Centre of Porto, Portugal, August 2025

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ESP: La versión en español sigue a la versión en inglés
POL: Polska wersja na końcu wiadomości


English Version

Dear Friends,

I have just returned from my summer in Portugal, and it felt like stepping into a painting made of light. The days there gave me exactly what I needed: time to breathe, to gather myself, to feel sun on my skin and sea wind in my lungs. There were long afternoons wandering through whitewashed towns, evenings with friends around the table, conversations that lasted until night deepened, and mornings where the Atlantic seemed to hold the horizon still. Portugal always carries a piece of my heart, and this summer it gave me back the strength I hadn’t realised I was missing.

Back in Caracas, life returns to its rhythm of work and responsibility. Yet, outside that daily rhythm, there is another pulse that drives me now more than ever: the writing of Memoir of a Wandering Spirit. What began as a quiet idea has grown into a journey of its own — one that pulls me deep into memories, landscapes, and people who shaped me. Many of you have offered encouragement already, and I want to thank you. Your words remind me that this story matters beyond myself, and they keep me moving forward.

So far, the manuscript carries me from a childhood in Biegonice, a village wrapped in orchards and coal smoke, into the long corridors of hospitals — Prokocim, Konstancin, Zakopane. These early chapters are filled with both confinement and unexpected wonder: nurses who became storytellers, doctors who weighed life against risk, and the operation during Martial Law that saved me.

From there the story opens outward. School years in Nowy Sącz brought letters that travelled further than I could, pen-friends who showed me the world through paper and ink, and first encounters with love and loss. Early adulthood was restless: translation work in offices that felt too small, the struggle of London — sometimes homeless, often hungry, but never willing to let go of the dream of studying abroad. Kraków followed, its classrooms austere, its streets romantic, but its promise never quite fitting — like the second-hand suit I wore to my first lecture, stiff and ill-matched.

College time in Denmark was different. There I found not only an education but a community: growing food, debating through the night, preparing to travel to the wider world. From there the world broke open — India’s dazzling chaos and aching contradictions, Pakistan’s shadows where danger came too close, Iran and Turkey where the journey home became both pilgrimage and test. These travels changed me — not in one moment, but in a slow unfolding of awe, exhaustion, and the recognition that borders divide far more than land.

Later chapters bring quieter passages: Iceland, where silence was sacred and friendships anchored me; Canada, where family ties offered warmth but belonging felt incomplete. Then came Angola: Quissala’s orphanage, Luanda’s streets pulsing with contradictions, and Pedro, a boy once stolen into war who longed to become a teacher. His story became one of the most powerful I have ever carried.

The narrative moves again: Finland’s snowbound stillness, New York’s restless skyline, Nowy Sącz’s return, and then Paris, where humanitarian training rooms and late-night walks by the Seine opened the next chapter of my life. Afghanistan followed — Kabul at dawn, the weight of silence in Ghazi Stadium, the children in the wards. And then Sudan, where the Nile divided not just land but lives: Khartoum’s boulevards, Wau’s hunger wards, the sound of bombs in the distance, and the fragile miracle of survival.

Here are a few glimpses from the draft, to give you a taste of its voice:

“Kacper was born in a house that smelled of bread and coal, in a village with a name like a poem: Biegonice. It clung to the edge of Nowy Sącz like a quiet question, wrapped in orchards and seasons and neighbours who remembered the war as if it were yesterday.”

“It was powerful because it was ordinary — ordinary for Luanda, but so utterly extraordinary to him. He realised, for the first time with painful clarity, that what seemed like destitution to him was daily life for the people around him. It wasn’t a spectacle. It wasn’t exceptional. It was simply life — ordinary in ways he had never understood.”

“Afghanistan had taught him many things, but that day it taught him this: cruelty can wear the face of your neighbour, and kindness can live in the same heart that has seen too much to know the difference. And perhaps the hardest truth of all — that some things you carry away from a place are not its mountains.”

“Beyond the runway, the Nile curved through the city, broad and unhurried, carrying with it the weight of a war that refused to end.”

So far, this is where the manuscript has taken me. But much remains ahead — finishing the first draft, filling the gaps, then returning again and again through the patient, difficult process of editing and shaping until the story finds its true form.

For now, I carry on, guided by memory, by fragments of journals and photographs, but also by the encouragement many of you have given me. Thank you for that — it means more than I can express.

I hope you, too, have found rest in these months: a summer in the north, a winter in the south, moments that gave you pause and renewal. I would love to hear how you’ve been, what carried you through, what surprised you.

With warmth,
Roman

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Versión en Español

Queridos amigos,

Acabo de regresar de mi verano en Portugal, y fue como entrar en un cuadro hecho de luz. Los días allí me dieron lo que más necesitaba: tiempo para respirar, para recomponerme, para sentir el sol en la piel y el viento del mar en los pulmones. Hubo largas tardes paseando por pueblos encalados, noches con amigos alrededor de la mesa, conversaciones que se alargaban hasta bien entrada la noche, y mañanas en que el Atlántico parecía detener el horizonte. Portugal siempre guarda un pedazo de mi corazón, y este verano me devolvió una fuerza que no sabía que había perdido.

