Smoko Acting School

English translations in order of the presentation

Luis Silva - Uruguay

They Asked Me – They Asked Me – They Asked Me

(“Sobreviviendo” – Víctor Heredia)

They asked me how I lived — they asked me.

“Surviving,” I said, “surviving.”

I have a poem written more than a thousand times;

in it, I always repeat that while anyone

proposes death on this earth,

and weapons are made for war,

I will walk these fields — surviving.

All of us, facing danger — surviving.

Sad and wandering men — surviving.

Surviving, surviving,

surviving, surviving.

It’s been so long since I laughed — so long,

and I used to laugh like a nightingale.

I have a kind of memory that hurts me,

and I can’t forget about Palestine,

about the Malvinas, about Latin America.

So much tragedy upon this earth.

Now, when I want to laugh, I barely can.

I no longer have the laughter of a nightingale,

nor the peace of the pines in January.

I walk this world — surviving.

Surviving, yes — surviving.

I don’t want to be just a survivor anymore;

I want to choose the day of my death.

My flesh is young, my blood is red,

My teeth are strong, and I have an urgent dream.

I want the life of my seed —

I don’t want to see a day when animals

march for peace in the world.

How I would laugh that crazy day —

they, marching for life,

and we — barely surviving.

But...

I have a kind of memory that hurts me,

and I can’t forget Hind Rajab

and all the children killed in Palestine —

Hind Rajab and 20,000 children

dead in this useless war,

while we, distracted, watch TikTok

and take selfies.

And you — and you — and you asked me how I lived???

(“La Maldición de Malinche” – Amparo Ochoa)

You — hypocrite — who appear

humble before the foreigner,

but turn arrogant

toward your brothers of the people —

you asked me how I lived?

No — I’m no longer a survivor...

I have already chosen

the day of my death!

(“Hasta la Raíz” – Natalia Lafourcade)

I keep crossing rivers, walking through jungles, loving the sun.

Each day, I keep pulling thorns

from deep inside my heart.

At night, I keep lighting dreams,

to cleanse, with sacred smoke, every memory.

When I write your name in white sand against a blue backdrop,

when I look to the sky and in the cruel shape

of a gray cloud, you appear—

one afternoon, I’ll climb a high hill and look to the past,

and you’ll know I haven’t forgotten you.

I carry you inside — to the root.

And no matter how much I grow, you’ll be here.

Even if I hide behind the mountain

or find a field full of sugarcane,

there’ll be no way, my ray of moonlight,

for you to leave.

Calm...

(“La Edad del Cielo” – Jorge Drexler)

We are nothing more

than a drop of light, a shooting star,

a spark, no more,

in the age of the sky.

We are not

what we wish to be —

just a brief heartbeat

in an ancient silence,

with the age of the sky.

Calm — everything is calm.

Let the kiss last,

let time heal,

let the soul have

the same age as the age of the sky.

We are no more

than a handful of sea,

a joke of God,

a whim of the sun

in the garden of the sky.

Calm — calm!

They asked me —

what was it they asked me??

Cecilia Bravo, Peru

Blue eyes, don’t cry,

don’t cry or fall in love.

Blue eyes, don’t cry,

don’t cry or fall in love.

You’ll cry when I’m gone,

when there’s no remedy left.

You’ll cry when I’m gone,

when there’s no remedy left.

May 1993, and I still remember it like it was yesterday. I remember my mother

washing dishes while the notes of that song, Blue Eyes, echoed again and again in

her voice and in her heart. If anyone recognizes it, then they know I come from Peru:

from the land of the sun and Pachamama.

My name is Cecilia, nice to meet you. I was born and raised in the mountains of

southern Peru. Tarma, my hometown, is a small valley nestled 3,050 meters above

sea level, surrounded by fields of flowers and countless varieties of potatoes and

corn. I lived there until I finished high school. Then, like many others, I had to migrate

to the capital in search of an opportunity to attend a public university. I settled in

Lima for a few years. I studied languages ​​at the University of San Marcos. There, in

that sprawling metropolis, I had my first jobs, my first experiences of a life with

glimpses of bohemianism, and, truly, my first glimpses of a life beyond my town,

beyond what I knew up to that point.

I was very happy in Lima. I made good friends, discovered new libraries, new parks.

A few years later I moved to live by the sea, in Barranco, and made a life for myself

on my bicycle. I did whatever it took to avoid the city’s horrible traffic. And it was

there, too, in the city-sky-donkey-belly, as we call Lima, that I experienced true love,

the kind that reveals new universes, that brings you poetry, music, and cult films. I

experienced then what it means to be embraced and allowed to blossom in whatever

way you choose. “Don’t run anymore, girl, heart of chalk,” the boy in the plaid shirt

used to remind me, “just live and be yourself, in your own way and in your own time.”

