I remember a night in 1993, somewhere in a muddy trench, while the sky above the former Yugoslavia burned with metal and fear. I was in my twenties, the same age as my son is today.

 But my world back then was reduced to biology and survival, as I struggled to find food and shelter amidst the chaos of war.

I looked at my hands. They were cracked and dry, with deep black ridges under my nails from the dirt I had dug to keep myself alive. They looked old. Worn.

Then I made a vow to myself, quieter than grenades:

If I survive this madness, I will never allow myself to be neglected like this again. I will care for my body and hands like a temple because they are all I have.

Today, I am 53 years old. I kept that promise. I am a well-groomed man who takes care of himself.

But as I watch my 23-year-old son and his generation scroll through hours of “looksmaxxing” videos, I realize something has shifted.

What was once a symbol of dignity and freedom has transformed into something entirely different.

Not all of it is wrong. Discipline, hygiene, and physical care are foundations of self-respect. 

But what begins as control can quickly become obsession when guided by algorithms rather than values, leading individuals to prioritize appearance over genuine well-being and self-acceptance.

What was once self-care is now, increasingly, a prison.

While parliaments debate oil prices and currency stability—like choristers in a poorly directed opera—the real power brokers of 2026 are watching entirely different indicators.

Forget lithium. Forget uranium.

The most valuable commodity on earth today cannot be touched, stored in barrels, or mined from the ground. Yet its absence can collapse markets, misdirect military operations, or erase billions in valuation within minutes.

We are speaking about information.

We are referring to specific, time-sensitive, and actionable data, rather than the abstract concept of information. This type of information can reroute a carrier strike group mid-ocean, expose a corporate vulnerability before a board meeting, or destabilize a government before morning coffee.

In today’s market, the value of information is determined by the price someone is willing to pay to either conceal it or release it at the most damaging moment.

For those of us who have served in the military and operated in the grey zones between conflict and diplomacy, a fundamental truth remains unchanged: the most advanced weapon system becomes irrelevant when the individual behind it lacks discipline.

I have seen it in the mud of the trenches and in the sterile rooms of high-level briefings. Regimes rise and fall not only on strength but also on the quality of their people.

In today’s world, however, there is a dangerous assumption—that technology can compensate for human weakness.

The story of Russia’s so-called “Centre 795” challenges that belief.

This was not an ordinary intelligence unit. Known formally as Military Unit 75127, it was reportedly established in December 2022 as a “full-cycle” covert apparatus—part special forces, part intelligence service—designed to operate beyond the visible battlefield. Its remit stretched from the war in Ukraine to targeted operations in European cities. 

In simple terms, it was built to do the work states prefer to ignore, such as conducting covert operations and intelligence gathering without official acknowledgment.

And yet, for all its ambition and resources, it did not collapse because of a double agent or a sophisticated counterintelligence operation.

It failed because two operatives could not communicate without using Google Translate.

The fluorescent lights of a Sydney gym have a way of stripping the illusion from a man.
Between the rhythm of treadmills and the metallic clash of plates, I watch people move through their routines with precision—but without presence. 

They are healthy, safe, and well-fed. Yet many carry something heavier than any barbell: a quiet, modern despair.

Occasionally, someone looks at me and asks, almost suspiciously:
“Why are you always smiling?”

I smile because I have seen what happens when life removes everything you think is permanent.

I smile because I have seen the sky turn black in the middle of a Tuesday.

When you have stood in the wreckage of a life built with discipline and certainty—only to see it dismantled by forces far beyond your control—a morning workout is no longer a task.

It is a privilege.

The clock on the studio wall was no longer a tool for measuring time; it had become a taunting predator.

44 hours.

The air in the room was thick, smelling of stale espresso and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline that flooded my system every time my eyelids grew heavy.

My voice, once resonant and steady, was now a ragged shadow of itself, scraping against the back of my throat.

I was speaking into the digital ether, tethered to the world only by a microphone and a glowing screen.

Then, the void opened.

I opened my mouth to continue a thought, but nothing came out. I could feel the muscles moving, the frantic command from my brain to my vocal cords, but the silence was absolute. I couldn’t hear myself. In that moment, the walls of the studio seemed to contract.

Panicked, I lunged out of the chair, my heart hammering against my ribs—

Only to realize I was in my bedroom.