De vuelta en Caracas, la vida retoma su ritmo de trabajo y responsabilidad. Sin embargo, fuera de ese ritmo cotidiano, hay otro pulso que me impulsa ahora más que nunca: la escritura de Memoir of a Wandering Spirit. Lo que empezó como una idea silenciosa se ha convertido en un viaje propio — uno que me lleva profundamente a recuerdos, paisajes y personas que me marcaron. Varios de vosotros ya me habéis ofrecido palabras de ánimo, y os lo agradezco de corazón. Vuestro apoyo me recuerda que esta historia importa más allá de mí, y me da fuerzas para seguir.

Hasta ahora, el manuscrito me ha llevado desde la infancia en Biegonice, un pueblo rodeado de huertos y humo de carbón, hasta los largos pasillos de hospitales — Prokocim, Konstancin, Zakopane. Esos primeros capítulos están llenos tanto de encierro como de maravillas inesperadas: enfermeras que se hicieron cuentacuentos, médicos que pesaban la vida contra el riesgo, y la operación en plena Ley Marcial que me salvó.

Después la historia se abre. Los años escolares en Nowy Sącz trajeron cartas que viajaban más lejos de lo que yo podía, amigos por correspondencia que me mostraron el mundo con papel y tinta, y los primeros encuentros con el amor y la pérdida. La primera adultez fue inquieta: trabajos de traducción en oficinas demasiado pequeñas, las luchas en Londres — a veces sin techo, a menudo con hambre, pero nunca renunciando al sueño de estudiar en el extranjero. Luego vino Cracovia, con aulas austeras y calles románticas, pero con promesas que nunca llegaron a encajar — como el traje de segunda mano que llevaba a mis primeras clases, rígido y desajustado.

El tiempo de universidad en Dinamarca fue distinto. Allí encontré no solo una educación, sino una comunidad: cultivar la tierra, debatir hasta la madrugada, prepararme para viajar por el mundo. Desde allí, el horizonte se abrió: la India deslumbrante y contradictoria, Pakistán con sombras donde el peligro estaba demasiado cerca, Irán y Turquía, donde el camino de regreso se volvió peregrinaje y prueba. Esos viajes me cambiaron poco a poco — no en un solo momento, sino en un lento despliegue de asombro, cansancio y la certeza de que las fronteras dividen mucho más que la tierra.

Los capítulos siguientes traen pasajes más tranquilos: Islandia, donde el silencio era sagrado y las amistades me sostenían; Canadá, donde los lazos familiares ofrecieron calor, aunque sin un verdadero sentido de pertenencia. Luego llegó Angola: el orfanato de Quissala, las calles de Luanda palpitando contradicciones, y Pedro, un muchacho arrancado por la guerra que soñaba con ser maestro. Su historia se convirtió en una de las más poderosas que he llevado conmigo.

La narrativa se mueve de nuevo: la quietud nevada de Finlandia, el horizonte inquieto de Nueva York, el regreso a Nowy Sącz, y luego París, donde las salas de formación humanitaria y los paseos nocturnos junto al Sena abrieron el siguiente capítulo de mi vida. Después llegó Afganistán — Kabul al amanecer, el peso del silencio en el estadio Ghazi, los niños en las salas de hospital. Y luego Sudán, donde el Nilo no solo divide tierras sino vidas: los bulevares de Jartum, las salas de desnutrición en Wau, el sonido de bombas a lo lejos, y el milagro frágil de la supervivencia.

Aquí comparto algunos fragmentos del borrador, para daros un sabor de su voz:

«Kacper nació en una casa que olía a pan y carbón, en un pueblo con un nombre como un poema: Biegonice. Se aferraba al borde de Nowy Sącz como una pregunta silenciosa, rodeado de huertos, estaciones y vecinos que recordaban la guerra como si hubiera sido ayer.»

«Era poderoso porque era ordinario — ordinario para Luanda, pero tan absolutamente extraordinario para él. Se dio cuenta, por primera vez con dolorosa claridad, de que lo que a él le parecía miseria era la vida cotidiana de la gente que lo rodeaba.»

«Afganistán le enseñó muchas cosas, pero ese día le enseñó esto: la crueldad puede llevar el rostro de tu vecino, y la bondad puede vivir en el mismo corazón que ha visto demasiado como para distinguir ya la diferencia.»

«Más allá de la pista, el Nilo se curvaba por la ciudad, amplio e imperturbable, llevando consigo el peso de una guerra que se negaba a terminar.»

