Muszyna, Poland, May 2024

It’s Easter time, and I’m spending it in Caracas. The city has taken on a slower, quieter rhythm, as most people have left to spend the long holiday with their families. Some have headed to the coast, others to the countryside—five days off is not a small thing here, and Venezuelans certainly know how to make the most of it. For me, staying behind in the city has its own charm. The streets are calmer, the air feels a bit lighter, and there’s a rare kind of peace in the usually buzzing corners of Chacao.

Even though I’m not spending Easter with my family this year, I find myself in a state of anticipation. In just over a week, I’ll be heading to Europe—starting with Lisbon, and then on to Krakow. I’m counting the days. From Krakow, I’ll travel to Nowy Sącz to spend time with my Mum. It’s been too long since we last had an extended stretch of time together, and I’m really looking forward to slowing down with her, enjoying our routines, sharing meals, and catching up in the way that only happens when you’re physically close.

But this trip is also about adventure. After Poland, Mum and I will fly to Malta for a few days. Neither of us knows the island well, so we’ll be discovering it together. Valletta, Mdina, seaside walks, fresh food, the layered history of the place—all of it sounds perfect. And from there, we move on to the part of the journey that I’ve dreamed about for years: Uzbekistan.

Tashkent, Samarkand, Bukhara, and if we can manage it, Khiva. I’ve long been fascinated by the Silk Road, and to finally visit these cities of blue-tiled mosques, ancient madrasas, and sun-drenched squares is a real gift. We also hope to take a day trip from Tashkent to Shymkent in Kazakhstan—a chance to briefly cross into another country and experience something new. It will be quite the journey, but what makes it even more meaningful is that I’ll be doing it with my Mum.

And there’s a chance our little circle may grow. If things align, my Venezuelan friend who now lives in Madrid may be able to join us in Krakow for a few days. It depends on his work schedule, but we’re hopeful. Just the thought of bringing together people I love, across borders and chapters of life, fills me with quiet joy.

Caracas, meanwhile, continues to be its contradictory self. As I mentioned in my recent note to friends, work remains intense. The humanitarian space is under pressure, and the world doesn’t seem to be easing up. But I am trying to stay present and grounded. The jasmine is blooming, the sunsets are golden, and there are still small, beautiful things to hold onto.

This Easter, I’m grateful for what is coming, for what I carry, and for the simple gift of being able to look forward.

Bello Campo of Chacao, Caracas, Venezuela, April 2025

Last night, I took a spontaneous walk through the charming streets of Bello Campo in Chacao, and to my surprise, I found myself completely enchanted. It’s remarkable how close it is to where I live—practically in my backyard—and yet, somehow, I had never properly discovered it until now. That discovery made the experience even more special.

Bello Campo is a residential neighbourhood within the municipality of Chacao in eastern Caracas. While it may not have the same level of renown as Altamira or El Rosal, it has a distinct charm that makes it worth exploring. The neighbourhood is known for its peaceful tree-lined streets, colourful houses, and a strong sense of community. One of the key features of the area is Parque Bello Campo, a green and well-kept public space that is often filled with joggers, families, and dog walkers. It serves as a sort of natural lung for the neighbourhood, offering a refreshing contrast to the busy urban life surrounding it.

Historically, Bello Campo was part of a larger rural zone in the early 20th century, characterised by agricultural activity and scattered estates. With the rapid urban development of Caracas during the mid-20th century, especially in the post-oil boom era, the area evolved into a middle-class residential enclave. Over time, it retained a quieter, more family-oriented character, even as the city around it grew more chaotic and densely built.

One of the hidden gems of the neighbourhood is its proximity to the Centro Cultural Chacao, a modern space for the arts that hosts concerts, exhibitions, and theatre performances. The cultural energy from this venue seems to spill into the streets of Bello Campo, adding a creative pulse to the otherwise calm environment.

My walk through Bello Campo last night was simply wonderful. The past week had been particularly stressful at work, filled with heavy conversations and high-stakes decisions. But as I wandered through the neighbourhood, the pressure seemed to dissolve. I found myself slowing down, breathing more deeply, and simply enjoying the surroundings. The city felt different—lighter, more human.

The streets were alive with people enjoying the evening air, dogs happily trotting beside their owners, and neighbours exchanging greetings as they passed one another. Despite the late hour, the atmosphere felt safe, open, and inviting. What struck me most were the people. I met several locals along the way, and every single one of them was friendly, curious, and welcoming. Conversations flowed easily, and there was genuine joy in sharing stories with someone from outside. It reminded me, once again, of how powerful kindness and human connection can be—even with strangers, and especially in unexpected places.

