Smoko Acting School

English translations in order of the presentation

Roxana Baires - El Salvador

(If I close my eyes, I always find my way back to the sea. No matter where I am. I return to my

family, because to me, the sea was never just water. The sea has names, laughter, embraces. It

has siblings. It has parents. It is a symbol of family, togetherness—simply a place where

happiness lives.

My siblings are my greatest treasure. My parents gave their lives to each one of us.

My father was a man of few words, the kind who never needed to say much because his eyes

spoke for him. Dad, your illness erased your memories, but every time your hand gently touched

my chin, every time I whistled to you, I could see that your love as a father was still there.

My mother is a woman of remarkable strength, with an endless desire to live—a strength I hold

onto every single morning when I wake up. Mum, you taught me that some absences never truly

leave us. Like the sea, you never stop echoing through my life, even when I can no longer see

you, especially in my kitchen. Thank you for giving me so much and forgive me for giving so little.

But life has never asked me to stand still. Like the sea, which can change in an instant, your love

arrived. And when I say love arrived, it came like a storm—the kind that changes the landscape,

the kind that changes your course, the kind that turns you upside down like a restless wave. And

here I am, on the other side of the world, '“starting from scratch” they say... starting from scratch.

But I must ask:

Who can fit an entire life into a suitcase and truly start from scratch?

No. No, no, no.

It’s true that we arrive carrying our scars and our fears. But we also bring everything we’ve

learned and a thousand dreams still waiting to come true. We don’t start from zero—we start at

one hundred. Little by little, we build a new home. Because that’s what migration really is:

learning that home isn’t always a place. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s a phone call. Or

perhaps it’s simply a familiar recipe.

We are people full of contradictions. We come seeking new experiences, yet we end up

searching for the flavours we’ve always known. We want to be here and there at the same time.

We love leaving, and we also love returning. And that’s okay. Of course, we can miss one land

while loving another. Like the waves, we are always in motion. Because amid all those

contradictions, there is something that never changes—and that is love.

People say my story is about the sea, and they’re right. There is sea in every one of my

memories. There is sea in my childhood. There is sea in my family. There is sea in every

goodbye. There is even sea between El Salvador and Australia.

But no, this is not a story about the sea.

It is a story about love. The kind of love that keeps us together even across great distances. The

love that one day took me by the hand and said, ’Come’; and I went. The love that allows us to

reach one shore and then keep sailing, guided by the same compass, carrying the same heart.

Because no matter where we go, our essence remains the same.

I used to think I had crossed the world for love.

With the passing years, I’ve come to understand that I hadn’t. It was love that carried me across

the world—taking me from one shore of life to another.

Love.

Monica Perez - Mexico

I am Monica, year 2017.

He and I argued again. This time, I decided it was over. At last, I had made up my mind. One suitcase,

Balam and Luna—my cats—and we left for the sea. The sea, that place that has a way of putting

everything back where it belongs after the storms.

But a few weeks after arriving, one day my stomach began to hurt. This time it was different. The

pain was excruciating, like an intense stabbing sensation. Peritonitis. I have never been able to erase

the look on my sister's face. They made her sign a document saying that I had arrived in critical

condition. All that crossed my mind was the hope, the longing, to get back into the ocean, to dance

again. And my cats? To take that trip. To learn to play the guitar? To fall in love again. To keep living...

Ten, nine, eight...

I opened my eyes.

Yet two months later, my grandmother Elena closed hers forever. Three months after that, my father

did too.

How? Where does that strength come from—the strength to keep going after the final goodbye?

How is it that we still find people with kind eyes and warm smiles, with generous hearts, walking the

streets of Mexico City? A city with such staggering inequality: a handful of people who have so much,

while others live in crushing poverty—with too little water, endless work for very low wages, abuse,

and violence everywhere.

In the ghetto’s, dogs and cats slowly die of hunger, mange, and neglect.

Femicide. Femicide. Femicide.