I still struggle to understand how connections like those change over the years and

get lost in the hustle and bustle of routine. Just like what happened to us. And we

could never be the same again. We drifted apart little by little until an unbreakable

door was built between us. I refused to accept it for a long time and tried to stay, to

stay in a relationship where there was no kiss other than my kiss, no desire other

than my own. Until one day, an immense feeling of loneliness overwhelmed me

anyway. Loneliness and sadness confronted me in front of the mirror and spoke to

me with great clarity:

My darling, there’s nothing left for you here. You’ve truly tried everything for

the past year and a half. He’s no longer here. He’s not listening to you.

There’s no point in all this anxiety, all this absence, when you’re surrounded

by someone. It's time to move on and migrate again. It’s what you do best.

Find yourself a new place to start over, perhaps across the sea, perhaps it's time to

pursue those studies you’d almost given up on.

It’s been almost seven years since all that happened, and only now can I put it into

words, write it down, tell you about it. A few months later, I started packing my things,

meticulously, taking responsibility for every memory, every goodbye, every tear, and

every misplaced piece of advice. I had to take responsibility for that too. To listen to

others without letting myself be hurt. To listen to them and try to look at them with

love, thinking to myself: They don’t know what it’s like to be in my shoes."

But why are you going so far away again? Where did this crazy decision come

from now? Why don’t you just make this relationship official and get married

already? Time is running out. You’re going to Australia? Don’t count me in for

what you’re doing.

There is immense courage behind those of us who have decided to migrate to

pursue a dream, or to escape a nightmare. And there is also immense pain,

immense vulnerability. I like to think that both are like two sides of the same coin,

and that we must embrace both to live honestly with ourselves.

To you who also carry the migrant’s story. I don’t think you need to hear it from me.

But I just want to remind you that in your darkest moments you are not alone. Here

we are, entire tribes of walkers, learning new languages, shedding our skin,

redefining ourselves as Homo sapiens did long ago, through fire and memory. We

are building narratives to sustain us, inventing futures where we all fit, even in the

open. Remember…

The important thing isn’ the destination

The important thing is the journey

I’m not looking for the truth

I only know there’s a destination

And that thing you carry in your heart

And that thing you carry there

And that thing you carry in your heart

Perhaps it will also make you laugh.

Jose Osvaldo Ducuara - Colombia

I still remember… my sister’s hug.

That moment stayed frozen in time.

A strong, unexpected hug,

full of tears, silence…

and a suitcase packed with hope and dreams.

That gesture… was my lighthouse.

That hug… still walks with me today.

She is a fighter in every sense of the word.

And when I say “fighter,” I don’t mean it as a poetic metaphor, no, no…

If they put Tyson himself in front of her, she’d stare him down too!

Her body faces an illness that advances every day,

but her spirit never retreats.

She smiles where others would cry,

and laughs at herself with a strength that sometimes leaves me without excuses.

I mean… when I get a cold I’m already in “say goodbye to everyone” mode…

and she, on the other hand, dances while she cooks.

When I think of giving up, I think of her.

When I feel like I can’t take it anymore, I remember her standing tall,

telling me with that voice that allows no drama:

“Stop being dramatic and go do something productive!”

And yes… instantly everything feels lighter.

She taught me that life isn’t measured by what it takes from us,

but by what we still have left to give…

and if possible, to laugh a little while we’re at it.

And now…

I want to talk about her.

My grandmother. ❤️

The first migrant in my family.

She didn’t cross oceans or borders,

but she crossed mountains, muddy roads,

and left the countryside to start a new life in the city.

She started it all.

She was the first step in the path I now walk.

Without her strength, without her fight…

nothing I am today would exist.

She was a simple woman,

but with a heart bigger than any city.

And even though she is no longer physically here,

I can still see her asking me to play “La Basurita” by Beatriz Adriana—

that song she loved so dearly.

I love you, Grandma.

Thank you for starting the story.

I’m just continuing it.

The migrant’s path…

Ohh My God… now that is a real telenovela.

I worked jobs I never imagined:

I cleaned, I carried, I cooked,

and learned that dawn coffee tastes the same in Colombia, Australia… or Mars!

I fell, I got up,

I fell again (but with more style),

and discovered that reinventing yourself isn’t just for phones.

We also need system updates…

only instead of “version 2.0,” you come out with “more gray hair and less patience.”

I also met loss.

A love that seemed eternal… cracked.

And yes, it hurt.

But I survived.

