A Meal I Will Never Forget

There are stories I have told over the years and there are stories that have shaped me. This is one of them.

It was during a major disaster response that claimed hundreds of thousands of lives. I found myself in the early days of the relief effort, entering ground-zero areas with a camera and microphone, trying to document what had happened, and what people were going through.

We slept where we could, sometimes in temporary shelters set up by locals - sometimes in monasteries. Food was uncertain. Days were long. Everything felt urgent.

One morning, we left before sunrise.

None of us had eaten.

The boat ride was rough — dark, hazy, and disorienting. For nearly two hours, we passed small boats along the river before reaching a village where a relief team had already begun distributing supplies such as rice, salt, beans, and cooking oil.

The place was busy, loud, overwhelming.

I captured what I could: photos, video, but there was no space for conversation. So I followed families back to their homes, hoping to hear their stories in quieter moments.

Hours passed.

Tape after tape filled.

Then I arrived at a small home where a young girl had taken shelter.

She had lost nine family members: her parents, her siblings, almost her entire world. She was now living with her grandmother.

I spoke first with her older cousins. Her grandmother was cooking nearby.

When I was ready to speak with her, she stopped me.

She insisted that I eat first.

I didn’t argue.

My hunger had become impossible to hide, my stomach had already spoken for me.

Less than an hour after receiving relief supplies, from the organisation I represented, she had already prepared a meal.

The rice. The beans. The oil and salt.

The very items we had just given her.

She gave it back to me.

That meal carried me through the day.

But more than that, it stayed with me.

I was, and still am, deeply grateful.

A year later, I returned.

This time, I prepared.

Knowing it would be an early start again, I packed food for myself, but more importantly, I brought small gifts for the grandmother. Simple things: oats, eggs, biscuits. The kind of things we give to show care.

I wanted to say thank you.

When I arrived, the little girl ran toward me, smiling, welcoming. She took me into the house.

Everyone was there.

Except her.

I asked where the grandmother was.

They told me.

Her funeral had been two days earlier.

I was still holding the gifts in my hands when I heard it.

That moment has never left me.

In disaster response, I am always aware of this tension: I arrive with very little to give, yet I leave carrying something deeply valuable, people’s stories.

That day, a woman who had almost nothing shared what she had with me. In return, all I could offer was a promise.

A promise to tell her story with care, honesty, and respect.

Because storytelling is not just about capturing moments, it is about honouring trust.

And that trust deserves to be carried, and told, the right way.