Sometimes life in Latin America, as in so many places around the world, hurts. And it hurts deeply.

-Maybe it's true what they say: only those who have known darkness can truly recognize the light.

To believe. To believe. To believe. To create. Sometimes, for the love of someone else, we become

magicians, learning to reinvent ourselves.

With the companionship of my mother, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, my friends, my cats, my

guitar, and the therapy group I never believed in. With the Temazcal, that ancestral Indigenous

medicine that strengthens weary hearts, allowing us to be reborn from the womb of Mother Earth.

Ometeotl... permission to enter.

I also remember, with melancholy, Parque México. Sundays were my favorite days. In the afternoons,

everything felt magical. Children playing, bubbles floating through the air, purple bougainvillea

decorating the walkways, lovers strolling without hurry.

I would invite myself to dance—sometimes with a stranger, a man, a woman, or someone nonbinary.

It didn't matter.

We brought our bodies together warmly and respectfully. Very close. I could feel their warmth, their

breath, the beating of their heart.

In that moment, nothing else existed. There was only you and me in the entire universe.

We embraced... and we flew.

Apapachar comes from Nahuatl and means "to caress with the soul." That is what happened on

those afternoons in Parque México.

We are our own medicine.

-Do I miss it?

Of course I do.

I miss it so much.

Here, tango is not danced the same way. Here, I don't hear my mother's joyful, booming laughter

nearby. Here, I don't enjoy a song the way I used to with my brother. Balam isn't here anymore, nor is

Luna. They, too, have moved on to another plane.

Here, in the land of eucalyptus, there is sometimes a coldness and a loneliness that sink into your

bones. Anyone who has lived here knows it. Sometimes a memory or a wave of longing arrives, and

you quietly wipe away the tear rolling down your cheek, then keep working as though nothing had

happened.

You can't do everything.

And yet...

Here I found a beautiful love. Courageously, I opened the door.

Here I am learning to walk through new forests, to embrace jobs I never imagined myself doing, to

keep learning this new language, to discover new human stories that somehow feel so familiar, and

even to look at the moon from a different angle.

Look!

The stars shine brightly here, too.

They are beautiful.

This time, it's for me.

It's for us.

My story is not over yet....

Ramon Cerda - Chile

Hi. I’m Ramón. Thirty-nine springs under my belt.

Today... standing right here... in front of you. Body intact on the outside, but with scars... the

kind you can't see.

If someone had told me that on December 7th my life would write a chapter like that... I

swear I wouldn't have believed it. I just couldn't believe it! That year... everything was flowing.

(His face lights up, his posture relaxes, and his voice grows warmer).

Three years ago... back in 2023. I finally felt like the wind was in my sails. Everything was on

track, work was going great... July 2023! Vacation... Vietnam!

(He sighs with a smile, picturing the memories).

Uff... the beautiful chaos of Ho Chi Minh, the smell of food in the night markets, the coffee

shops, the lanterns of Hoi An... Touching the clouds and the sky itself among the mountains

and motorbikes in Sapa, the infinite vastness of Ha Long Bay. Uff, what a trip we had!

I hadn't even finished processing that trip, and my head was already planning the next one.

December: Chile, Peru, Patagonia... Old friends, that long-awaited hug from my parents.

That year... everything was flowing. Everything was ready for another big adventure.

(His smile gradually fades. The tone drops into something more reflective and somber).

But life... life takes so many turns, doesn't it?

December 7th. I finish my shift at the office. 5:00 p.m. That beautiful feeling of closing your

laptop and letting go of the routine. That day had a gorgeous pink sunset, the temperature

was perfect. I had a few drinks at the office and decided to head to Russell 170... a club built

in the 1950s beneath a parking garage. A basement... dark stairs, heavy atmosphere, where

the lights cut through the smoke over the crowd.

That Thursday, Leisure—a band from New Zealand—was playing live. A bit of electro-pop, a

bit of funk, a bit of soul... the kind that leaves you floating. Good vibes. I was just going with

the flow. I was happy, the music was rushing through my whole body. I was drunk... drunk

on happiness.

