El Hatillo, Caracas, Venezuela, December 2025

Christmas and End of the Year Newsletter to Family and Friends:

Dear friends,

Like for all of us, 2025 has not been an easy year.

The world feels as if it has shifted a few notches in directions that make it harder to recognise. Political changes, conflicts, and the tone of public debate have challenged the way I perceive the world, and even some of the core beliefs that have guided me for a long time, especially those connected to humanitarian work and solidarity.

I do not want to make this overly dramatic, but as I understand and observe the world, it feels as though we, as humanity, have taken a few steps closer to events whose consequences we will all have to bear. I still hope things can be reversed. That we can pause, learn from the ills of the past, and manoeuvre our societies, our politics, and ourselves away from self-destruction, self-inflicted conflict, and suffering imposed on millions.

These thoughts come from what I see around my work, from the fate of people caught in unspeakable misery, and from the fading willingness of the more fortunate among us to extend support or a helping hand. They also come simply from reading or watching the news, and sensing that our planet is quietly (or not so quietly) crying for help, while our capacity, or willingness, to listen seems to be shrinking.

It may well be that I am getting older and seeing things pessimistically where there is no reason to. That is entirely possible. But this is how I feel.

And yet.

On a personal level, 2025 has been a genuinely happy year.

It all started in Spain, with a trip to Madrid and Sevilla (https://photos.app.goo.gl/YXv3eKAdSSS8NcNr9). Cities that remind you that life should include long walks, good food, and conversations that last longer than planned. The trip was also about helping Leo settle into his new country. Many of you have been part of his support along the way, and for that I am deeply grateful. He is doing well. There are still administrative challenges around his permits (Spain remains loyal to its bureaucratic traditions), but we are taking things step by step, and optimism remains stubbornly alive.

In April, I travelled to Poland (https://photos.app.goo.gl/b9E9DixmJJ7QzYWH9 & https://photos.app.goo.gl/tSgvoXXmsRYV1ALz6) to enjoy spring in southern Poland with my mum. There is something deeply reassuring about Polish springtime: the light, the smells, the way everything seems to wake up slowly, without rushing.

From there, mum and I continued what has become our tradition: exploring the world together. First Malta (https://photos.app.goo.gl/3Hh9EDSzH22Z2biK8), sunny, layered with history, and perfect for conversations over coffee that somehow always turn philosophical. Then further east, to Asia, to explore beautiful Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan (https://photos.app.goo.gl/2T2m23SnzcmF2sMc6), with vast, generous landscapes, extraordinary cities, and a sense of scale that gently puts one’s own worries into perspective.

Back in Poland, I still managed to reconnect with my favourite places in Nowy Sącz and Kraków (https://photos.app.goo.gl/cMFjzBPNjJNGQ5v67), and with mum and friends we went on a small but delightful journey through borders and histories, visiting Cieszyn, Český Těšín, and Žilina (https://photos.app.goo.gl/dpmkKqqwJ8AiXUdx9) — three countries, one shared coffee culture, and the pleasant feeling that Europe, at least at that scale, still makes sense.

It was also during this time that Leo came to visit us in Poland from Spain. We showed him some of our favourite corners of this part of the world — Kraków, Krynica, Zakopane — and then crossed the border into Slovakia together (https://photos.app.goo.gl/u8ZRBNB1P1pk31N16). It was such a joyful time, and I loved sharing this part of Europe with him, watching familiar places through someone else’s fresh eyes.

I also discovered (or rediscovered) Krosno (https://photos.app.goo.gl/mVFT4tn9itLqDi1o7), a town that charmed me quietly and decisively. From there, it was time to return to Caracas, via Kraków, Amsterdam, and Lisbon (https://photos.app.goo.gl/dYMHiqAGjgewq6LA7) — a reminder that airports remain strange emotional spaces where excitement, nostalgia, and mild exhaustion coexist very naturally.


In August, together with my Venezuelan friend Giovanni, we travelled to Europe. We started with a day in Madrid, where we also met Leo (https://photos.app.goo.gl/x4azh9yB89y5mV26A), and then moved on to Portugal (https://photos.app.goo.gl/sh4z28YRsbEVdurA6), sunlit, generous, and slow in the best possible way. I returned to Caracas, while Giovanni stayed on for a few more months, helping us renovate the house in Portugal.

Thanks to the kindness of friends and family, Giovanni also got to see a good part of Europe — Brussels, Paris, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Kraków, Nowy Sącz, Zakopane, Krynica, and the Vysoké Tatry in Slovakia. Watching him explore places he had dreamt about for so long brought me immense joy. Few things are as moving as seeing someone experience their long-held dreams with wide-open curiosity.

At this point, it is probably fair to say that my Polish family in Nowy Sącz has become one of the biggest groups of Venezuelan enthusiasts in the world, despite never having set foot in Venezuela. Hosting Giovanni (and earlier Leo), hearing stories, sharing meals, and exchanging perspectives seems to have done the job rather effectively.

And then, of course, there is Venezuela. My beloved country. Travelling here is not always easy for administrative reasons, but whenever I could, I walked through Caracas, travelled, and marvelled at the country and its extraordinary people (https://photos.app.goo.gl/8YkSf9soc9jzPPPu6 & https://photos.app.goo.gl/XHGGAFQU9QnMMc6T7 & https://photos.app.goo.gl/KDTLuGUgbyiySLqR8 & https://photos.app.goo.gl/vByhYKcU3nBP5WXbA). Venezuela has a way of staying with you. Its warmth, humour, resilience, and generosity continue to humble me.