Hasta aquí ha llegado el manuscrito. Pero queda aún mucho por hacer — terminar el primer borrador, llenar los huecos, y luego el paciente proceso de editar y dar forma para que la historia pueda vivir en la página.

Por ahora sigo adelante, guiado por recuerdos, fragmentos de diarios y fotografías, pero también por el ánimo que muchos de vosotros me habéis dado. Gracias — significa más de lo que puedo expresar.

Espero que también vosotros hayáis encontrado descanso en estos meses: un verano en el norte, un invierno en el sur, momentos que os hayan regalado pausa y renovación. Me encantaría saber cómo estáis, qué os ha sostenido, qué os ha sorprendido.

Con cariño,
Roman

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Polska wersja

Kochani,

Właśnie wróciłem z lata spędzonego w Portugalii i było to jak wejście w obraz namalowany światłem. Te dni dały mi dokładnie to, czego potrzebowałem: czas, by odetchnąć, nabrać sił, poczuć słońce na skórze i wiatr znad oceanu w płucach. Były długie popołudnia w bielonych miasteczkach, wieczory z przyjaciółmi przy stole, rozmowy przeciągające się do późnej nocy i poranki, gdy Atlantyk zdawał się zatrzymywać horyzont. Portugalia zawsze nosi we mnie kawałek serca, a tego lata podarowała mi energię, której brak uświadomiłem sobie dopiero, gdy ją odzyskałem.

Z powrotem w Caracas życie toczy się swoim rytmem pracy i obowiązków. A jednak poza tym codziennym biegiem jest drugi puls, który prowadzi mnie mocniej niż kiedykolwiek: pisanie Memoir of a Wandering Spirit. To, co zaczęło się od cichej myśli, przerodziło się w podróż samą w sobie — w głąb pamięci, krajobrazów i ludzi, którzy mnie ukształtowali. Wielu z Was podzieliło się ze mną słowami wsparcia i chcę za to szczerze podziękować. To przypomina mi, że ta historia ma sens także poza mną samym i daje siłę, by pisać dalej.

Do tej pory rękopis prowadzi od dzieciństwa w Biegonicach, wiosce pachnącej chlebem i węglem, przez długie korytarze szpitali w Prokocimiu, Konstancinie i Zakopanem. W tych pierwszych rozdziałach obok bólu i ograniczeń pojawiają się też cudowne chwile: pielęgniarki snujące opowieści, lekarze ważący życie z ryzykiem, i operacja w czasie Stanu Wojennego, która ocaliła mi przyszłość.

Później historia otwiera się szerzej. Lata szkolne w Nowym Sączu przyniosły listy wędrujące dalej niż ja sam, przyjaźnie korespondencyjne, które pokazywały świat na papierze, a także pierwsze spotkania z miłością i ze stratą. Wczesna dorosłość była pełna niepokoju: tłumaczenia w biurach za ciasnych, by pomieścić marzenia, trudne lata w Londynie — czasem bez dachu nad głową, często głodny, ale nigdy bez marzenia o studiach za granicą. Potem Kraków — z surowymi salami wykładowymi i romantycznymi ulicami, ale też obietnicami, które nigdy nie pasowały, jak garnitur z drugiej ręki, który włożyłem na pierwszy wykład, sztywny i niedopasowany.

Czas studiów w Danii był zupełnie inny. Tam znalazłem nie tylko edukację, ale i wspólnotę: pracę w polu, nocne dyskusje, przygotowania do podróży po świecie. Stamtąd droga zawiodła mnie dalej: Indie — olśniewające i pełne sprzeczności, Pakistan z cieniem zagrożenia, Iran i Turcja, gdzie powrót do Europy stał się jednocześnie pielgrzymką i próbą. Te podróże zmieniały mnie powoli — nie w jednym momencie, lecz w stopniowym otwieraniu się na zachwyt, zmęczenie i świadomość, że granice dzielą znacznie więcej niż tylko ziemię.

Kolejne rozdziały to spokojniejsze przejścia: Islandia, gdzie cisza była świętością, a przyjaźnie dawały zakorzenienie; Kanada, gdzie więzi rodzinne dawały ciepło, choć bez poczucia pełnej przynależności. Potem Angola: sierociniec w Quissali, ulice Luandy pulsujące sprzecznościami, i Pedro — chłopiec zabrany przez wojnę, który marzył, by zostać nauczycielem. Jego historia stała się jedną z najważniejszych, które niosę w sobie.

Opowieść biegnie dalej: śnieżna Finlandia, niepokój Nowego Jorku, powrót do Nowego Sącza i wreszcie Paryż — z salami szkoleniowymi organizacji humanitarnych i nocnymi spacerami nad Sekwaną, które otworzyły nowy rozdział mojego życia. Potem Afganistan — Kabul o świcie, ciężar ciszy na stadionie Ghazi, dzieci w szpitalnych salach. I Sudan, gdzie Nil dzieli nie tylko ziemię, lecz także ludzkie losy: ulice Chartumu, oddziały niedożywionych dzieci w Wau, huk bomb w oddali i krucha codzienność przetrwania.