(Thanks to the gym, coffee, and Spotify Premium, of course).

That wound didn’t destroy me:

it transformed me…

left me a little wiser, and a lot more allergic to drama.

Now I understand that what you lose on the outside

you can gain on the inside.

And that I don’t need anyone to complete me:

I’m already complete enough with two kids.

From that chapter, my children were born.

They are my compass, my lighthouse, my reason to exist…

and also my natural alarm clock at 6 AM.

In their laughter, two worlds embrace:

the Colombian one that dances salsa with an arepa in hand,

and the Australian one that says “mate” even to ask for water.

In their lives I discovered my eternal purpose:

to love them, guide them,

and survive their math homework without losing my faith.

And even though I now hold two passports,

my heart is still 100% Colombian.

Because you can live between two flags,

but your first homeland… the one that saw you born…

that one never fades.

And I remember Viktor Frankl’s words:

“He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”

My “why” is in my children,

in my faith,

in my sister, in my friends,

and in all the people who inspire me to keep going.

I’m not here today as someone defeated.

I’m here as a man who fell,

who cried,

who lost…

but who chose to get back up,

comb his hair (more or less),

and continue.

I am a migrant.

I am a father.

I am a brother.

I am a dreamer.

And I’ve learned that in every fracture there is also a rebirth.

In every goodbye, a seed of the future.

And in every beginning… the perfect opportunity to mess up again.

This testimony is not just mine.

It is a song of hope.

It is the voice of all who once left,

and discovered that you’re never truly far away,

because memory connects us

and love… sustains us.

I chose hope.

I chose faith.

I chose love.

And today I stand here to tell you,

looking you in the eyes:

even if it hurts, even if it costs,

even if the path is uncertain…

Life always invites us to begin again!

(And if not… well, we grab a coffee and try again.)

Daniela Orlas, Colombia

I wanted to see the world beyond the mountains that surround Medellín.

I used to see them from my grandmother’s terrace; during the day the sun would illuminate the little houses and buildings built on the hillsides, and at night those same houses and buildings would become the city lights filling the mountains, creating a dreamlike visual effect. One feels embraced by them.

Medellín hides secrets between its light and its shadow.

In the past, it was hard to tell the difference between fireworks and gunfire.

Terror held the city for a time — like in 1993, a year before I was born — when Pablo Escobar, the seventh-richest man in the world, was gunned down on a rooftop after believing the age-old lie that power and money can fill the void within man.

This is nothing new. Because of that same lie, in my homeland mothers lost their sons, sons lost their fathers — all under the promise of a brighter future.

I grew up surrounded by stories of terror, told on Colombian news channels… and, at the same time, within a loving family that believes in the infinity of the soul.

It was hope — that very hope that so deeply represents my land — that made me jump into the void and leave behind what was known.

A primal instinct screamed that there was something more for me.

A deep desire urged me to aim for the stars — not because they didn’t shine in Colombia, but because by seeing them from another perspective, I could change my own.

It was a yearning for expansion. To know. To experience. To fulfill dreams.

Little did I know I would end up in a southern land touched by Antarctic winds, wiping tables and taking orders from human beings from every corner of the planet.

Each table was a worldview. I often wondered when my dreams would replace my job — but, as my friend Melisa says, “God takes pity on His creatures,” and I came to understand that my occupation does not define me completely — that it is a bridge between reality and ideals.

My grandmother used to tell me constantly that to serve is to reign, accompanied by the story of a God who became man and washed the feet of His disciples.

The greatest became the smallest: He came to serve, not to be served.

That is the certainty that allows me to keep walking.

My compass pointed toward the Southern Cross — the constellation of wandering navigators.

I was lost, blinded by my pride, living in my own lies; my focus was directed toward the attention the world could give me.

I looked toward the North Star — the American Dream — thinking it would cover my hunger for validation.

But I couldn’t follow a star that wasn’t mine.

I didn’t need to make my worth visible — I had to discover it on my own, in places I’d never imagined.

Oceania, the distant continent where you realize that yes, time is relative: here the sun rises while the other side of the world is already ready to enter Morpheus’ realm.

Kangaroos on my street. Dreamtime. A dream.

There is a great force that opposes dreams — the kind of power that makes even the greatest hero lose his destiny: fear and doubt.

They are capable of controlling entire nations and derailing the noblest plans.

Fear disguises itself as safety, as coherence, even as prudence.

It whispers: “Be realistic. This is all there is.”

I felt it invading my body.

My mind flooded with questions:

What if I don’t make it? What if I’m not enough? What if I can’t express myself well?

This is the voice that has tempted humanity for millennia.

