An unfortunate thing about nomadic travel is that we tend to lose track of friends as fast as we make them.
I met Kirill Stefanov, an artist, in a hostel in Cairo.
It was March, he was friendly, his English was good and we’d talk.
He was often on the phone with his wife and children in Russia. He’d left his home shortly before the fighting started in the Ukraine to look for a place to relocate his family safely before the shooting started. He wanted a flat and a small studio where he could pursue his talent. But by then the shooting had started and he was stuck, uncertain how or when he’d be united with his family again.
I wished him luck and left Cairo in pursuit of my journey, which I felt almost ashamed to continue in light of Kirill’s plight. I lost track of him but often think about him. I haven’t had any contact with him since I left the hostel and all I can do is hope that he’s found some way home, either in or out of Russia, and that he and his family are safe.