Kilka fragmentów rękopisu, aby dać Wam przedsmak jego głosu:

„Kacper urodził się w domu, który pachniał chlebem i węglem, we wsi o nazwie jak wiersz: Biegonice. Przylegała do Nowego Sącza jak ciche pytanie, otulona sadami, porami roku i sąsiadami, którzy pamiętali wojnę tak, jakby była wczoraj.”

„Było to potężne, ponieważ było zwyczajne — zwyczajne dla Luandy, ale dla niego absolutnie niezwykłe. Zrozumiał po raz pierwszy, z bolesną jasnością, że to, co jemu wydawało się nędzą, dla ludzi wokół było codziennością.”

„Afganistan nauczył go wielu rzeczy, ale tego dnia nauczył go tego: okrucieństwo może nosić twarz sąsiada, a dobroć może żyć w tym samym sercu, które widziało już zbyt wiele, by umieć rozróżniać.”

„Za pasem startowym Nil zakrzywiał się przez miasto, szeroki i niewzruszony, niosąc ze sobą ciężar wojny, która nie chciała się skończyć.”

Na razie tyle udało się napisać. Ale wciąż czeka mnie ogrom pracy — ukończenie pierwszego rękopisu, uzupełnienie brakujących fragmentów, a potem powolny, cierpliwy proces redagowania i nadawania historii ostatecznego kształtu.

Idę dalej, prowadzony przez pamięć, przez fragmenty dzienników i fotografie, ale także przez wsparcie, które od wielu z Was już otrzymałem. Dziękuję — znaczy to dla mnie więcej, niż potrafię wyrazić.

Mam nadzieję, że i Wy znaleźliście w ostatnich miesiącach chwilę odpoczynku — lato na północy, zimę na południu, momenty, które pozwoliły się zatrzymać i odetchnąć. Bardzo chciałbym usłyszeć, co u Was, co Was niosło i co Was zaskoczyło.

Serdecznie Was pozdrawiam,
Roman

Obidos, Portugal, April 2023

Just a few more days to go — and I can already feel that familiar spark of excitement building. Soon, I’ll be back in Portugal, even if it’s only for a little over a week. Time will be short, but there’s something about returning to a place that feels like home that makes every moment count.

I can already picture myself wandering the cobbled streets of Óbidos, with its whitewashed houses, bright flowers spilling from balconies, and that medieval charm that never gets old. There will be drives through the countryside, lingering lunches, and those quiet moments by the ocean that I’ve missed so much.

There’s another reason this trip feels extra special — I’ll be catching up with dear friends I haven’t seen in far too long, and this time, I’ll also be sharing it all with some of my Venezuelan friends. Hosting them in a place I love will make the experience richer, and I can’t wait to see it through their eyes for the first time.

Short trip or not, I know it will be packed with laughter, good food, and that easy joy that comes from being in the right place with the right people.

Image of the Nutritional Centre in Kabul

Over the past months, I’ve been immersed in writing my memoir — a journey through the many places, people, and moments that have shaped my life. Today, I found myself working on a chapter that takes me back to the very start of my humanitarian career, in Afghanistan in 1999–2000, under Taliban rule.

With World Humanitarian Day approaching, I want to share this passage with you. Though written as part of a fictionalised narrative, it is not far from the truth. The people, the challenges, and the choices reflect realities I have witnessed — impossible situations, extraordinary courage, and suffering that often defies words.

I hope it will spark reflection on what some people must endure simply to survive.


Over the next days, Kacper was taken, step by step, into the quiet heart of GNI’s work in Kabul. There was the ward in the Indira Gandhi Hospital — crowded, hot, and heavy with the sharp, medicinal scent that clung to the air — the smell of a place where life was held together by thin threads — and then the scattered nutritional centres in neighbourhoods further out, where the dust was thicker, the streets narrower, and the war seemed to press closer against the walls. Some were on the edge of the city, almost touching the mountains; others were tucked into quiet courtyards where children’s voices carried through cracked wooden doors.

He was never alone. Amélie, calm and precise, would speak in the measured rhythm of someone used to explaining difficult things. She unfolded the technical side of the work — the weighing, the measuring, the careful re-feeding — until he could almost recite the process himself. Jawed was the other constant. He was the translator not only of language but of the unspoken rules that kept them safe: how to greet an elder, when to lower your gaze, what to say and what never to say under Taliban rule.

It was Jawed who explained the boundaries — that once inside the safety of a GNI compound, the walls gave more than shelter; they gave space for women to be seen. Nurses, doctors, cleaners — their faces uncovered, their voices strong, their laughter carrying in from the courtyards — would welcome him into their world. Under the folds of their burqas were women with fierce intelligence, quick humour, and the quiet defiance of those who refused to stop saving lives.

