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.