All it took was one trip.

The bouncer grabs me. The music stopped playing in my head. They swapped the stage and

the band... for the asphalt on the street. For the noise of passing cars. It happened so fast...

They threw me out! They dumped me on the pavement!

The guards were laughing at me. Laughing at my pain.

When the concert ended, my friends picked me up and took me to the hospital. 3:00 a.m.

That’s when I realized everything had gone to shit. The adventure evaporated like a castle in

the sky.

Three torn ligaments. A surgery with 17 stitches.

December 23rd: I left the hospital on two crutches, the smell of the hospital soaked into my

skin... and the loneliness of waiting for someone who never came to pick me up. Right then,

I understood I had to be strong and face everything alone.

That Christmas... alone in my room, sitting in the wheelchair... looking at myself in the mirror,

I couldn't understand. And I just kept asking myself... why?!

It’s been almost three years like this. Ups and downs. Pain that people don't understand,

pain that won't go away... Moments of dark, pitch-black shadows! Almost three years of

learning all over again what it means to live.

But you know what? Next time, they're gonna have to knock me down harder! Because I will

get back up.

And today, I am standing right here! Because life goes on. The adventure goes on. I still have

plenty of rounds left in this party... because life is a party. And the turns... the turns are what

stay with you.

Isabelle Gonzalez, Chile

For many years I lived in Canberra. Every summer I would travel to the coast. I loved

driving for hours, crossing open fields and rolling hills, watching the landscape

change in colour and character.

To reach the sea, I had to drive through the national parks. They were breathtaking.

Vast forests stretched endlessly before me. I would spend hours surrounded by

towering trees. Their canopies intertwined above the road, sheltering it from the

intense summer heat.

How beautiful those endless roads were. Kilometre after kilometre of nature. I loved

the scenery, the scent of eucalyptus, and the feeling of freedom. I always drove with

the windows down so I could enjoy the journey even more.

After so many years, those places became part of my memories and part of my

heart. They filled me with joy and made me feel alive.

But during the summer of 2019–2020, something happened that no one could have

imagined.

An extreme heatwave swept across eastern Australia. Bushfires broke out in several

states and, fuelled by soaring temperatures and prolonged drought, quickly grew

beyond control.

For weeks, the fires devastated forests across three eastern states.

Smoke covered the sky.

In Canberra, a city known for its clear blue skies, smoke hung in the air for weeks. At

times it became difficult to tell whether it was day or night.

People kept their windows and doors shut to stop the smoke and ash from entering

their homes.

The weeks seemed to stretch into months.

Thousands of animals died in the flames. Billions were trapped, desperately trying to

escape.

Thirty-three people lost their lives while trying to save animals, homes and

communities. Some were young firefighters. Others were parents.

And all the while, the trees continued to burn.

There was nothing anyone could do.

The fires were simply too large.

All that remained was to accept...

and to wait.

To wait and watch as the flames consumed everything in their path.

What a feeling of helplessness.

What anguish.

Finally, after several weeks, the rains arrived.

Little by little, they helped bring the fires under control until, at last, they were

extinguished.

The national parks had been devastated.

Everything was burned.

Everything destroyed.

Everything was black.

The images on television were heartbreaking.

And I needed to see it with my own eyes.

Because I loved those places.

Because for so many years they had been part of my life.

I needed to know what had become of them.

So I went back.

As I drove, I saw entire hillsides blackened by fire. Fallen trees. Charred trunks

stretching as far as the eye could see.

It seemed...

that all life...

had disappeared.

I visited small coastal towns.

I saw destroyed homes.

Everything had burned.

There was nothing that could be done.

And so the weeks passed.

Until one day, while driving through one of those burned forests, I saw something.

I saw a tiny green shoot.

Among the blackened trees.

Among the ashes.

Amid the devastation.

I stopped the car.

And I stood there...

looking at it.