Kacper listened to them, and slowly began to understand that malnutrition was not simply hunger. Hunger could be satisfied with a meal. Malnutrition was a slow, invisible thief that began its work long before a child’s first cry.

It began in the body of a mother already weakened by years of scarcity, her bones light from not enough food, her blood thin from lack of iron. Poverty was the soil it grew in, but there were other roots: the weight of cultural rules that placed women last at the table, the absence of healthcare that could catch a problem early, the exhaustion of carrying and birthing children too close together. A malnourished mother gives birth to a child already fragile, sometimes too small, sometimes without the strength to suckle.

Without enough food or the right food, she cannot produce enough milk. Without clean water, illness comes quickly. Diarrhoea drains what little strength the child has, fever burns through reserves, a cough lingers and eats away at the body’s defences. Slowly, weight slips away until skin hangs loose over bone, or swelling from oedema gives the false impression of health while the body is collapsing inside.

Malnutrition was not one thing, Kacper realised. It was an entire chain of events — a web of hunger, illness, and neglect, tangled further by tradition and inequality. And in the worst cases, it became a sentence.

There was a line between life and death, and GNI’s work stood on it. Amélie explained that when a child arrived in the worst stage — severely malnourished and unable to digest normal food — giving them a plate of rice or bread could kill them. “Their bodies cannot handle it,” she said softly. “The machinery has shut down. You must wake it slowly.”

That was where F75 and F100 came in — powders mixed with clean water to make a liquid that was not milk in the ordinary sense, but a carefully balanced formula of sugars, oils, proteins, vitamins, and minerals. F75 was the starting point, a gentle reintroduction of fuel to a body on the brink. It gave just enough energy for the organs to begin working again without overloading them. When the child’s body had stabilised, they moved to F100 — richer, more calorific, building weight and strength day by day.

“This is not milk,” Jawed told him, holding up a silver packet in the warehouse days later. “This is a key. Without it, the lock stays closed. If the supply fails — if it is delayed, lost, or runs out — you close the door on them.

Kacper could see it now — how every link mattered. A mother’s decision to bring her child. A nurse’s skill with the feeding cup. A cleaner’s care in keeping disease away. A driver’s ability to get supplies through a checkpoint. His own responsibility to keep the warehouse stocked. If one link broke, the child did not make it.

And then there was the cruelty of culture. Fathers, sometimes without malice but bound by old beliefs, would refuse treatment — especially for girls. Girls ate last, and least. To survive to the age of five was almost a miracle for them. Even then, survival came with scars: stunted growth, damaged minds, and bodies less able to fight the next illness that came along.

Yet in these centres, miracles were made daily. The women of GNI — nurses who fought for each tiny patient, doctors who argued with fathers until they relented, cleaners who brought comfort to grieving mothers — held the line. They treated infections. They buried the children they could not save. They stood in the gap between death and survival, teaching families not only how to pull a child back from the edge but how to keep them from returning to it. They taught with whatever the context allowed: how to make nourishing food from the smallest gardens, how to store clean water, how to use seeds and scraps to keep hunger at bay. And, quietly, how to find strength if the danger in the home could not be escaped.

It was only later, after walking out of one of the centres, that Kacper found his thoughts drifting to Zakopane. To the smell of disinfectant in the wards, the creak of the wooden floors, the way his mother’s face lit up when she was allowed to visit. He had thought, as a child, that he understood what it meant to fight for life — and in his own way, he had. His condition had been complex, the treatments painful, the path uncertain. He had survived because others had fought for him: his family, his doctors, even strangers far away.

But here, the fight was different. Stripped bare. This was not about intricate surgery or rare medicines. It was about whether a child could eat enough to live. Whether the water they drank would keep them alive or kill them. Whether a mother could keep her baby nourished long enough to see another season.

His battle had been hard, but it had never been this. He had never had to wonder if there would be food on the plate or clean water in the cup. And he knew now that the difference was not a measure of whose suffering weighed more, but of how survival could depend on the most basic things — and how, without them, the margin between life and death could be as thin as a spoonful of F75.

And as he walked back through Kabul’s dust, past walls pitted with years of war and markets alive with the stubborn hum of life, he felt something shifting inside him — a quiet tether being tied, thread by thread, to this wounded, unyielding city.

Yes, you guessed it — Kacper is me.

My Office in Panama City, Panama, June 2024

As 19 August approaches, I find myself pausing more than usual, reflecting on what it truly means to mark World Humanitarian Day.

This year feels different — heavier, perhaps. The humanitarian needs across the world are staggering, overwhelming in their scale and urgency. From conflict zones to climate disasters, millions are left without safety, food, or shelter. And yet, as these needs grow, the world seems to lag ever further behind in its response.