There was also some lovely personal news. Some of you may remember Tahir and his wife Amna welcoming little Hania into their lives. And just a few weeks ago, Tahir became a naturalised citizen of Canada, more than ten years after I first met him on the streets of Bangkok. An achievement that made me feel proud, emotional, and very aware of how long and winding some journeys are.

So yes, despite the gloom I sometimes feel when looking at the world, I also realise how incredibly lucky I am. Lucky to have a wonderful family and friends across continents. Lucky to live and work in Venezuela. Lucky to be part, in however small a way, of the lives of so many generous people.

Change is coming, though. As of August 2026, still with my organisation, I will be moving to Addis Ababa to take on responsibilities related to projects in Ethiopia. I am excited to return to eastern Africa, a region that has shaped me deeply. I am also aware that this means my time in Venezuela and the wider LAC region is slowly coming to an end. But I am still here for another six months, which means there is still plenty to enjoy, appreciate, and celebrate (including walks, conversations, and probably too much coffee).

Thank you for being part of my year, in big ways and small ones. I wish you a peaceful Christmas, moments of rest, laughter where possible, and a New Year that treats you gently.

May 2026 bring clarity, kindness, and perhaps a bit more listening, to ourselves and to the world.

With warmth and affection,
Roman

Hallacas made by Giovanni's Family, Caracas, Venezuela, December 2025

Caracas, December 2025

The streets of Caracas are glowing with Christmas.

Not in the polished, choreographed way you might see in New York or Paris — but with a joyful, almost chaotic brilliance all its own. Strings of lights stretch across streets, stars blink from apartment balconies, and inflatable Santas cling courageously to windowsills despite the tropical heat. Entire neighbourhoods seem dipped in glitter, as if the city decided to paint over its worries with colour and sparkle.

And yet, for many, Christmas here will be modest. There won’t be heaps of gifts or luxury feasts. But there will be laughter, shared meals, and togetherness — which, in the end, feels far more powerful than anything wrapped in ribbon. Caracas is a place where joy shows up quietly, insistently, even when it’s least expected.

In the background, life moves with its own rhythm — often surprising, sometimes a bit improvised. Travel plans shift. Packages arrive fashionably late. Traffic finds its own logic, with rules that seem more like gentle suggestions. Caracas teaches you to live in the moment and be flexible. But perhaps because of that, people here are incredibly kind to one another. There’s a generosity that smooths the edges of daily life: strangers hold doors, neighbours share chocolate, and friends check in not just out of politeness, but true affection.

And then, of course, there are hallacas.

I was first introduced to hallacas two years ago, during my very first Christmas in Caracas. Some dear local friends swept me into the tradition with warmth and laughter — insisting (rightly!) that one cannot understand Christmas in Venezuela without participating in la hallacada.

That year, we gathered in someone’s kitchen, armed with cutting boards, giant pots, stacks of banana leaves, and good humour. Everyone had a task. Someone chopped onions. Someone else marinated the meats. Another cleaned and softened the leaves. And there was me — the beginner — carefully spooning filling into the centre, trying not to mess up the folding technique (which is a lot harder than it looks).

The kitchen was loud and happy. Music playing, stories shared, flour on foreheads, laughter over lopsided hallacas. It reminded me of my own family holidays — different food, different climate, but the same warmth. That human instinct to gather and cook, to pass on tradition through hands and memory.

This year, I haven’t made them myself — not yet — but my adopted Venezuelan family is already well ahead of me. Preparations are in full swing. Pots are bubbling, leaves are being cleaned, and plans are being made to ensure there are plenty of hallacas for everyone when Christmas actually arrives. And I know — without doubt — that I’ll be invited to share in the eating (and maybe a little bit of wrapping duty, too).

In Caracas, the hallaca is more than a dish. It’s a symbol — of home, of family, of joy that insists on showing up, even when times are tough. I’ve come to love them. Especially when they’re reheated the next morning, with a cup of strong coffee and no urgency in the air.

And speaking of reheated things… some old memories are warming up this season too.

I recently received some bittersweet news. Bitter — because I will be leaving Venezuela, a country I have come to love in a way that’s hard to explain. Sweet — because I’ve been offered a new adventure. As of August 2026, I’ll be relocating to Ethiopia, to take on a new role in Addis Ababa.

It’s a return of sorts. I lived and worked in Ethiopia years ago, and the memories have stayed with me — the light in the highlands, the sound of Addis mornings, the incredible food (yes, I’m already dreaming of injera), and the strength and grace of the people I met there. So this next chapter feels like coming home to a place I once had to leave too soon.

But right now — I’m still in Caracas.
And I’ll be spending Christmas here — not in Poland with my family, not in Portugal where I lived for years… but here, under the warm, blinking skies of a city that’s somehow crept into my heart. And I feel lucky. Lucky for the friends I have here, for the kindness I’ve received, for the stars across the rooftops, for the hallacas in the fridge, and for one more Christmas in this vivid, resilient place.

Wishing everyone reading this a peaceful, delicious, and hallaca-filled holiday season. May it be full of kindness, surprise, and maybe even a little music in the kitchen.