Bello Campo is now firmly on my map. I’m already looking forward to going back—this time with intention—and seeing what more this lovely little corner of Caracas has to offer.

Can We Save Humanitarianism?

I’ve just finished reading an article that stirred something deep in me:"Capitalism co-opted humanitarianism. But we can save it". It has made me pause, reflect, and weigh the path I have chosen for myself – this work that is not just a job, but the very foundation of who I am.

The author, Paul Currion, does not pull punches. He argues that humanitarianism has become entangled with capitalism to the extent that it has been fundamentally altered. Our sector, once rooted in a radical commitment to dignity and solidarity, now increasingly operates within a system driven by competition, branding, and efficiency metrics. It is a hard truth to swallow, but one that resonates. And it made me think: is this still the work I want to do?

I am proud of the work I do. Deeply proud. It has given my life purpose, anchored me in the world, and connected me to countless individuals who inspire me every single day. But I won’t deny that lately, I have also felt moments of discomfort—of shame, even. The way the world is evolving, the way power and profit seep into the spaces meant to protect and uplift the vulnerable, sometimes makes me wonder if we are losing sight of what matters most.

Currion's article challenges us to consider whether the humanitarian system, in its current form, is even salvageable. Have we become too comfortable with our own contradictions? Are we perpetuating the very systems we claim to resist? These are not easy questions. And while my instinct is to defend what we do—to point to the lives saved, the rights defended, the disasters mitigated—I also know that defensiveness cannot substitute for reflection.

Reading the article felt like holding up a mirror. It reminded me that while the principles of humanitarianism still pulse at the heart of our work, the system surrounding it is increasingly shaped by market logic, performance indicators, branding, and competition. And while some of these elements are unavoidable, even necessary, they risk crowding out the very values we set out to defend: humanity, impartiality, solidarity, and dignity.

So again: is this still the work I want to do? The answer, for now, remains a clear yes. Because despite the frustrations, despite the increasing difficulty of separating what’s good from what’s questionable, I still believe in the core of it. I still believe in the people, in the actions taken quietly in forgotten corners of the world, in the lives changed through compassion, perseverance, and presence.

But staying in this work also means a constant reckoning. It requires effort to focus on what is noble about our mission, and at the same time, to challenge what is wrong within it. To speak up when values are sidelined, to resist the temptation of cynicism, and to keep showing up with heart and integrity.

Currion ends his article with a call to reclaim humanitarianism by embracing its roots—as a political act, as a radical form of solidarity. That struck a chord. If we are to save humanitarianism from itself, we must stop pretending we are neutral technocrats and start acting like principled agents of change.

And so today, I feel both unsettled and determined. Unsettled by how fragile our principles have become in the face of power. But determined to hold onto them anyway. To defend the values that brought me into this work, and to ensure they don’t get drowned out by noise, bureaucracy, or convenience.

Perhaps this is what it means to grow in this field: not to stop believing, but to believe harder. And to keep going, especially when it is hardest to do so.

Struggling to Adapt as an Immigrant

A little over a week ago, I travelled to Spain. The trip had a special purpose: to check in on someone I care about who recently started a new life there. A person who had to leave everything behind in search of safety and dignity. Together with some friends, we had supported him in making the move, knowing how urgent and necessary it was. But even knowing that, I was not fully prepared for what I saw and felt.

Being a migrant is never easy. And if you are naturally shy and fearful of being ridiculed, it becomes even harder. Despite having a circle of support and some stability, he is confronting challenges I had never truly imagined. The popular narrative focuses so much on learning a new language, adapting to a new culture, navigating new streets and systems. That, in fact, can be the easiest part. It is often even exciting. What is far more difficult is managing your vulnerabilities and fears in an environment that, for now, is unfamiliar and unforgiving.

What I witnessed was the emotional weight of having to prove yourself constantly. The pressure from people left behind to succeed at any cost—because failure is not an option when others depend on you to survive. The inner shame of not having completed an education, of watching locals casually reference their prestigious universities and career paths, when all you ever had was the resilience to survive. It is the heavy, quiet pain of being poor in a place that often equates worth with material success. Of feeling judged just for being from “elsewhere.”