For many of us who work in this space, it’s not just about underfunded appeals or dwindling resources — it’s the quiet, corrosive shift in how humanitarianism itself is treated. Too often, aid is manipulated for political gain, instrumentalised to serve agendas that have little to do with saving lives. Worse still, we see attempts to criminalise humanitarian action, to make compassion suspect, to brand the act of offering a helping hand as something to fear or punish.

What cuts deepest is that sometimes, these pressures and abuses come not from hostile regimes but from governments and countries often perceived as open, democratic, and supportive of humanitarian principles — places once seen as allies of humanitarianism. It’s painful. It shakes the very foundations of what drew many of us to this work — the belief that solidarity transcends borders, politics, and prejudice.

Even more heartbreaking is how often we see human suffering deliberately used as a weapon. Starvation, displacement, and the denial of medical care are tactics in conflicts around the world. They are not accidents of war; they are strategies — ones that leave civilians trapped, suffering, and voiceless.

All of this goes hand in hand with an increasing lack of respect for International Humanitarian Law (IHL). In simple terms, IHL is a set of rules designed to limit the horrors of war: to protect civilians, hospitals, schools, and aid workers; to ensure that even in conflict, some lines must not be crossed. It exists not as lofty theory but as a hard-earned safeguard, built on the lessons of unimaginable past atrocities.

I cannot stress enough that upholding IHL is everyone’s business. We are all responsible for demanding accountability from those who violate it. Because when these protections collapse, it is not abstract ideals that suffer — it is people.

I’ve seen it repeatedly: places that seemed prosperous and safe, where life felt unshakably normal, suddenly plunged into crisis, into war. Entire societies that believed “this cannot happen here” found themselves dependent on humanitarian aid, clinging to the protections of IHL.

This is why World Humanitarian Day matters. It is not just a date on a calendar but a quiet act of defiance — a reminder to ourselves and to the world that compassion cannot be outlawed, that humanity cannot be politicised away, and that even when institutions falter, individual acts of solidarity still matter.

Views of Caracas, Venezuela, July 2025

August has slipped quietly into Caracas. The heat feels different now — thicker somehow, heavier — as if the city itself has paused to catch its breath. Streets are a little emptier; neighbours talk about escapes to the coast, chasing breezes and salt air. Even the city’s usual hum seems muted, softened by the weight of midsummer.

I stay behind, windows open to a humid stillness, watching afternoon storms roll over Ávila. Work continues, as it must, but my mind drifts elsewhere. Across the Atlantic, Portugal waits — and more specifically, Óbidos.

Óbidos is a different kind of refuge. A place of quiet stone streets, whitewashed houses trimmed in blue and yellow, and vines spilling over ancient walls. I remember walking its narrow lanes before, feeling history under my feet — a medieval rhythm that makes you slow down without even noticing. It isn’t loud like Lisbon or Porto; it’s a place that holds you gently, whispering rather than shouting.

What I’m dreaming of most is the coastline nearby — the sweep of Peniche with its rugged cliffs and fishermen mending nets by the docks, the endless stretch of sand at Foz do Arelho where the lagoon meets the restless Atlantic, and Nazaré with its dramatic waves crashing like liquid thunder against the shore. These places carry a raw, untamed beauty that I’ve missed. The Atlantic air feels different there — saltier, cooler, more alive.

This time, I’ll have a rental car, which means freedom to wander between these spots at my own pace, to pause at a hidden café for grilled sardines, to stand alone on a windswept beach at dusk and watch the tide pull everything away. Portugal always feels like a homecoming now, more so since I used my Portuguese passport for the first time earlier this year. Carrying it in my pocket isn’t just a document — it’s part of a story that still feels like it’s unfolding.

Travel is strange this way — even before you pack a bag, it reshapes you. I find myself noticing details of the everyday differently, as if my senses are practicing for something they know is coming. The light on Caracas rooftops, the echo of footsteps in quiet corridors, the smell of mangoes in the late afternoon heat — all tiny reminders that movement is life, that journeys, whether across oceans or through memory, keep us awake to the world.

For now, August holds me still in Venezuela. But on the horizon, Óbidos is waiting. Its ancient walls, its Atlantic winds, its calm streets where I can finally take a long breath. A different sun, a different breeze, a pause of another kind — one that feels very much needed.

La Castellana, Caracas, Venezuela, July 2025

It started with a plan: to do nothing.

A noble, deeply necessary plan. A Saturday to be gently idle, unbothered, and gloriously unscheduled. I had visions of reading, staring out the window, maybe making a heroic decision like not checking emails until at least lunchtime.

Naturally, it all fell apart.

First, I opened the manuscript — just for a minute. And, well… five hours later, I was still there, knee-deep in memories, scribbles, edits, footnotes, and one or two “what was I even trying to say here?” moments. The book — Memoir of a Wandering Spirit — clearly didn’t get the memo about Saturdays off. But it felt good. Tangled and demanding, yes, but good. It’s moving forward. Slowly. Honestly.

