السَّلاَمُ عَلَيْكُمْ وَرَحْمَةُ اللهِ وَبَرَكَاتُهُ

I’ve never done anything like this in my life.

But some moments in the world break you in a way that makes standing still impossible. Some moments force you to look at your own comfort, your own safety, your own blessings — and realise that others are fighting just to survive the next hour.

On April 26th, I will run 26.2 miles through the streets of London. Not for a medal. Not for a finish time. Not for myself.

I’m running for Gaza.

For the mothers who put their children to sleep not knowing if they’ll wake up.  

For the fathers digging through rubble with their bare hands.  

For the children whose laughter has been replaced by fear.  

For the families who have lost everything except their faith that the world still has good people in it.

This marathon is nothing compared to what they endure. My pain will last hours — theirs has lasted generations.

But this is something I can do. A small act. A small sacrifice. A small way of saying:  

You are not forgotten. Your lives matter. Your suffering matters.

And this is where I need you.

Your donation — whatever you can give — can become food, medicine, warmth, and hope. It can become a message to a family in Gaza that someone, somewhere, chose compassion over comfort.

If my run moves you, please donate.  

If their pain moves you, please share.  

If your heart feels even a flicker of empathy, let it become action.

Let’s make every mile mean something.  

Let’s carry Gaza in our hearts as I carry them through every step of those 26.2 miles.