Al Sur

Smoko Acting School

English translations in order of the presentation

Fernando, Colombia

If I’m honest, I never dreamed of being the man I am today.

I dreamed of being a soccer player, a singer, or a sailor. I even dreamed of being a detective—yes,

a detective. I found it interesting to discover truths.

I grew up in a very loving family, where my parents did their best to give unconditional love, even

though sometimes that love was hidden. But when I really needed it, it appeared.

I was always a very curious child. I asked a thousand questions; sometimes I made mistakes like

any normal kid. If someone told me, “Don’t touch that,” I felt I had to touch it.

Sometimes you think you have it all figured out, and at one point in my life, I felt more certain than

ever...! I was going to be a professional soccer player.

It wasn’t a childhood dream; it was a life plan. At school, I did well, got good grades, but my real

passion was the field. In the mornings, I trained with the school team, and in the afternoons, I

trained with my professional team.

Everything was going well, everything was looking big... until I got the simple phone call I had been

waiting for so eagerly. That great opportunity had arrived. A bigger professional team wanted me. It

was the step I needed, but of course... I was underage and needed my father’s signature. And what

did he do? He didn’t sign. Just like that...

I couldn’t believe it. It was such a hard blow. I felt like something that belonged to me, something I

had been working for with all my heart, was taken away.

Then I met my first great love. The relationship was beautiful; we learned a lot from each other. We

lasted four years—four years of hopes, plans, promises—and then one day, out of nowhere, she

ended it. Yes, she left me... for another guy.

That’s when I felt like my heart and soul had been kicked. Because it wasn’t just abandonment—it

was replacement.

That’s when I learned that sometimes you lose matches you never even got to play.

And then came youth... that stage when you feel invincible. You think you’ve got it all figured out,

but life would remind me that nothing is so clear, and everything is so fragile—it breaks.

I also learned to stay silent when it’s time to observe, to speak when no one listens, and to trust

when everything seems to be shaking. From there, a spark was born—yes, a small spark—that

became my first big leap: creating my own business.

Together with my wife, we worked day and night for twelve long years. Building something from

zero, with effort, with fear... but with pride. And it worked! Then the day came—we sold everything.

We left our lives behind, boarded a plane full of dreams, and landed in Melbourne, Australia,

convinced that the hardest part was already behind us.

And then came what I never saw coming...

I got divorced. Yes, she said, “I’m leaving.” Just like that, a cycle that would mark my life was

closed. After the divorce, only one question remained: Bogotá or Melbourne? And destiny would

show me the way.

I found a place in a company here in Melbourne that supported me, believed in me, and where I feel

valued, along with my sponsor.

And yes... today I live alone, but not empty. Sharing with some very special friends and others I’ve

known all my life. I live at home with my two little cats—my sweet company on cold nights, my

angels in life. Learning to know myself for the first time, in silence, without depending on anyone

else.

I wasn’t a professional soccer player, but I learned to kick my fears and celebrate with my soul. I

didn’t win the cup of love... but today I celebrate something deeper: my own company and the will

to keep moving forward.

This youth gave me everything, but it also took everything away. Yet it left me one thing I wouldn’t

trade for anything: the certainty that I am still standing, with many stories left to tell.

Erika, Mexico

One always returns to the old places where one loved life.

And then one understands how absent the things one loves are.

So, boy, don’t leave now dreaming of returning.

that love is simple, and simple things are taken away by time…

A time that is said to be non-linear, thought-provoking, that we can go and come back,

go and come back?

Or at least, that’s what one tells oneself when one leaves the space one currently inhabits.

I always thought about how, The Voice on the Phone would sound,

that voice that is narrating the monologue in my head at this moment.

Why did you move to Australia? It is so far from Mexico.

In English, because we are already in Australia.

And the mind whispers, 14,345 km

Fuck what have I done!

My psychologist comments: Erika, the question is not why, but what for?

That’s when I make the noble attempt to quiet the overthinking and answer the question, but

the damn voice, the damn voice, does it again and says:

Well, Ask chat GPT, it must have the answer!! Doesn’t it?

Therefore, I answer with the simple and logical,

TO BE IN A BETTER PLACE,

TO HAVE A BETTER LIFE.

Have a better life, what a concept hey!!!