Then came a moment of travel admin: I booked a rental car for my upcoming trip to Lisbon — which, yes, is finally happening! Tickets are secured, and the thought of wandering through Óbidos with a bica in hand is keeping me more grounded than any meditation app could.

But those small acts of productivity set a tone. Suddenly I was responding to messages I’d planned to ignore, and — the real twist of fate — I agreed to accompany Giovanni on the weekly food shopping mission.

Let me be clear: this was not part of any restful plan. But somehow, I found myself in a busy Caracas supermarket, negotiating over plantains and trying to convince a young woman in overly cool sunglasses that it really wasn’t a good idea to keep her dog — however cute — inside the shopping trolley. “People put human food in there,” I ventured gently. She did not appreciate my argument. Giovanni, of course, was in his element — charming, chatty, completely unbothered. I, on the other hand, was clinging to my shopping basket like it was a lifebuoy.

And yet… it wasn’t terrible. The chaos had its rhythm. The shelves offered stories. And the mangoes were cheaper than last week. There’s a kind of intimacy in the ordinary when you let yourself notice it.

So no — I didn’t rest. I didn’t read. I didn’t sip tea on a quiet balcony like some aspirational Instagram account.

But I worked on the book. I booked my wheels for Portugal. I survived the shopping trip. And I laughed more than once.

Not bad for a Saturday that was supposed to be nothing at all.

Caracas, Venezuela July 2025

As Memoir of a Wandering Spirit continues to take shape, I’m excited to share that I’ve created a new space dedicated entirely to this writing journey.

📚 The new sub-page will be the place where I post updates on the progress of the book — including selected extracts, behind-the-scenes notes, and (whenever possible) a few fun facts and photographs to offer context to the stories I’m telling.

The idea is to make it easier for those of you following the project to keep track of what’s unfolding — whether you’re just curious about the process, interested in the places and moments described, or simply rooting for me from afar.

At this stage, the page is still very much under construction, but new content will be appearing there over the coming days.

Thank you for your encouragement, curiosity, and for accompanying me on this rather long (and winding) road of writing.

More soon!

La Guaira, Venezuela, July 2025

I’m sitting in my Caracas apartment with the windows open to the sticky warmth of the afternoon, a mug of strong coffee growing cold on the desk beside me. The city hums in the background — not too loudly today — and my thoughts are travelling far.

It’s planning season: I’m looking ahead to the next few weeks and beyond. If all goes well, I’ll be heading to Portugal sometime soon, which excites me more than I can say. Óbidos has become a place of light for me — not only because of its sunlit hills but because of the history I now carry in my pocket: my Portuguese passport, finally used for the first time just weeks ago.

Other possible chapters are shaping up too: a regional humanitarian seminar in Panama in November, and maybe — if I’m really lucky — a short trip to Canada to visit Tahir’s family and other cherished friends before that.

But most of my energy these days goes into the book. Memoir of a Wandering Spirit is no longer just an idea — it’s a companion. A demanding one. It asks for time, memory, honesty. It keeps me up some nights and carries me through others. The project is far from over. There’s still a great deal of writing ahead… and even more editing. But the heart of it is beating strong.

I write because I feel I should. Because what I’ve seen — what I keep seeing — in this line of work, in these places, in this life, would otherwise overwhelm me. Writing doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t rescue anyone. But it allows me to bear witness. To hold onto truth. To protect myself, yes — but also to honour those whose stories have touched me.

So today, I wanted to share a few raw pages. Real ones. Unedited, perhaps imperfect — but written with care and gratitude. These are not mere anecdotes. They’re small windows into a life constantly shaped by motion, friendship, loss, and surprise.

📖 Extracts from Memoir of a Wandering Spirit:

❄️ Zakopane, Poland (1981)

When he woke, there was pain, but more than pain— confusion. A strange, underwater quiet filled the intensive care unit. He was connected to tubes, monitors, drips. Something hummed near his ear. His chest was tight. Breathing hurt. There were drains in his back, collecting blood. His body, stitched and patched, was trying to hold itself together.

And across the room, a nurse stood frozen by the television.

General Jaruzelski stared out from the screen in his heavy glasses. Tanks rolled across Polish cities. Martial Law had been declared.

The nurse cried. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just a quiet unravelling, the way snow falls from a ledge when no one is watching. Kacper didn’t understand exactly what had happened. But he knew what war looked like. He had seen pictures. And now it was on every screen. A country sealed, curfews set, voices silenced.

🌆 London, United Kingdom (1992)

He introduced him to friends — mostly girls. Loud, smiling, kind Polish girls who spoke with a bounce in their voice and wore worn-out shoes from walking the city. One of them, Edyta, was especially sweet. She had three jobs — waiting tables in pubs and working in the kitchen of a boutique hotel near Oxford Circus.

