hope that my guidance will be with you every step of the way.’

So far, I’ve written 21 of these letters since I first made the dangerous journey to Afghanistan to help empower women. Now, I train the women’s national cycling team and visit three times a year for up to a month at a time. In my letters, I record all the things I would have said to her

as she goes through her life, how proud I was when she said that she wanted to be like me when she grew up. This time, I’ve also enclosed a locket for Devon, now 11, to match the one around my neck, which I wear like a talisman every day we’re apart. I see the letters as a karmic token. If I write them, they’ll never need to be delivered.

Despite the fall of the Taliban, Afghanistan is still a dangerous place.

My decision to first spend time there shocked my friends and relatives

in Colorado, USA. They wondered why I was leaving behind my daughter and

a comfortable life as a sports trainer and Pilates instructor in a sleepy town for a war zone. But before Devon was born, I’d lived briefly in Beirut, travelling through Lebanon and Syria before the current conflict and falling in love with the region.

I hope Devon grows up to see a mother who fought for change

A phone call had changed everything. My sister Larissa, 20, called to say she had been raped on her college campus. I felt sick as memories that I had tried so hard to forget gushed to the forefront of my mind. Eleven years earlier, I too was raped by a stranger, when I was 18, in a park near my home in Minneapolis.

As I began researching the odds of two sisters being attacked, I discovered an appalling history of gender-based violence, especially in Afghanistan – rated one of the worst places in the world to be a woman. They were banned from going to school, having a job, or leaving home without a chaperone. Punishments under the Taliban for disobedience were often brutal: flogging, stoning and sexual violence.

Every time I read a story about rape, I could feel my attacker’s hands around my throat all over again. I realised that I needed to channel this sadness and rage into something positive, so I set up an organisation to give women a voice.

I realised it wasn’t medication or therapy that gave me my confidence back, but going out on my bicycle. I’d also read how, throughout history, the bicycle had empowered women. I felt that if women challenged the taboo of riding bikes in Afghanistan (where some believe that it’s obscene for a woman to straddle a saddle, others that it could even take her virginity and honour) more women would be able to travel to school and university, midwives would be able to reach families in rural communities, and women would begin to win back their freedom.

I set up a not-for-profit organisation called Mountain2Mountain and, in 2006, announced plans to teach women how to ride bikes in Afghanistan. By the time the trip came around, Devon was three. It was the first time I’d been apart from her and it was heartbreaking. I worried something would happen to her, or that I’d simply miss the little things. It was difficult to explain about my work, but when she was around five, she said, ‘I hate you leaving, Mummy, but the Afghan girls are really lucky to have you, so I’m willing to share.’

goodbye letters
Shannon Galpin with Afghan soldiers in Kabul, 2014

My ex and I were divorcing, but we remained friends and decided to co-parent Devon. He’s based in Colorado, but every time I had to go to Afghanistan, he’d take her to see his family back home in England.

Afghanistan was like taking a step back in time. The roads were filled with potholes and flooded. As I drove around Kabul with my interpreter, I noticed that most of the women wore burkas or headscarves and were accompanied by men.

In time, I built a heroin rehabilitation centre (Afghanistan is the world’s largest illicit opium producer), computer lab for girls, school for the deaf, set up reading classes in women’s prisons, and launched midwifery programmes. I felt a physical ache being away from Devon. It made me think long and hard about my path.

Then, in 2012, I heard about the women’s national cycling team – a real opportunity to make a radical difference. I had brought my mountain bike to Afghanistan, but I’d never seen another woman on a bike before as it’s such a big taboo. Yet here was a group of women riding as an organised team. I pledged to support them via Mountain2Mountain, both financially and as a mentor, training the team to ride as a peloton (pack) and giving nutritional advice.

Even though the Taliban were overthrown, they still control large areas and will target you because you’re a foreigner. My guesthouse in Kabul was bombed. I hid in my room while gunfire was going off outside, and escaped shaken but unharmed. When I’m riding with the team, men throw stones at us. Once, the team captain was hit by a man on a motorcycle. The coach has been beaten up and I’ve been sent death threats.

Writing the letters forces me to consider whether the risks are worth it. I hope Devon grows up to see a mother who fought for change, who fought for her and for girls on the other side of the planet. I hope she’d understand that you cannot sit back and wish things were different; it’s your responsibility to contribute in some way, no matter how big or small.

Now Devon is 11, she watches the news and understands the danger. It makes leaving harder than ever, but I know she’s proud of me. We talk over Skype and she tells me that she wants other girls her age to be able to ride bikes and have the same chances she has.

Once, when I was riding with the girls, a little boy came up – he must have been six or seven – and pulled on my sleeves. He told me that, after watching the girls, he was going to teach his sister how to ride a bike. For me, that is what it’s all about.

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