Latyr had degrees in economics and finance, a stable job at the European Commission, a family in Belgium—an ordinary middle-class life. Then a forged cheque became an anchor that pinned him to the streets of Spain for nearly four years. He was ultimately cleared of any wrongdoing, but by then, the person he had been was already gone.
His story matters now more than ever. At the World Urban Forum in Baku, Azerbaijan, the United Nations and partners including HOGAR SÍ are elevating homelessness from a footnote to the center of the global urban agenda. The crisis is real and urgent, but so is the possibility of ending it—and Latyr's journey from tent to stability, documented in the film What Nobody Wants to See, reveals what's possible when the right support arrives.
The turning point came almost by accident. When Latyr first arrived in Spain around age 40, he thought he'd stay three days. A business contact had asked him to receive a cheque and forward it to a bank account. Latyr never touched the document himself—it went directly to his Spanish bank. When officials discovered it was forged, authorities confiscated his passport, bank cards and all identification. He was told he could not leave the country until the investigation concluded. Month after month, he appeared before a judge to prove he remained there. He could have fled—European border controls would not have stopped him. He chose not to. "I didn't want to take that risk," he said quietly.
Instead, he stayed and slowly descended into homelessness. Living in tents beneath trees near a wooded area, Latyr created a fragile semblance of ordinary life alongside other homeless people. "We were well organized in our place," he recalled. "We bought vegetables, meat, little things for cooking. We tried to make life." To survive, he took informal work at street markets, moving boxes of fruit and vegetables for vendors. Despite his education, he earned just enough for food and basic supplies. For nearly four years, that was all he had.
Then came illness—emphysema first, then lung cancer. Spain offers medical care to those in need, but his doctor delivered a harsh reality: chemotherapy was too aggressive for someone living on the streets. He needed shelter, proper meals, regular medication. That was when HOGAR SÍ stepped in, placing him in a shelter called "Espacio Salut"—health space—where he finally had a bed, meals and the stability to undergo treatment. "That saved my life," Latyr said. "But it also gave me the opportunity to get out from the streets."
From the shelter, he slowly rebuilt. Using his laptop and drawing on decades of economics background, he began accepting freelance work from former contacts. Clients from London, France and the United States started sending him assignments remotely. His life began to coalesce again.
What still haunts him is the ending that wasn't really an ending. After years of investigation, authorities returned his passport without explanation. No charges were ever filed. "They said: okay, take back your passport, take back your laptop," he recalled. "And that was all." Four years of his life had simply vanished.
Today, Latyr speaks publicly about homelessness, directing his message to governments, businesses and housing developers. His story is both a warning about how quickly ordinary lives can collapse and a testament to the power of intervention at the moment it matters most.