One evening, after tea and laughter, she leaned over and whispered, “I spoke to the manager. They’re looking for help. Come tomorrow.”

Kacper did.

The manager — a wiry man from Sri Lanka named Mr. Liroy — looked him over for a long moment, then said:
“You can clean dishes. Scrub floors. But no one must see you. You limp. People will say we exploit the crippled.”

Kacper blinked.

He didn’t even register the cruelty in the words — not at the time. He just nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Because there was money.

Not much. But enough.

Enough to buy food.

Enough to pay rent.

Enough to stop borrowing.

It was the smallest victory. But to Kacper, it felt like a continent.

So Kacper started working.

🌃 Delhi, India (1995)

Delhi came alive.

Shops lit up in pinks, greens, and pulsing neon. Bonfires burned in patches along the pavement — families gathered around, warming themselves, cooking food in tin pots. Children chased one another between tuk-tuks and carts. A man sold strings of jasmine flowers that smelled like memory. A woman in gold earrings sang quietly to herself as she swept the dust from her shopfront into the street.

It was light and dark. Noise and silence. Scent and shadow.

On the walk back to the hotel, Kacper looked at himself in a shop window.

He saw two black rings around his nostrils — soot from the city’s air, from the exhaust of buses and the open fires on the kerbs. He rubbed his face and laughed. Delhi had already marked him.

That night, lying on the narrow bed in a room that smelled of too many lives, Kacper stared at the ceiling and thought: this is paradise.

Not the paradise from travel brochures or Sunday sermons. But his paradise — strange, flawed, luminous with human noise.

🕌 Near Lahore, Pakistan (1995)

It was late enough now that the iftar — the breaking of the fast — had begun. The table was laid out richly: plates of marinated meat, yoghurt sauces, heaps of rice, piles of spiced flatbreads. Silja and Kacper were asked about everything — Denmark, Finland, Poland, their schooling, their bus, their thoughts on Pakistan.

The mood was festive, chatty, welcoming. And yet, beneath it all, Kacper felt a strange, slow cloud forming. He was tired. Foggy. His head heavy. He blinked hard, rubbed his temples.

Then came the tea.

Kacper tried to politely refuse. “I’m full,” he said, “I never drink milk tea. Really.”

But their hosts insisted. Firmly.

“No, no,” one of the women said. “You must. It is tradition.”

They were visibly upset when he hesitated. The smiles stiffened. Something about the room dimmed.

So he drank.

It was sweet. Too sweet. Thick. It clung to his tongue like syrup.

He remembers the light — a single bare bulb high on the wall of the guest room. It buzzed faintly, flickering once or twice. He tried to turn over, to switch it off. But his arms didn’t move. Or maybe they did. He couldn’t tell.

And then —

Nothing.

He opened his eyes.

Trees. Branches swaying above. Sky between them, pale and unmoving. His head throbbed, deep and dull like an echo. The air smelled of soil and petrol.

He saw Silja. She was on the ground, a few feet away. She vomited into the grass, her hair matted. She wore only part of her outfit.

Kacper blinked slowly. It didn’t register. He wanted to sleep. He turned his face into the earth and let go again.

🌁 Tehran, Iran (1995)

There was something in the air of Tehran that reminded him of home. Not Nowy Sącz, exactly — but Poland in the gloomiest years of its own grey winter. The dull ache of systems too large to fight. The coded jokes. The careful conversations. The quiet rebellions. How people found each other in spite of the noise. He had grown up in it. He recognised it.

They stayed in Tehran for three days. They visited the Golestan Palace with its glittering mirrors and mirrored lies. They walked the hills of Darband and tasted sour plums dipped in salt. But most memorable was their visit to the University of Tehran.

Through a local contact, they were introduced to a small circle of professors who had agreed — cautiously — to meet. The discussion was broad, almost evasive, but peppered with curiosity and candour. “You come to learn?” one of the scholars asked. “Then observe our contradictions. That’s the best teacher we have.”

They sipped tea together in a faculty lounge where a poster of Hafez covered a peeling wall. It was enough. Words were chosen carefully, but eyes said more. These were people who had not given up. Not on truth, not on learning.

When they left Tehran, the city receded behind them in waves of smog and light. But something stayed with Kacper. Not the monuments, not the markets — but the feeling of a people who had not allowed themselves to disappear into their own silence.

He thought again of the woman in 'Daughter of Persia', and the girl in the bookshop, and the driver who made him laugh. And he understood something new: sometimes resistance doesn’t shout. It sings, it whispers, it waits — and it endures.

This book is not finished. Not even close. The memories are vast, and the editing will demand patience. But the soul of it — the wandering, questioning spirit of Kacper — is alive and well.

Thank you for staying with me. For reading. For asking. For caring.

Writing may not change the world, but perhaps it changes the writer — and, just maybe, the reader too.

Sending you all my warmest regards, wherever you are reading this message from!