Marina Portabella: "I want to die getting children out of prison"

BarcelonaMarina Portabella (Barcelona, 1972) was the public relations officer for the Luz de Gas nightclub for 20 years, until she decided to leave the nightlife, make a change in her life and dedicate herself to others. She is the founder and president of the NGO Dream Nepal, which is dedicated to rescuing children who are living in Kathmandu's prisons, and offering them a home and a future. On April 7, she is organizing a Night of humor to raise funds for her projects. Portabella is also the director of another NGO, Valora't, which has replicated the Nepalese project in Colombian prisons, so finding her in Barcelona is becoming increasingly difficult.

What is the latest project that keeps you busy right now?

— The party we are doing for Dream Nepal, on Monday 7th April at the Teatre Victòria. It is presented by Mag Lari and we have the best: Andreu Buenafuente, Carles Sans, Jose Corbacho, Carlos Latre, Cristina Puig and a little gift from the musical Maricel.

What is the ultimate purpose of the money raised in this Night of humor?

— Dream Nepal. It is the NGO that I lead, the one I founded and with which we are dedicated to rescuing children from prison.

Rescue, what a verb!

— We are dedicated to rescuing them. They are living in prisons. By law, the United Nations states that children must live in prisons until they are three years old, and this is enforced in almost all countries, except a few. For example, in the United States, when a woman is pregnant in prison and the child is born, they take it away immediately, which is a crime for both. Until the age of three, it is considered correct, because the child is not very aware of what is happening around him and, instead, he strengthens his ties with his mother. After three years, he must be released, because he is already aware of what is happening. In the case of Nepal, there is a very important cultural issue, which is karma. They believe that prison has very bad karma. And it passes from generation to generation. When a woman has to go to prison, her family rejects her and her children. This woman can put the child in prison or leave him in a government orphanage, and the child will never be able to see the mother again. Most of them, therefore, go to prison with their children and stay without any kind of conditions, until they are older. Their mother is given a handful of rice to eat, if she has three children she divides the rice between three, and if not, she eats it herself. That child grows up in there, to very exaggerated points. The oldest one we took out was 13 years old. You have to remember that when you rescue a child from prison, he has never seen the outside. He has never seen the night, because they close the prison before it is dark; he has not seen the stars, he has not seen flowers, he has not seen trees, he has not seen cars, he has not seen anything. When we say rescue, we really rescue them. They are with their mother, but they are illiterate: they have never seen a pen or a piece of paper. They don't know the world. It's as if you were planted on Mars tomorrow. The prison in Kathmandu is in the centre of the city, like the Model prison before. When they come out they find a city full of carts, donkeys, horses, cows, cars, trucks, bicycles... They don't understand anything.

This last year, how many days have you spent in Barcelona?

— In 2024, I think I spent a month and a half in the city. Right now, I'm split between Nepal and Colombia. In Colombia, I'm the director of another foundation, called Valora't, to replicate the Nepal project in Medellín. I'm in Nepal for three months, I come back, I go to Colombia for two months... I'm here for very little time. But all the funding comes from Barcelona.

Your last big life change was when you left Luz de Gas. I met you when you were a public relations person, so in a nightlife environment, in a frivolous environment. What happened here?

— Many things. I was born on Rosselló and Rocafort streets, next to La Modelo. When I went to school, I passed by the prison every day and it was something that intrigued me greatly. At that time, from the street you could see the bars and the faces of the prisoners. You saw people locked behind a fence. I was tremendously intrigued: what is there in there? What are these men doing behind these bars? I even had contact with one of them, I spoke to him out loud. My mother didn't know and one day when she accompanied me to school she heard this prisoner shouting at me: "Marina!" You can imagine my mother's reaction. Over the years I have thought that what I do now comes from there. And at Luz de Gas, working with Fede Sardà, we began to give the room to NGOs. This made me discover many very interesting entities and people. Father Manel told me about Father Elias, who was in France and accompanied children in prison to see their father so that they would not lose contact. I suggested that we set up the organisation here and I started to accompany him on the weekend. I was fascinated by it. Prison, the lives there, something that we have so close and yet so far away. I couldn't find the time to dedicate myself one hundred percent to this, because I had to have a salary: I have two children and I am a single mother. Finally, we created Dream Nepal nine years ago and I have been earning a salary from it for three years.

You are the mother of two children whom you accompanied to prison.

— They were two children, six and seven years old, whose father was in prison. They lived with their grandmother, their mother's mother, in a rather complex context. We created a bond, they had problems with the family they lived with, I arranged for them to be fostered, which led to an adoption. Yes, I met my children like that, taking them to prison, and they have been the gift of my life.

What is the best thing that has happened to you in the last 20 years, since you started making your life change?