It manifests itself most strongly right before we make a decision that will change the course of things.

And then I remembered the old saying we all know by heart: “Curiosity killed the cat.”

A lie. It’s a lie disguised as wisdom.

I’m living proof that curiosity doesn’t kill.

I believe what truly kills is waiting — waiting for everything to change on its own; being trapped in an eternal state of “what if… what could have been… what might I have felt?”

To reach the end of one’s life with regret is the worst kind of sentence —

a sentence imposed by oneself, by no one else.

So now I tell myself this: go after your highest ideals, conquer the seas, do not let the illusion of death stop your dreams.

Do not allow doubt to narrate your truth — your story.

A story conceived and carved with eternal love, millions of light-years ago.

Your life and your free will have been given to you to fulfill the true desires of your soul.

Do not ignore them.

When you lose one star, you will find others shining in a vast sky of opportunities.

Remember: the infinite cannot be satisfied with what is perishable.

Well, between saying and doing there’s a long road —

and that’s precisely the mountain we must climb.

And for the ascent, I want to share this poem-prayer my grandmother taught me:

Let nothing disturb you,

Let nothing frighten you,

All things pass away,

God never changes.

Patience achieves all things;

Whoever has God lacks nothing;

God alone suffices.

Claudia Marroquin, Colombia

Who am I?

Great question.

I would like to stand in front of all of you with confidence and confidence and tell you

who I am. But the truth... I don’t know. I can tell you the name with which I identify

myself before the Society, the name that my parents gave me: Claudia. But really,

who am I? I don’t know. I live on automatic, in survival mode. Day after day.

I arrived in Australia twelve years ago, with fears, expectations and the great weight

and responsibility of being that person, of being “the main applicant” who due to age,

profession and other conditions had the greatest opportunity to achieve the long-

awaited residency.

Since that December 27, 2013, my life became a constant career: studying, learning,

working and adapting to a new culture. And add to this that I had no idea about the

language: Hey mate, where is the dunny?... who? What?

Every step, every job, and every move had to be perfectly planned. One misstep and

everything could be affected.

I ran, ran, and ran as fast as I could, so I could fill in all the boxes on the list and be

able to say, “I did it”.

But now, when I look back, I wonder: Whose list was that? To whom was he fulfilling

all those expectations? Was that the list of my dreams? Or it was a list designed by

the Society and that I decided to adapt as my own.

Anyway, today I can definitely stand in front of all of you and tell them yes, I made it,

but it was hard. It cost me my peace, it cost me my Brightness, maybe part of my

Happiness. And it definitely cost me my identity. Today... I don’t feel like I belong

here at all. But neither there, in Colombia.

There are things that no one talks to you about when you move to another country.

No one mentions the loneliness that accompanies migration, the daily fatigue. The

frustration of moving forward 2 steps and feeling that you immediately go back 8

steps, because immigration law changed, and now it seems that you have to start

the process again.

Nobody talks to you about Christmas in silence where you wish you were sitting with

your family sharing dinner on the 24th, instead of crying while listening to El burrito

sabanero on YouTube or the song ”El hijo ausente” by Pastor López” let’s cry for

the absent”.

May next year be present

Let’s wish him good luck

And may God await him from death;

Nor is there any mention of the mute sadness of not being able to smell your

newborn nephew’s skin or witness his first words.

And much less is there talk of the pent-up tears when you can’t hold the hand of your

sick parents. And you have to settle for seeing them through a screen

And what we talk about the least is the anguish that settles in the chest. That mixture

of anxiety and tiredness that in a few hours and days whispers in your ear to stop.

That you don’t go on anymore, that you don’t have fuel left. That maybe... It would be

easier to turn everything off and disappear.

But just when you’re so close to giving up and ending it all, always—always—a hand

appears in front of you. It can be the hand of a friend, someone who loves you, or

someone who just sees you.

That hand tries to pull you out of that deep and dark hole that I’m sure many of you

know but few dare to name: depression.

That hand asks you to stay, that you don't need to run anymore, or fill anyone’s

shoes. That all you need... is Volver a ti.

To return, and take the hand of the girl you once were, the one who still lives in you

full of dreams and illusions.

And when you recognize your wound, the turbulence begins to subside. You sit with

yourself, and you feel a spark ignite in your soul.

You begin to see your wings open, slowly, trembling, but steady. And no, you are not

reborn from the ashes: you learn to live with them. And in that act, you become free.

So, you decide to write to your future self, not to promise them anything... but to

remind him that one day you chose to stay.

You chose to live.

There was a time that was beautiful

And I was truly free.

I kept all my dreams in glass castles.