Palestina, Gulf of Mexico,Tesla, Cartel, Taco, Trump, Stolen land, Sausage Roll.

Is that what you mean?...

And then I go to the body, to disidentify the character.

All those that I have played throughout my life: daughter, friend, sister, visual artist,

…front of house, cook of arepas, partner sponsored by another human… your loved one.

Fuck, cross, common!! Cross your own judgement!!!

Go further, go inward and connect with yourself, …compassion, resilience, yoga, journaling,

meditation, ayahuasca!!!

NOOOOOOO!!!!

Breathe: inhale and exhale

I left to stop interpreting and just be

and although in English we do not separate being from being,

I was born in Mexico, so I separate it and answer myself

Girl, don’t leave now, dreaming of returning.

part to be in your being.

Jose, Combia

There you were, there you existed... so cheerful and so bright, so anxious and, only God knows, so

unsatisfied. That’s what you were: existing to please those around you, being happy, yes... but only

at the pace at which you drifted away from your own essence. —Harboring absurd and unattainable

ideas, yet always supporting the dreams and aspirations of your loved ones, working with tenacity

and complete devotion toward their goals, while silently readjusting your own intimate ones to align

with those that were not yours.

There you were, encouraging and carrying burdens for the sake of their purposes, offering a hand—

sometimes both—oDering your whole being. It is ironic to feel that goals are real when they belong

to others, but so distant and intangible when they are your own.

Something changed, something is different. Perhaps one random day, or after going through

solitude, loss, and even compulsive moments of euphoria, you realize that your dreams are just as

valid as anyone’s, that you have the strength and the virtues to carve a path toward what you once

believed unreachable. This time it feels genuine, not just motivational thoughts—it is conviction. —

You also come to discern that your essence was inconceivably far from what you truly longed for,

and from what your heart was supposedly always chasing.

Maybe it’s an epiphany, maybe just an unaccepted thought. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter

What it is or what it was, what matters is how you embrace that overwhelming web of feelings.

Regret, anger, guilt... oh yes, guilt. To dream of exploring the world, meaning you would leave your

loved ones behind? That guilt. How could you even think of such an act of selfishness? Well, that’s

a question you’ll have to set aside for later.

You are ready to take that leap of faith into the unknown—of course, with fear, with anguish, and

above all, with great hope. You are ready to fly away from everything and from the only life you ever

knew; after all, you never truly knew what you were.

This new chapter begins in constant solitude, one you had never experienced. Yes, you are isolated,

with no one to bring you warmth, no one to open your vulnerability to—but it is yours. In it, you enjoy

yourself, you cry for yourself, you blame yourself... once again, guilt distorts your attempt at peace.

Why do you feel depressed? Why do you reproach yourself? Isn’t this what you wanted? Guilt is

versatile, and it wears many faces. In this solitude, you console yourself and fall in love... You fall in

love with every version of yourself you have ever been, because all of them have shown you what

you have always been—and what a difficult journey it has been.

Some days you struggle to answer that question; some days you find yourself being “genuine,”

passionate, daring, allowing yourself to be and to experience whatever life brings. Other days, you

find yourself being that “selfish one,” for being happy in ways and with people you never thought

possible, building connections that your loved ones will likely never know. And other times, when

you feel more balanced after those exhausting days, you simply find yourself being just “a dreamer,”

loving intensely without limits, fiercely believing that this is the human experience we all should live.

Zamantha, Mexico

I come from the land of Mayos and Otomíes, from hardworking, generous, and healing

people, I come from noble hearts.

I am a chilanga soul, Sinaloan joy, Hidalgo serenity, Tapatía, and Regiomontana.

Naní, naní

Eight years ago, I arrived in this southern land. Naní, naní

“Nani” is one of my nicknames with my close family, which in Otomí means dog’s paw, or a

person who roams the streets or travels.

My nani nature makes me wander and discover, make friends, grow roots in every place I’ve

lived, leaving pieces of myself behind. These roots interweave and make more sense each

time, roots that illuminate wherever I go, and I hope that when I die, they guide me back

home.

My name is Zamantha Rosas Soto Pérez Cota Vizueth Vega Rangel Gastelum, to honor my

grandfathers and grandmothers.

Zamantha with a “Z” because my mother Gloria (aka “La Fisha”) said, “ay, it just looks cooler

that way.”