It is also about the dependencies that emerge. Feeling obliged to constantly express gratitude for even the smallest of favours, afraid that if you don’t, you will be abandoned, cut off, or seen as ungrateful. It is about a life where dignity sometimes feels conditional. And, above all, it is about the loneliness—profound and lingering—and the ache of missing home, even when home was difficult. That kind of homesickness does not always go away. It just finds quieter corners to live in.

But there is also joy. There is joy in small triumphs: in navigating bureaucracy, in finding work, in being able to pay rent, in understanding a joke in a new language, in taking the metro to a new part of town. There is joy in growing, in building a life little by little, in learning how to trust again. That joy is real. And it must be celebrated.

Still, it is hard. And for those of us who are part of the communities that receive migrants, even when our intentions are good, we often forget the quiet battles they fight every day. We don’t always see the fear, the shame, the pressure, the silent grief. We think they are lucky. But we forget that even freedom comes with a cost when you are vulnerable.

So here is a gentle reminder: let’s not take kindness for granted. Let’s not assume that someone’s quietness is indifference or ingratitude. Let us do all we can to listen more carefully, to understand more deeply, and to be just a little softer with one another. Because we never know the weight someone else is carrying—and sometimes, kindness is the only thing that makes the weight bearable.

Mum's Place in Nowy Sacz, Poland, May 2024

These days, the world seems to be spinning into chaos. Politically, we are witnessing events we could never have even imagined, and it is unsettling, to say the least. The unpredictability of global affairs is truly alarming. Yet, in the midst of all this, I have been trying to keep myself grounded. Work has been my anchor—I have focused on doing it well and ensuring that I remain engaged in what I can actually influence. At the same time, I have been allowing myself some excitement because, tomorrow, I am off to Spain!

I will be visiting Leo, Marta, and her family, which I have been looking forward to for quite some time. For a week, I will be exploring Madrid and Seville, enjoying the vibrancy of these incredible cities, catching up with friends, and simply taking in the beauty of Spain. I can already imagine the bustling streets of Madrid, the charming alleyways of Seville, and the joy of simply being in a place that is so full of history and energy.

Adding to my good mood is the fact that I have now finalised my plans for a longer holiday at the end of April and into May. I will start by travelling to Nowy Sącz in Poland to spend time with Mum and family, something that always brings me great joy. This time, however, we have decided to do something special and travel together. After spending a few days in Poland, we will be heading to Malta!

Malta has always intrigued me with its stunning coastline, ancient history, and Mediterranean charm. From Valletta’s grand fortifications to the picturesque streets of Mdina, I am eager to discover what this island has to offer. Exploring its history, savouring the food, and simply enjoying the sea views with Mum will be an unforgettable experience.

After Malta, we will set off on another adventure—Uzbekistan. This is a destination that has long been on my list, and I can hardly believe that I will finally be visiting. Tashkent, the country’s capital, is known for its mix of Soviet-era architecture and Islamic heritage. But what excites me the most is visiting Samarkand. The city’s magnificent blue-tiled mosques and madrasas, particularly Registan Square, are among the most breathtaking sights in the world. Walking through its ancient streets and immersing myself in the history of the Silk Road is something I have dreamt of for years.

While in Tashkent, we also have an exciting plan—a day trip to Shymkent in Kazakhstan. This will be my first time visiting the country, and I am eager to see what it has in store. Though I know little about Shymkent, I am looking forward to experiencing a new culture, tasting Kazakh cuisine, and taking in a part of Central Asia that is still relatively unexplored by tourists.

The sheer thought of all these upcoming travels makes me incredibly happy. Not only am I visiting places that I have always wanted to see, but I get to do it with Mum, which makes it even more special. Travelling with her is always a joy, and I cherish the time we spend together on the road.

With Spain just around the corner and a grand adventure awaiting in a couple of months, I feel grateful and excited. Despite all the turmoil in the world, I am holding onto these moments of joy, exploration, and connection. After all, there is still so much beauty to experience, and I intend to embrace it fully.

Supporting One Another in the Times of Chaos

The past few weeks have been incredibly busy and, at times, overwhelming. The dramatic shifts in the US government’s stance on funding international aid, particularly humanitarian aid, are having a devastating and far-reaching impact on the most vulnerable communities worldwide. These abrupt policy changes are not only endangering lives and safety but also shaking the very foundations of international cooperation and stability.

The consequences for those who rely on humanitarian aid are profound. Millions of people who depend on life-saving assistance now find themselves at even greater risk. Whether it is food security, medical aid, shelter, or protection services, the sudden withdrawal or reduction of funding has immediate and catastrophic effects. Refugees, internally displaced people, and communities affected by conflict and natural disasters are left without essential support. The organisations working on the ground are forced to make impossible decisions—who to help and who to leave behind.