Little by little I grew up

And my love fables

They faded away like soap bubbles

I’ll find you one morning inside my room

And you’ll make the bed for two

Churu chur turu turu

Oooohhhhh ahhhhhh

Dear me,

I hope that when you read this you will be sitting in your favorite chair, Looking at the

Sea.

I hope you’re breathing – not with your chest tense and your mind running

But breathing truthfully, slowly and following the breeze.

I don't know what you’re going through now, but if you’re reading this letter, it means

you survived. That you didn’t give up even when everything pushed you to do it.

I know it hurt you. I know that there were days where you woke up feeling that there

was nothing left to love inside you. But look at yourself: you’re here.

And although the vine has left wounds, I also leave you light. There always was,

even when you didn’t see it.

I want you to remember that being sensitive doesn’t make you weak, that loving

deeply wasn’t a mistake. And that letting go doesn’t mean you lost: it means you

chose peace.

Hopefully you’ve learned to rest without guilt. To love without fear. To say "no"

without having to explain it.

Hopefully you don’t need to prove your value to anyone anymore, or prove that you

are enough. Because you are. You always were. Even on the days when you felt

invisible.

And if for some reason you doubt yourself again, you just have to look inside. To that

part of you that never goes out, the one that gets up again and again with swollen

eyes, but the stubborn soul.

That, that’s you.

You don’t need to be perfect. Just authentic, and you were. You still are.

So dear me, keep walking, keep shining and keep choosing yourself every second of

every day of your life, because you are worth it.

Kind regards:

The woman who learned not to break completely, so that she could flourish later

Daniel Rodriguez, Espana

I came here when the sun and the weather were embracing, illusion; a happy heart... Winter froze my soul; loneliness, depression... Frost on my spirit. The city transforms into a sea of invisible faces, where my voice drowns. A being and not being present.

A lighthouse; a constellation thousands of miles away: Freya. I met her on a snowy night in Flagstaff, after the pandemic. She took me into her home; a connection like no other exploded: an expansive wave of love propagated.

A fear pursues me; a silent whisper on gray days. It arrives when the noise becomes a storm: an inner storm. Pandemic. I go to the doctor, a darling. He gives me that thing that, as he says, can pull you out of the dark tide before it drowns me. In the end, I accepted, but only taking one hand, not both.

The battle doesn't end in one place. The friction with my brother hurts me more than he can imagine. Unconditional love vs. so much hatred. Manipulation... A magnet that makes Australia my destination and a repellent wall that makes Spain my exile. His aggression makes me tremble. What the hell. :( He wanted to seem like the Messiah. There were no culprits. It was an accident.

Dry desert, Ika. The hot wind dragging Casuarina leaves. The mototaxi roaring under the relentless sun, Camila frantic and desperate, with her dog trailing behind. Urgency to escape. No more of her nails embedded in my skin. Intense, jealous love; toxic. An "I love you" that, more than words, were chains. Love that hurts, LOVE THAT BURNS.

My mother and I. Alone, in a large hospital room. Her breathing was intense, loud. It ceases. It ceases?... Did it stop? Death. How can one not feel lonely without a mother?

Celeste, Italian roots caressed by the breeze. A beautiful day of tender kisses, photos, love, an incredible double rainbow over the sea. She who turns empathy into art and care into her masterpiece. But the love was already broken! and life became an uncontainable river that strikes without mercy. One I don't know how to surf.

Fire. Fire!!! The accident. The fire. A forgotten candle. ((Being left without the upper floor)) That small spark that burned roots and bonds. The dense smoke of my belongings entering my lungs. Too late to put it out! I try!!!, I tried... Fragile and naked before those flames. David versus Goliath. Dad, get out! Me under the bed. I didn't want to escape. Ambulance... Hospital...

I am 8 years old. I believe again. I like to think there is a higher being who could change everything in the blink of an eye. Blow away the ash of the painful moments. Memory, however, is a dark well where silent monsters dwell.

My mother, a very demanding woman. Sometimes her belt was the answer. And other times, it was just the vodka. In my rage, I looked at the sky and yelled at God. I insulted Him. WHY!!!!?? Does he hear me?! Or are we the ones who will change things? A desire to change what is broken. Can we change the past?

My birth: my mother brought me into the world as an act of rebellion. With the hope that I, one day, could do something great. A catalyst. In this kaleidoscope of moments, I recognize myself as fragmented, but whole. I learned to cry, to accept my sensitivity, to be human, to open up.

But the battle is not with my past; it is for the future. I do not try to erase the wounds; I learn to point them out, to take care of them. Because history is not the sea that drowns me, but a map that guides me.