That tiny green shoot.

So small.

So fragile.

And yet...

it was there.

After so much destruction.

After so much death.

After a fire that seemed impossible to stop.

There was life.

Being reborn.

And it made me so happy.

I remember saying:

Thank you.

Thank you, Life.

Thank you, God.

Because in the midst of so much destruction...

life was returning.

And in that moment I understood something.

We believe we are in control.

But we are not.

We cannot make the rain fall.

We cannot stop a fire once it becomes overwhelming.

And we cannot create life with our own hands.

Life comes through us.

But it is not ours to make.

We cannot create a tree.

We cannot create an ocean.

We cannot create the universe.

And when I saw that tiny green shoot growing among the ashes, I realised that there

is something far greater than ourselves.

Call it Nature.

Call it God.

Call it the Divine Spirit, the Creative Force, or a Higher Intelligence.

Call it whatever you wish.

Each person will have their own beliefs.

But whether you believe in God or not, there is one thing that is impossible to deny:

Life exists.

And it always finds a way to return.

Even after fire.

Even after destruction.

Even when we believe that everything has come to an end.

Life returns.

And that...

to me...

is a miracle.

Thank you very much.

Namaste.

Rafel Lopez, El Salvador

“One day, when Grandfather was still a very young man... he looked toward the horizon

and wondered whether another path might exist... And to the northern wind, an old

friend of his, he spoke of his urgency. He showed it his hands—healthy, strong hands,

yet”

Then he says:

“As I listen to Alberto Cortés’‘song, I think of my grandfather, Don Rafael Bernal

Durán...”

(spoken)

“And the wind replied: “Build your life beyond the seas...”

My grandfather took up the plough and worked with quiet determination, planting the

tree he had always dreamed of. When we were children, he would tell us stories about

Santa Elena, in Usulután, and about his parents, who had come from Huesca and

Teruel.

My grandfather built the house where we were born.

The house... white, standing at the end of the narrow street that still leads me back to it.

Crossing its front garden, I can almost smell the freshly cut grass once again.

The open door welcomes me inside, and immediately I feel the coolness of the house.

The dining room is slightly dim, with its painting of The Last Supper hanging on the wall,

and the comforting aroma of warm milk and cinnamon tells me that Grandma is in the

kitchen, even though I cannot see her. I don’t go looking for her.

Instead, I walk into the inner courtyard. Its reddish floor, worn and without shine,

perhaps isn’t as large as I remembered. The late afternoon sun of San Salvador fills it

with light, framed by my grandfather’s flowers—his petunias. White, yellow, purple and

red. The red ones were his favourites, with their bell-shaped blossoms streaked by deep

crimson veins.

Grandfather must be taking his afternoon nap. I’d like to find him, sit beside his bed and

listen to him breathing. I’d lie down next to him, listening to the radio—to the old radio

drama Chucho el Roto —and simply talk until Grandma calls us to afternoon tea.

We still have time, Grandpa... until four o’clock, when we’ll go together to eat. That way

Grandma won’t scold me for listening to the radio serial.

What she never knew was that it wasn’t Chucho el Roto or his adventures as an outlaw

that drew me there. It was talking with you, Grandpa. Going to the root of things.

Listening to your advice and your wisdom. You taught me how true it is that life is never

made right by tears alone, and that not everyone who laughs is truly happy.

Every sunset reminds me of your blindness: little by little, losing sight of colours until

only shadows remained. Yet what wisdom you shared when you told us that the

blessing of no longer seeing with one’s eyes was being able to see everything as one

wished—to see those we love with the eyes of the heart, the eyes that never fail.

Perhaps that is why you never stopped calling each of us by name, even after you could

no longer see our faces.

Today, I too have become ‘Grandpa’; to a smiling, curious little girl. And although these

days grandparents don"‘t always live with their grandchildren, and so many grow old

alone in nursing homes, we are fortunate to care for her and delight in watching her

discover the world.