In Venezuela, the situation is particularly dire. With an already fragile humanitarian landscape, any disruption in aid poses immense challenges. Alongside my colleagues from various humanitarian organisations, we are working tirelessly to continue our programmes while also seeking ways to mitigate the impacts of these new policies. The pressure is immense, and the stakes are high. We are witnessing increased malnutrition, worsening health crises, and heightened vulnerability among displaced populations. Additionally, the lack of funding means that crucial health and education programmes for children, nutritional support, and access to clean water are all at risk of being severely cut or discontinued. The impact will not only be immediate but will also have long-term consequences, particularly for communities already suffering from economic instability and displacement.

The repercussions of these policy shifts are not confined to Venezuela. In Gaza, where an already dire humanitarian crisis has been exacerbated by ongoing conflict and blockade, cuts in funding mean further shortages in essential medical supplies, food assistance, and shelter support. Hospitals, already operating under extreme duress, now face even greater challenges in treating the wounded and sick. The situation continues to deteriorate, leaving civilians with little hope for immediate relief.

In the Democratic Republic of Congo, decades of conflict have led to one of the world’s most prolonged humanitarian crises. The sudden reduction in aid threatens vital health services, particularly in areas affected by ongoing violence and displacement. The disruption of food and nutrition programmes could worsen already alarming levels of malnutrition, particularly among children. Meanwhile, those seeking refuge from armed groups find themselves with even fewer resources to survive.

Sudan, which has been struggling with political instability and an ongoing humanitarian emergency, is also facing a worsening crisis due to funding cuts. The fragile peace agreements in certain regions are at risk of collapse as essential humanitarian interventions, including food distribution and medical services, become more uncertain. The potential for renewed displacement and worsening famine conditions is a very real and immediate concern.

In Afghanistan, where humanitarian needs have skyrocketed following the Taliban’s return to power, the withdrawal of international assistance places millions of people at even greater risk. The country has already suffered from economic collapse, with aid agencies acting as a critical lifeline for millions. Cuts in funding are likely to impact emergency healthcare, food distribution, and education support, with women and children bearing the brunt of the consequences.

Bangladesh, which hosts nearly one million Rohingya refugees in overcrowded camps, also faces a humanitarian setback. The Rohingya crisis remains one of the most protracted refugee situations in the world, and a reduction in funding will further strain the already limited resources available for shelter, healthcare, and food assistance. Without continued support, the likelihood of increased suffering, disease outbreaks, and malnutrition among the refugee population rises significantly.

Yet, the stress extends beyond operational concerns. Many of my colleagues—both national and international staff—are losing their jobs and livelihoods. The loss of funding means programme closures, layoffs, and reduced capacity to deliver aid. For many, especially those from countries with limited job opportunities, the consequences are devastating. It is incredibly disheartening to see how the decisions of a few policymakers can so rapidly dismantle livelihoods and throw entire communities into deeper uncertainty.

But the impact goes beyond aid programmes and job losses. The new US policies are reshaping global alliances and undermining international structures. Economic hostilities towards Canada, China, Mexico, and the EU, alongside territorial threats towards Canada, Panama, and Greenland, further destabilise global security. Threats towards Palestine, Ukraine, and European allies, with potential repercussions in Asia and Africa, add to the sense of an impending crisis. Looking at the scale of these developments, one cannot help but wonder whether we are inching closer to World War III.

In times like these, it is difficult not to feel powerless. Grand political manoeuvres are beyond our control. Yet, in all of this, we do have a role to play. Perhaps now more than ever, simple acts of kindness, solidarity, and humanity matter. Looking after one another, offering a helping hand, standing up to hatred and intolerance—these actions carry weight. As we move towards an uncertain future, perhaps there is still an opportunity to hold onto something good, to strengthen our bonds, and to persist in making the world a little better in whatever ways we can.

Through all the chaos, I have found some solace in writing. I have recently finished revamping my photo albums, adding more detailed descriptions and organising my memories in a more structured way. You can find the links to all my albums here: https://www.romanmajcher.eu/blog-2/files/7d9a8e4ebb1ee5b2dbdf379b7235313b-141.html. This process has been a step towards something bigger—hopefully, the beginning of writing a memoir or a book. The stories in these albums will serve as the foundation, helping me to be more systematic in my recollections and ensuring that important moments are not lost.