Zamantha means “the one who listens.” I have listened so much that my own voice has often

been silenced. I’ve listened to the outside world endlessly, but it’s been tough to live up to

my name when it comes to listening to myself.

I have also cried, always wearing my heart on my sleeve, connecting with the sorrows of

others. Only in recent years did I understand that showing this vulnerability is, in fact, a

strength.

Queen of the Night

It is a flower born discreetly.

It blooms only at night and lasts just a few hours.

Large, fine, long petals.

Its fragrance is intense and sweet, as if making up with perfume for the brevity of its

existence.

And so it is, as fleeting as life itself, fading with the morning light. This is my link to my

homes. This is my reminder, so special that I carry it on my skin.

I arrived in Sydney in 2018 and, even though I had gone thousands of kilometers away from

home, for me this was a journey inward. An invitation to meet my own darkness.

It made me look within, simply because in that first year I had so much time, I was alone and

without distractions. It made me embrace years of ignorance and unconsciousness, of taking

things for granted. It was the first time I became the observer of that rush-hour traffic of

thoughts, like Mexico City’s congestion, and it gave me peace to know that even if I didn’t

have the questions clear, the source of all answers was within.

Then I moved to Melbourne, and Melbourne gave me.

1. A new meaning to home—a place you arrive at and feel free, to be who I am,

whoever I am, where there is no need to fill the silences.

2. A strengthened sense of community, because I found my tribe—friends who became

family, with genuine good intentions. I’m not saying everything is rosy—no, there are

also the needed and expected low moments, when we need each other the most,

and this is when you just sit together, hold space, and simply are. And oh, how much

community is needed on a planet that’s heating up, where hunger for money and

power corrupts, where injustice often goes unpunished, where the disappeared are

still not found, where the femicide remains free, where hope in humanity hangs by a

thread. I breathe, I let myself feel. And when it all feels like too much, it’s okay to fall,

trusting that my people will catch me.

3. Gavin, a beautiful, tender love. A love that multiplied when I met his two daughters,

who adopted me into their lives too, and who teach me so much—including what it

means to be a mother.

Today is about honoring my roots, embracing my blood, embracing that adobe house in Las

Cabras, where the Fisha grew up, the Sunday market sounds of the mining town of Zimapán

where my da,d Enrique (aka El Chato) grew up, Naucalli Park and Reino Aventura with my

brother Quique, whom I love dearly, the home remedies, the music of all genres playing on

the record player, Chato’s collection of old radios and Fisha’s collection of porcelain dolls,

the sewing machines and the flavors of my grandmothers Andrea and Adela. In those

kitchens where cecina with nopales, suadero, freshly made tortillas, machaca with eggs,

frijoles puercos, corn tamales, piloncillo tamales, cocoles with cream were prepared—and

well, I can’t complain. I’m grateful there’s always been food, and even here, I can at least find

salsa Valentina and mezcal.

Today, I honor those who are no longer with us in this plane, I try to accept impermanence

(to know that everyone I love will one day no longer be here), I try to love without fear that it

will end tomorrow, without attachment, without fine print.

To accept that my parents are starting to walk more slowly while I am here so far away. To

accept that one day I’ll answer that phone call I dread. I breathe, I stay calm, knowing

they’ve lived full lives and are happy that I am here.

“There is more time than life,” says Chato, and therefore, today there is no more time to

waste.

To the Zam of tomorrow, until the day she dies: she knows her limits and respects them, she

knows herself deeply, she picks up unfinished projects, she believes in herself, perhaps

raises a new being, and never forgets to be grateful. Her darkness is her source of light.

She lives with intention, lives to serve, understands with compassion. That woman is

comfortable in her own skin and steps into her own power.

The Zam of tomorrow still cries, but raises her voice, she is an ally, she gets uncomfortable,

and she moves.

That woman is a witch, she is spiritual, she trusts her intuition, she walks barefoot, she

breathes in Pachamama, she contemplates the universe, she expands her heart, heals her

spirit, purifies her karma, stays grounded and, above all, she is ready to die.

Luis, Uruguay

Ever since I arrived in Australia, on that distant March 26th — but especially since the Gallego

from Moonee Ponds closed down — I’ve been drinking mate made with yerba full of sticks...

Not out of conviction, NO NO! Not by choice, NO NO! But... there’s no yerba from my

country here...