These days, Grandpa, many children grow up without brothers or sisters. They learn to

share in childcare centres alongside children from many different backgrounds. We

must teach them that true nobility lies in character, not in where someone comes from.

They no longer learn arithmetic with an abacus, nor practise Palmer penmanship, yet

they still long to play together, to share, and to discover wonderful things. Education

remains the surest path to serving others.

Thank you, Grandpa. Your memory has been my compass throughout life.

I, too, crossed the seas.

I, too, looked at my own young, strong hands—hands threatened by war. I left my

homeland... and that home... that home which now appears to me far away, in that

place where the nights were never sad because they were filled with stars... with family

conversations shared with neighbours while children played in the street...”

(singing)

“De allá ité... / Where my childhood grew among your people / Learning from their

kindness / And from the greeting that never changed... Country folk..”

(spoken) “From there... from the place I left as a young man, searching for a land

without war where my children could grow. To this new land in the South, with different

nights and quieter silences that now weave together our memories. To this new land...

to which I gave my life”

(He begins singing)”And one day Grandfather fell asleep... never returning to Spain...”

“One day, like so many others... filled with hope...”

WITH SO MUCH HO PE... “With so much hope!”

Martina Dimovska, Macedonia

Sometimes memories don't arrive in order.

They come like photographs, one after another.

Sunday. My grandparents' house. Lunchtime. The smell of freshly cooked

food.

My grandfather sitting at the table, in the same seat as always. My father

beside him. Talking about life, about the past, about people I had never

met, about stories that seemed to be told every Sunday, and yet everyone

listened as if it were the very first time.

My sister stretched out on the couch, lost in her phone and her own world.

Far away from us, and yet somehow part of everything.

My mother talking from the kitchen. Always busy. Always doing several

things at once.

And my grandmother... my grandmother was everywhere. In the outdoor

kitchen, in the garden, carrying plates, asking if anyone wanted more food.

As if her way of loving was making sure that nobody's plate was ever empty.

Only now do I realise that almost all of my memories begin with a sound.

The clatter of spoons against plates.

Laughter. Footsteps.

Conversations overlapping.

The front door opening and closing.

And the clock.

That clock ticked so loudly, as if it wanted to remind us that time was

passing... even though, in that house, it felt as if time never moved at all.

I remember the sunlight coming through the window. The neighbour's car

driving down the street. And my grandmother's voice suddenly lowering:

"Don't speak so loudly," she would say,

as if the whole town could hear our stories.

I remember the plastic bottles beside the fridge, cold and fresh. My

grandmother had just brought them down from the mountain.

I never thought much about it. It was simply normal.

Like so many things that only become special once they are gone.

I remember the snow too.

Not just seeing it — I remember its smell, the freezing feeling in my hands.

Everything was different there.

My mother telling us not to go outside.

My father telling us to put on another jacket.

And us?

Standing by the window, waiting for the perfect moment to run out into it.

I remember my grandmother's hands cutting watermelon at the garden

table.

My father's breath as he walked.

I think about the bags full of food: tomatoes, potatoes.

My grandmother preparing meals for us to take home, so that my other

grandmother could taste the lunch as well.

As if a meal was never truly complete until it had been shared.

Small things.

Things that seemed insignificant at the time, but now hold an enormous

place inside me.

There are voices I no longer hear every day.

Conversations that no longer happen in quite the same way.

But when I close my eyes, I can still hear that table.

Everyone talking at once.

Nobody waiting for their turn.

I miss the feeling of walking through that door and knowing that everyone

was there.

That my grandfather was there.

That my grandmother was there.

My parents.

The laughter.

Me, sitting outside by the door, looking up at the sky, while my whole family

remained inside, gathered around the same table, laughing louder and

louder.

The plates.

The stories.

Life unfolding behind me.

And without knowing it, I was living one of the moments I would someday

miss the most.

Because back then, it all seemed ordinary.

And maybe that's what hurts most about memories.

We never realise we're living something extraordinary...

until it's already gone.o