Despite the challenges, there are still things to look forward to. Soon, I will be heading to Spain for one-week break. Madrid will be my main base, where I will spend time with Leo, as well as Marta and her family. If all goes well, we are also hoping to travel to Sevilla—a city I have long wanted to visit. The anticipation of travel, even if only for a short period, is a source of joy amidst the chaos.

Difficult times lie ahead, but we must keep trying. Perhaps, in the face of adversity, there is still a chance for resilience, for new beginnings, and for hope.

Madrid, Spain, September 2020

I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve finally got my ticket for Madrid! I’ll be taking a week-long break in March, and I couldn’t be more excited. The prospect of reconnecting with old friends and having a chance to relax is incredibly uplifting.

One of the most exciting parts of this trip is the chance to meet Leo in person. It’s been a while since we last saw each other, and I’m looking forward to catching up and checking how he is settling into his life in the new country. I’ll also be meeting Marta, Javier, and their family, which is something I’m equally eager about. Although the visit is short, the excitement and anticipation are palpable.

While most of the time will be spent in Madrid, I’m hoping to get a chance to venture outside the city as well. No specific plans yet, but I’m hopeful that Leo and I will be able to come up with something soon, whether it’s a day trip to explore a nearby area or some other adventure. The possibilities are there, and I’m looking forward to seeing where the journey takes me.

All in all, this break promises to be an exciting escape, and I’m counting the days until it begins!

Western Barrios of Caracas, Venezuela, January 2025

Yesterday afternoon and evening, I had the pleasure of exploring the western barrios of Caracas, an adventure that turned out to be one of the most interesting of my time in Venezuela so far. While these areas are not as affluent as the part of the city where I live, they possess an undeniable charm, overflowing with life, colour, and an atmosphere of warmth and friendliness.

The trip was made possible thanks to the kindness of my Venezuelan friend, Giovanni, who generously offered to show me around in his car. Not only did he ensure that I remained safe throughout the journey, but he also made sure that I experienced the best of what these vibrant neighbourhoods have to offer. His knowledge and enthusiasm made the visit even more special.

The western barrios of Caracas, such as Catia, El Cementerio, and Antímano, are among the city’s most historic and culturally rich districts. They are home to a large portion of Caracas’ working-class population and are known for their bustling streets, colourful houses, and strong sense of community. Walking or driving through these areas, one cannot help but be mesmerised by the striking murals covering building walls, depicting local heroes, social movements, and artistic expressions that speak to the resilience of the people living there.

Catia, one of the most well-known barrios, was particularly fascinating. Historically, this area has played a significant role in Venezuela’s political and social movements. Today, it is a lively hub of street vendors, musicians, and artisans. The Mercado de Catia is an iconic spot where locals buy everything from fresh produce to household goods. Giovanni and I stopped to enjoy some local street food—delicious arepas and freshly squeezed juices that added to the authenticity of the experience.

El Cementerio, despite its name (which translates to 'The Cemetery'), is another barrio bursting with energy. It was originally developed around a historic cemetery but has grown into a dynamic residential and commercial area. The streets here are lined with small businesses, and the local markets are a sensory overload of smells, sounds, and colours. What struck me most was the sheer vibrancy of everyday life—children playing in the streets, shopkeepers enthusiastically calling out their latest offers, and families gathering outside their homes, engaged in animated conversations.

Antímano, further west, is one of the older districts of Caracas. Its steep, winding streets and colourful hillside houses are a sight to behold. This barrio is a true reflection of Caracas’ architectural diversity, where modern developments exist alongside traditional homes. The views from certain high points in Antímano are breathtaking, offering panoramic glimpses of the city framed by the lush green hills surrounding it.

What made this excursion truly remarkable was the warmth and hospitality of the people we encountered. Despite the economic and social difficulties many face, there is an incredible sense of camaraderie and joy in these neighbourhoods. Music fills the air, street art tells stories, and an undeniable spirit of resilience is ever-present.

For those who want to see a glimpse of this adventure, I have uploaded pictures from the excursion at this link: Venezuela in 2025 — the latest images can be found at the bottom of the album.

Exploring the western barrios of Caracas was a fantastic experience, one that gave me a deeper appreciation of the city’s diverse character. A huge thank you to Giovanni, who made this journey possible and ensured that I could immerse myself in this side of Caracas with both safety and enjoyment. I look forward to returning to these neighbourhoods and continuing to uncover more of their hidden gems.