Avila Hills, Caracas, Venezuela, June 2025

It’s already July — somehow — and I find myself needing to pause for a moment and take stock. Life in Caracas continues at its intense pace. Between professional responsibilities, writing projects, and half-formed travel plans, the days slip by quickly, sometimes too quickly.

Work has been demanding lately. The recent floods in the western part of the country have kept our team fully occupied — coordinating with partners, assessing needs, and pushing forward on response efforts despite all the usual constraints. It’s the kind of work that consumes you — urgent, necessary, sometimes exhausting, but always worth showing up for.

In parallel, I’ve made quiet but steady progress on the book project. It’s a different kind of labour — slow, reflective, emotional. Digging through memory, sorting photos, revisiting stories I’ve carried for years. Writing is teaching me to slow down and listen again — to voices, to places, to versions of myself I hadn’t heard from in a while. It’s not fast work, but it’s honest, and I feel like something meaningful is finally taking shape.

On the travel front, there are a few ideas floating around — nothing confirmed yet, but I might head to Portugal in August. A little time to breathe, reconnect with places and people that bring peace. Let’s see if the stars (and flights) align.

And if all goes very favourably — and I mean very — I might even manage a long-dreamed-of visit to Canada in November, just before our regional humanitarian seminar in Panama. The idea would be to see Tahir’s family and reconnect with other dear friends scattered across that vast and generous country. I’m not getting ahead of myself just yet, but the thought is a comforting one.

As for Panama in November — it promises to be intense, no doubt, but also a chance to reconnect with colleagues from across Latin America and reflect together on the challenges we’re facing — and the opportunities we still have, if we keep our heads and hearts open.

So yes, it’s a full season. Demanding and unpredictable — but also rich in ways that matter. And in the middle of it all, I’m grateful. For work that has purpose. For writing that helps me stay grounded. For friends who keep me laughing. For people who still believe in decency, even when the world makes that belief feel fragile.

More soon — and hopefully from somewhere with a breeze off the Atlantic.

With fellow students, Ulfborg, Denmark, April 1994

Last week, in the quiet Danish town of Ulfborg, something loud, spirited, and unmistakably DNS happened: the reunion. Old students and teachers from across the years gathered once again under the wide Nordic sky to hug, laugh, reminisce, and politely argue over the state of the world (with hand gestures, of course). DNS was doing what it does best — being joyfully chaotic, idealistic, and ever so slightly sleep-deprived.

I wasn’t there. Life, distance, and a Venezuelan to-do list got in the way. But I followed the reunion from afar, scrolling through the photos with a smile that quickly turned into full-blown nostalgia (and yes, a mild, lingering dose of FOMO).

For those who’ve never heard of DNS — well, it’s complicated. This college isn’t your average school. You don’t just attend classes. You live in a commune. You cook for 70 people. You clean toilets. You budget a road trip to India. You question everything you’ve ever believed — usually in the middle of the night — and then wake up at 6am to peel potatoes.

And you love it. Eventually.

When I joined DNS, I arrived with a small-town worldview — thoughtful, yes, but let’s say… contained. DNS took that worldview, gave it a gentle shake, then turned it completely upside down and said: “Have another look.” Suddenly, the world was bigger, more unjust, more beautiful, and more complicated than I had ever imagined. And I was expected to engage with it. Not as a tourist, but as someone with responsibility.

Then came the legendary road trip to India. In a Volvo bus. Packed with idealists, cooking equipment, and duct tape. We crossed borders, broke down, patched things together — literally and metaphorically — and arrived with new stories, and a slightly deeper understanding of the world and ourselves (and how to survive on a diet of rice and instant coffee).

After that came Angola. One year of teaching practice, community living, intense heat, and life lessons. I came to teach English. I left with a degree in resilience, humility, and the art of finding joy in small victories — like electricity returning, or a successful lesson without the chalk disintegrating.

Looking at the reunion photos, I saw familiar faces — older, yes, but still radiating the same mix of passion, warmth, and wild-eyed curiosity that defines a DNSer. I could almost hear the debates over whether someone had skipped their cleaning duty, or the late-night planning of a better world, one communal meal at a time.

I missed being there. I missed the songs, the shouting, the group decisions that took six hours and still nobody agreed. But more than anything, I was grateful — grateful that the DNS spirit is still alive, still kicking, still questioning everything, and still managing to function (barely) on coffee and collective optimism.

To everyone who made it to Ulfborg: thank you. You reminded me that DNS isn’t something you finish. It’s something you carry — in your work, in your friendships, in how you talk to strangers, and definitely in how you organise your dishwashing rota.

Until next time — with love, solidarity, and possibly a slightly better sleeping bag.