I was awake. I was sweating. And I was three years removed from the most grueling physical and mental challenge of my life.

Even now, the echoes of those 55 hours and 26 minutes remain.

They call it a Guinness World Record for the “Longest Audio-Only Live Stream.” To the world, it’s a line in a book.

To me, it was the culmination of a journey that began on a dusty beach in 1980 and passed through the darkest trenches of war.

I have spent my life navigating the quicksand of human conviction.
I was born and raised under communism, where truth was a state-managed resource, rationalized and redesigned to suit the collective.

In that world, the “snake oil” was the Five-Year Plan, a miracle cure for poverty that always seemed to require just one more sacrifice.

Later, while I was on a deadline with a rifle, the only “truth” was the person standing to your left. In the mud of war, you don’t care about a politician’s speech; you care if the man next to you will hold the line.

As I walked through the halls of diplomacy, I realized that truth is often just a decorative element, a silk tie worn to hide a hollow chest.

Business finally taught me the ultimate lesson: while you can lie to a crowd, you cannot lie to a balance sheet.

The lack of truth there leads to instant ruin.

I have spent my life in the crossfire—literally and figuratively. I’ve seen the world through the mud-streaked lens of a soldier and the calculated gaze of a diplomat. 

Today, I see it through the polished glass of a successful businessman. But whether I was holding a rifle, a treaty, or a contract, the lesson was always the same: The most beautiful moments in life rarely come by themselves.

We are a culture obsessed with the “after” photo.

We want the victory, the profit, and the peace, but we want them delivered to our door without the shipping costs of struggle. We want the rainbow, but we spend our entire lives trying to avoid the rain.

At 53, I finally stopped running from the clouds. I looked at the life and business I’ve built and the scars I’ve earned and asked the one question that eventually catches up to us all: What am I really going to do with the rest of my life?

My answer isn’t a new venture or a quiet retirement.

It’s a walk.

A long, gruelling, and deeply primitive one.

I have spent much of my life inside systems where trust is conditional and identity is negotiable.

In war, I learned that survival often depends not on strength, but on silence.
In military security and later in diplomatic intelligence environments, I saw how individuals become instruments—useful, precise, and, when necessary, deniable.

That reality never leaves you.

While preparing for my Camino De Santiago journey, reflecting and researching history, I came across the story of Mikel Lejarza, a former operative linked to the Spanish intelligence service.

During the 1970s, he infiltrated the Basque separatist organization ETA.

His codename was El Lobo—The Wolf.

Mikel Lejarza did not simply infiltrate ETA. He helped dismantle it from within.

He became what intelligence professionals understand as a critical node—the logistics architect. 

The man who provided safe houses, transport, and operational continuity. In that role, he was not just useful; he was indispensable.

But in the world of deep-cover intelligence, the reward for total devotion is often total erasure.

Today, the man who helped save Spain lives as a ghost—his identity altered, his past fragmented, and his existence largely unacknowledged by the state he served.

This is not just a story of espionage.

It is a case study in the architecture of loyalty—and betrayal.

I have spent my life in environments where the cost of misjudgement is measured in blood, not opinion. 

From the battlefield to intelligence briefings, from diplomatic corridors to corporate boardrooms, I have witnessed how conflict evolves—but never disappears.

In the military, we were taught that the enemy emerges from the horizon, amidst the thunder of steel and the scent of gunpowder. 

Today, as a businessman and a veteran who has seen both uniform and combat, I see a far more perilous invasion—one that enters your home silently through a smartphone screen, using your own heart as the target and your emotions as the ammunition.

War has changed. They are no longer aiming for your body but for your ability to distinguish between truth and treason.

Having worn the uniform and later the suit of a diplomat and an entrepreneur, I’ve learned that the easiest way to defeat an enemy is when they don’t even realize they are at war. In the military, we call this asymmetric warfare.

In diplomacy, it is subtle coercion.

Today, in the digital age, it has evolved into a high-tech art form: the decomposition of the human psyche.

What we see on our screens today—from deepfake videos to organized trolling—is not new. It is an evolution of psychological operations refined over decades. 

To truly understand today’s digital onslaught, we must return to the Cold War corridors of the Stasi and their infamous method known as Zersetzung.

A few days ago, while catching up with a friend, the topic of training came up. He mentioned seeing the videos I post on social media, clips of my gym sessions, and asked me, with a hint of bashful curiosity: