With Tahir in Bangkok, Thailand, April 2017

A letter to friends (celebrating Tahir becoming a Canadian Citizen):

Dear Friends,

Ten years ago, in 2015, a young man entered my life in Bangkok. Vulnerable, frightened, and scarred by the cruelties he had already endured — first in Pakistan, and then again in Thailand — Tahir was, at that moment, simply fighting to survive. I had no idea then that our meeting would set in motion one of the most meaningful journeys of my life.

What began as an encounter between two strangers soon became a shared mission — not just his and mine, but one embraced by many of you. Friends, colleagues, and kind souls who refused to look away joined in to change one person’s fate. Together, we tried to make sure that fear would no longer define his existence, and to offer him the safety and dignity that every human being deserves. None of us could have imagined how difficult that road would be — nor how beautiful.

Together, we fought for recognition: for the first identity card that would prove he existed, for acknowledgment of his vulnerability, for protection status, and for the right to live without fear. We searched for solutions everywhere — Thailand, Malaysia, Europe, New Zealand, Australia, the United States — until finally, a door opened in Canada.

The hope was immense, but so was the work. There were endless forms, negotiations, appeals, and practical worries: Where would he stay? How would we fund it? Would governments listen? Could we convince them that Tahir was a person of trust and kindness, not a threat?

Years passed. And then, in 2018, I wrote this post — full of joy and relief, though shadowed by fear. For before freedom came detention. Thailand’s system demanded that even recognised refugees serve weeks behind bars before being allowed to leave. Those days were among the hardest — waiting, worrying, praying that he would make it through. And then he did.

He landed in Canada — fragile, hopeful, and determined. From there, a new chapter began: learning, adapting, finding work, making friends, building a new life step by step. There were challenges and tears, but also moments of laughter, new beginnings, and the gradual rediscovery of trust.

Over the years, Tahir became independent. He found stability, started to support others in his community, met the love of his life, married, and eventually welcomed little Hania into the world. And now, ten years after that first meeting on a hot Bangkok street, Tahir has become a citizen of Canada.

I find myself thinking not only of him, but of all of you — friends, colleagues, and kind strangers — who helped make this happen. Some of you were there from the very beginning, others joined along the way. You offered legal help, donations, encouragement, and compassion when it was most needed. You opened doors, vouched for him, stood by him. You helped one human being reclaim his life.

Thank you for that.

And thank you, Tahir — for your courage, humility, and faith. For teaching us what resilience really means. For never giving in to bitterness or hate. For showing that even after unimaginable suffering, kindness can still win.

The world is loud and fast, and it rarely stops to celebrate. So let us pause for a moment now — to celebrate this success, this friendship, this quiet triumph of humanity.

With gratitude and love,
Roman

Municipal Cemetery, Przemyśl, Poland, September 2006

The Season of Light and Silence
Caracas, November 2025

I’ve always loved cemeteries.
Not in a morbid way, but as places of quiet beauty — spaces where time softens and the world whispers. I think this love began in childhood, rooted deep in Polish soil, in those sacred November evenings when my mother and I would walk among candles flickering in the dusk. All Saints’ Day was never sad. It was golden.

Every year, around this time, cemeteries back home glow with thousands of lanterns — amber lights floating in the autumn mist. The air smells of fallen leaves, wax, and pine. Cold often arrives early. Sometimes snow. But somehow, it’s still colourful — chrysanthemums in fiery orange, crimson, and white, resting beside names carved in stone. People move gently. They speak in low voices. They clean the graves, place flowers, pause. There’s reverence in the air, and warmth, even in the frost. These are the days I carry with me wherever I go.

This year, I am in Caracas.

Last week, seeking that same spirit, I visited Cementerio del Este. It’s a very different kind of cemetery — wide, open, modern, without the stone angels or heavy ironwork I know so well. But it sits high on a hill, overlooking the city like a guardian. The silence there is lighter, more spacious, filled with tropical birdsong and the shimmer of heat. The green is lush, alive, unseasonal by European standards — but something in it stirred the same stillness in me.

I walked slowly among the graves, letting the names speak in silence. I thought of people I’ve lost — some long ago, others more recent — and of how memory works its gentle alchemy. The body may be gone, but the presence remains. In a phrase. In a gesture. In the warmth that returns, uninvited, on a quiet afternoon in October.

And somehow, despite the heat and the palms and the very un-November sun, I found myself fully inside the mood I cherish so deeply — the spirit of Wszystkich Świętych, the Polish All Saints’ Day. A season not of mourning, but of honouring. Of remembering. Of walking beside those who came before, if only for a few moments more.

Later that day, I shared a meal nearby with a friend. There were traditional Venezuelan dances, music, colour — as if the city itself wanted to remind me that life, too, continues. That remembrance can be joyful. That silence can be part of celebration.

I had hoped to be travelling at the end of the year — to Panama, perhaps even to Canada. But life, as it does, shifted. Work took unexpected turns. Plans changed. And so, it seems I’ll be staying in Caracas a while longer. I won’t be visiting friends just yet — but I will have the privilege of being here, in this resilient, surprising, vivid city. A city that offers its own kind of light.

And maybe that’s the deeper lesson of this season:
That presence matters more than place.
That memory travels with us.
That beauty finds its own way in.