— I would say that it has given meaning to my life. I have had a very exciting life, I have done many things, I have met many people, but in the end I must have been missing something, deep inside. Today I feel very fortunate. It is a gift to see that you can help them. There is a girl that we rescued in Nepal and today she is a nurse. For me it is as if I were a surgeon. That small gesture of yours has completely changed a life.

How many kids do you have under your name right now?

— Right now, 92. 60 from Nepal, 30 in Colombia and two at my house.

Do you see them all as your children?

— Absolutely. I don't want them to lose their ties with their mothers, on the contrary, we strengthen them, and I don't let them call me mom. If someone tells me that, I explain to them that no, their mother is in prison, she is a figure that is never forgotten. I am a very strong and very sensitive person at the same time. I am made of glass inside, but I am also very strong, because you cannot imagine how hard it has been to get through all this. I have two adopted children, and no one can argue with me that they are my children, nor with them that I am their mother. Starting from the basis that for me the mother or the father is the one who takes care of you, who helps you, who is by your side, who is always there, not the one who gave birth to you. I feel them all as children, the bond is very strong.

When was the last time you entered a prison?

— The day before yesterday, in Medellín, in the Pedregal prison.

How many prisons have you entered in your life?

— A lot. I don't know, thirty or forty. In Kathmandu we work in seven prisons and in Medellín we work in Pedregal, Bellavista and Itagüi, which are two very impressive prisons.

Are Medellin's prisons worse than those in Nepal?

— They are very different. If I had to define it with one word, I would say that the prisons in Nepal are very sad and those in Medellin are very scary. In Nepal they don't have beds, everyone sleeps on the floor. It's very hard, the prison inside. Those in Medellin are more violent. The prisons represent the countries very well.

In recent days we have talked a lot about Viqui Molins, the street nun, a person who was always there for those who had no one. Your case makes me think of her without the religious element.

— No, not the religious element. But I can tell you that they are very happy lives. I'm sure Viqui died very happy.

When is the last time you were able to stop and think if you want to do this forever or if it will have an expiration date?

— I will tell you that the moment I rescued the first child from prison I knew I was going to die like this. Seeing children of seven, eight, ten years old in prison is a terrifying, aberrant image. I am very clear about it, that I want to die like this. What I want to do, which is to rescue children over three years old from the Kathmandu prison, is coming to an end. There are not that many. We have already rescued almost 130. The total number is difficult to know, but perhaps it does not reach 400. I do see an end. I set up an entity to solve a problem, which is the most exciting part. But everything that children represent around prison is what I do not want to stop working on. They are the great forgotten ones. Do you think there are children in prison? Does it occur to you to think that the father who is inside has a son outside? I want to die like this, for sure, taking children out of prison.

What is the last day that you have dedicated to yourself, Marina?

— Dedicating myself to myself is doing what I do.

So the last whim?

— Look, last summer, on my way to Colombia, I stopped for a week in Brazil to see some friends. And I went to see a prison in Brazil, eh! I couldn't help it. I don't have holidays because my life is not a job, it's my project. I wish I didn't have to get paid, I don't know how to tell you. I don't get tired of what I do. It makes me happy.

That's nice, isn't it?

— The truth is yes. I didn't think I would ever be able to achieve it.

What have you had to give up?

— I think nothing. Obviously, I would like to be with my family much more. The 7th of April is the Night of humor And on the 8th I'm leaving for Kathmandu. I'm going with my mother, who has never been here, and that's what I'm most excited about in my life. She's 80 years old, she's wonderful, very beautiful, but she's at a certain age and it took me five minutes to think: "My mother is going to die one day and she won't have seen everything we've done there." In Kathmandu we now have three very large, beautiful houses, we have girls who are already working, we have a girl on the board of Dream Nepal who was a child who was released from prison. This will also be a treat. I'm looking forward to my mother seeing it and experiencing it.

You have worked at Luz de Gas for 20 years, when was the last night you went out?

— I can't tell you. Strong, eh? It's just that I'm in a context that isn't this one. The last time I came, in November, we went out for dinner with a friend. But going out, going out, I don't even remember. I try to be in Barcelona every year for the People in Red party, the one with Dr. Clotet. That's the party of the year, for me. But hey, I've gone out enough, eh? We've already completed this chapter.

The last two are the same for everyone. A song you've been listening to lately.

— These days, the children of Colombia, when I leave, sing to me a lot Broken heart, by Alejandro Sanz. I don't listen to much music either. I'm always with people. What I do do is meditate, which has been a very important step in my life. I do thirty minutes of meditation when I get up, at five or five-thirty in the morning. It has helped me a lot. I am surrounded by the pain of others all day long and moments like these that lessen the pain help you breathe. The pain gets to you.

The last words of the interview are yours.

— I would like to encourage people to do things. It is important to think that very few people do a lot and when there are many people doing few things, great things can be done. There are many young people with a lot of potential, people who come to visit me in Nepal. To help others and for themselves.