I'm not saying I miss the asado, or candombe, or Parque Rodó... nooo!

What I miss is a yerba that isn’t washed-out, that’s ground like coffee and actually has flavor!

But this guy? He imports yerba with sticks.

All good with Messi, the three stars, the Obelisk — but this? This looks like mulch.

Well... it is what it is, mate!

Thirty years ago I arrived in this country, on a family reunification visa, after a long wait.

I remember... arriving, and my uncles waiting for me — uncles I had only seen two or three

times in my life, because they too had emigrated, like so many other Latin Americans displaced

by dictatorships, civil wars, persecution, censorship!

In my suitcases, I carried my art books — Frida Kahlo, Picasso, Torres García, Monet, Juan

Manuka —

old photos, memories, hopes, and fear.

Fear of not understanding.

Fear of not fitting in.

Fear of never again seeing morning dew or smelling a wood-fired stove.

But I also brought something more...

A story.

A story that didn’t begin with me, and won’t end with me.

A story made of departures, of roots crossing over the sea, and of memories that refuse to be

forgotten.

Even my early mornings turned into afternoons — afternoons of football...

“Cavani’s got the ball, breaking down the left — it’s a cold and rainy afternoon in

Montevideo.

We’re broadcasting to the world via the Internet, and they’re listening all the way in

Melbourneee!

Cavani keeps going — crosses midfield, passes it to Forlán — skips past a

defender, here goes Pichichi, what a play!

He gets close to the box, dribbles past another — Suárez appears through the

middle — the crowd’s on their feet —

Forlán crosses it in, Suárez controls it with his chest — the keeper rushes out — a

flick — Suáreeezzz shoots — GOOOAAAL!”

Wake up, Luis, you’re in Australia!

It’s five in the morning!

Time to go to work...

Back to the factory — the overtime, the remittances, the house deposit...

I come from the South.

I was born in the south of a country...

in the south of South America.

I was born in a country house,

Where the morning dew would fall...

and the stove burned wood.

There was no nurse. No midwife.

My grandmother — Julia América, born at the turn of the century, and widow of a Brazilian

immigrant —

helped bring me into the world from my mother’s womb, Olga Renne,

whose grandparents had also crossed the ocean... from the Canary Islands to Uruguay.

I come from a country built by the hands of immigrants:

Gallegos

Tanos (Italians)

Poor Jews

Arabs

Romanians

Poles

Like many, I came searching for something better.

But at first, all I found was silence.

That thick silence that falls when you don’t speak the language,

when the codes are different,

when even the sky feels foreign.

This sky is not the sky of my homeland!

This moon doesn’t shine like that one!

Like the one that lit up my dreams — big dreams.

Bigger than the trembling of the stars.

Comrades!

Where does a story begin?

In the land we stand on?

In the language we speak?

Or... in the people who see us, who recognize us?

I learned to name things again.

To smile without understanding.

To work without asking questions.

To start from the bottom... again.

In this corner at the southern tip of the South,

I began to put down roots.

I discovered new forms of family, new faces that had also come from afar —

people who, like me, had crossed oceans carrying absence.

Now I know that I don’t belong to a place,

but to the people who make me feel at home.

And sometimes — just sometimes —

that person is also me.

“Maybe all of us here today carry a story of departure and arrival within us.

Maybe... that is what true belonging really is.”

Claudia, Colombia

My name is Claudia.

I’m forty-four years old… and I have NEVER stopped dreaming.

When I first arrived in this country, six years ago… I thought the only things that truly bothered

me, or made me sad, were simple things.

Number one: when animals are mistreated.

Number two: when people throw trash on the streets.

(beat, more serious)

But number three… what hurts me the most… is social inequality. The lack of opportunities.

It breaks my heart… because my country is the third most unequal country in the world… after

South Africa and Namibia.

And THAT was the reason why I decided to leave.

“I’m leaving!” I told everyone… with a smile on my face… but dead scared inside.

A week before my trip, I called Mr. José, the moving man.

And I said: “Mr. José, do you see all of this? Please, take this to my mother… and this to my

sisters.”

And in just ONE HOUR… everything was gone.

Everything I had built with years of effort, of savings… disappeared.

Nothing was left.

Only… the echo.

I arrived in Melbourne full of dreams, full of projects. Positive — always positive! Good vibes,

as they say.

And I started meeting people from all over the world.

But then… I discovered something else that hurt me deeply.

Most of them, when they found out where I was from… they would make some cocaine joke…

moving their finger under their nose.

And they would laugh.

ENOUGH! That is NOT funny!

If only they knew that this so-called “business” has left more than 300,000 people dead in my

country.

Most of them are civilians. Children.

If only they knew about the kidnappings… the massacres… the stolen land… the children —

YES, children as young as eight years old — taken from their families, handed a rifle, and forced

into war.

That… is NOT a joke.

So, when someone asks me where I’m from, I wish I could answer:

I’m from the country that tastes like coffee.

From the land of Macondo, where hearts beat faster to the rhythm of vallenato and bambuco.

From the home of the majestic and towering wax palm.

YES. I AM COLOMBIAN.

One day, I was watching an interview. They were talking about superheroes.

And they said: “A hero is not Batman or Superman. Because they have no fear, they are

invincible.”

A real hero… is someone who, despite being afraid, despite being fragile… still chooses to face

danger.

And I dare to say… that Colombians are true heroes.

Because despite inequality… despite problems… despite violence…

WE ARE NOT AFRAID.

We face life with courage.

We face life with a smile.

And most importantly… we never lose hope.

So if anyone ever asks me again where I’m from…

I will say it proudly. With all my heart:

I AM COLOMBIAN. Ahí ombe!

Reveka, Venzuela

Since I was a little girl, I’ve been an artist.
I remember painting classes, clay classes, karate, drumming, and theater. Luckily, there was a cultural center in the town where I grew up:
San Juan de los Morros,
Venezuela.
A town of two streets and three schools.

I studied at the most intense one of all, where they taught us things like:
“You must have the end goal in mind,”
“Always add value,”
“You must learn something new every day.”
Where the mantra we repeated every day at 6 in the morning was:
“Today is a day where everything we do will turn out well, wonderful, extraordinary, because that’s what God, our Country, and our parents want.”

Can you imagine how revolutionary, avant-garde, and intense we kids from that school could be?
And by revolutionary, I mean we knew we had a voice and a vote. No one stayed silent in the face of injustice here.
Avant-garde because we always had to do something extraordinary in some way. I remember my athlete classmates, those who went to math olympiads, and even those on TV shows testing their knowledge.

That revolutionary spirit stayed with me throughout university. I was part of the student movements against Hugo Chávez’s regime.
—Who is definitely not resting in peace—
I studied in Caracas.
The capital.
Where I faced the magical realism that Venezuela offers.

I studied journalism.
And that had consequences for me.
How many people do you know have had a gun held to their head?

After my parents told me:
“Sweetheart, you can’t come back home; it’s not a safe place either,”
I moved to Chile—in 2015.
I took a plane.
And I emphasize this because many Venezuelans decide to cross jungles, deserts, and pay coyotes to reach any other country.

That was my first migration. I am one of the 8 million Venezuelans seeking peace.
I learned that in winter, you take iron so you don’t get depressed. That the Caribbean has the warm beaches, and that God never moves.
My parents arrived in Chile a year later. They also left everything behind, always with the certainty that they could start over anywhere.

Can you imagine the level of detachment I’ve developed?
That’s why I live intensely in the present, I romanticize life, and I understand that GOODBYE is as natural as death.
I said goodbye to my family in 2019.
They are still in the country of pastel de choclo and empanadas de pino. Where the mountain range begins, or ends, depending on how you look at it.

After a 16-hour flight,
I arrived in Australia with the same level of English as there is democracy in Venezuela.
After cleaning, babysitting, working as a kitchen hand, and dodging one unfair job after another, I founded Papelón.
A space for collective gathering.
Of food as a community magnet,
Of shared will and dreams to work toward. A Latin American restaurant in the west of the city that also seeks to destigmatize the role of refugees in this country.

I am one of them.
Now that my nervous system is calm,
I exercise, I do theater, I’m learning to play the cuatro, and I want to keep dedicating my life to serving and loving.

I have a boyfriend whom I admire.
People whom I deeply love.
Many dreams to work toward and many journeys to begin.
I am accompanied by the certainty that I will see my family again and, with them, rediscover the tenderness that migration blurs.