DIASPORA
English translations in order of presentation

Sandra, Colombia

And one day, I decided to migrate.

I left my country, my language, my people… I thought they would all be there when I returned.

That my grandma — the one who made arepas for me in the morning while singing a tango or her favorite porro, Carmen de Bolívar — would be waiting.

But one day, the phone rings.

And you just know.

You feel it.

The voice on the other end breaks… and with it, something in you breaks too.

“Your grandma has passed away.”

That is the exact moment when time freezes.

Your breath stops.

The world keeps moving, but you don’t.
That’s when the panic attack begins.
Not a pretty cry.
Not a single tear with background music.
It was my body betraying me.
Hands trembling.
Chest tight.
My thoughts dancing with death.

The air… wouldn’t go in.

I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t scream.
I wanted to scream!

But I couldn’t.

It’s silence. It’s a knot in your throat. It’s not being able to breathe even though you’re surrounded by air.

It’s being thousands of kilometers away and not being able to run to the hospital. Not being able to hug your mom. Not being able to see for the last time that woman who was roots, refuge, history.

That day, I realized that panic attacks are not madness.

They are the body screaming what the soul can’t process.

It’s the cry of the migrant, the distant granddaughter, the woman who chose to migrate.

Suddenly, the panic attack starts to fade.
Not all at once like it began — little by little.
My hands are still trembling, but not as cold.
My heart is still racing, but softer now.

The thoughts stop screaming; they no longer run, they start to walk.

I begin to come back to myself, exhausted, as if I had survived a storm.

Her memory takes over me. I feel peace again. I feel her love.

I remember how strong and fierce she was.
I remember that she left her small town to move to the big city.
I remember how once, with a pinch, she taught me you don’t talk back to your mom.

I remember how she would leave a pitcher of lemonade by my bed after a night of partying, even when my mom told her not to spoil my hangovers.

I remember she used to say that with one glass of wine each night, you could live to be 100… and I believe her, because she did.

At the same time, I remember that I won’t see her again.

So I decided to honor her, to carry her with me, and to remember.

That I am here, in her name.
That love doesn’t die with a phone call.
That even though distance stole my chance to say goodbye… she lives on in me.

To breathe, knowing that she migrated too… only to another place.

Alex, Colombia

The shortest distance between a man and his truth is a story.

I’m going to tell you one, but I must warn you:

He who fights with demons must take care not to become one.

I saw it. No one told me.

I saw it.

I saw a man kill himself.

Not with a rope, 
not with pills, 
he didn’t slit his wrists, 
didn’t shoot himself.

He didn’t die of sadness.

He died of necessity.  Pure necessity.  “Have to,” as they say here.

His name was Alex.

He lived in the room next to mine.

He worked and studied.

We all know how this goes:

He was the typical migrant shadow,  surviving with his soul on pause,  life on hold,  dreams postponed because today:

you have to be highly productive,  efficient, profitable;  you have to wake up at 5 to belong to the club,  you have to send money back to Colombia.

But he wasn’t alone.

He had something on his back.

A grayish,  viscous, repugnant entity. 
A slippery being breathing down his neck.

“I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving.”

It was like a parasite,  like a double, like a twin.

A voice glued to him, following him everywhere.

Sometimes they argued.  Sometimes one cried  while the other laughed.

To this day, I still don’t know where that guttural voice came from.

Was it the beyond?

I don’t know. But:

One night I heard him say:

“If I don’t get it out of me, it’ll drag me down. If I don’t kill it, I’ll die.”

I thought he was speaking in metaphor.

But it was so vivid, it was hard to doubt.

And it was literal.

One night he brought a butcher knife from the kitchen.  One of those big ones with a yellow handle that cut through everythin—  even bone.

He stood in front of the mirror, ceremoniously unbuttoned his shirt, and began to cut himself.  As if trying to rip something out from inside.  He carved at himself like he wanted to be born in reverse.  Like he wanted to crawl inside himself  and force that other thing out at all costs.

He didn’t scream.  Didn’t ask for help.  He only repeated: “Out. Out. Out.”

It was an exorcism where every “Out” tore a piece of his soul.

When we broke down the door, he was still breathing.  Still alive, but irreversibly somber.  Though soaked in blood,  he was cold and blue—  like my feet in winter.  He was dead in life,  like you are.

He recovered. And since then he works, eats, sleeps.  Works, eats, sleeps.  Works, eats, sleeps.

But he no longer talks to himself.

In fact, he no longer talks at all.

They say he’s better. 
They say it’s over.

I don’t.

I know what I saw.

Because I saw it. No one told me.

And if you listen closely tonight,  if you stay quiet enough...  if the soul’s darkness thickens like old blood—  maybe you’ll hear it.  Maybe you’ll feel it.

That sound.  That scratch on your back.  That grdrrrrrr whispering:

I’m not leaving.  I’m not leaving.

Carolina, Colombia

When I moved to Australia for the second time, I thought everything would be like the first time. Easy, like being on vacation—carefree, unhurried. But it wasn’t.

I was here physically, but part of me stayed behind.
It took a long time to truly feel present here. I felt alone. Deeply alone.
Surrounded by familiarity, yet alone.

I felt transparent, invisible, like I didn’t matter, like my voice had no sound. Voiceless.

I changed. Or so it felt. Speaking English altered my personality,
and it’s strange… because you think speaking another language is just about words. But it’s not. It’s also losing parts of yourself. Your humor. Your way of expressing things.

Every time I couldn’t find the right words, I’d hesitate, overthink, and stay silent.
“Carolina, what’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you?” I kept asking myself.
Why am I so different in English?
Because it’s true: in Spanish, I’m warmer, more authentic, funnier—more me!

With time… I learned to love this new version of myself.
The one who cries but keeps going. The one who doubts but acts. The one who insists. The one who speaks!
The one who, despite being so far from everything, has come so far.
Today, I embrace my strength. I admire myself. I honor myself. Because now… my voice is heard.
Or at least, I hear it.

Because deep down, migrating didn’t take anything from me.
It gave me more.

Antonia, Chile

For years, I promised myself I wouldn’t act the same way again. That’s why, when it

happened to me again, I didn’t act the same way. This time, I spoke up.

You know? Most galaxies live in groups. They say it’s a natural consequence of

physics; objects with mass tend to cluster due to gravitational effects, but I like to think

it’s because they enjoy each other’s company. And that’s not all; galaxies speak. Their

communication networks are invisible to our human eyes, but they’re there. And if we

look closely enough, we’re able to catch small glimpses of what they share with each

other.

Despite understanding in theory the importance of communication, in practice it wasn’t

so easy. The first time I was abused, while I was still in Chile, I was very young: I was

only 17 years old. He was older. That time, I remained silent.

Fortunately, the pain was unable to extinguish my fire. My passion for studying the

Universe kept me alive during difficult times. I longed to work studying the secret

conversations between galaxies, until finally the opportunity arose. It meant changing

countries, going to a place where I knew no one. Leaving my community to try and

become part of another. Transforming into a wandering galaxy in search of a group that

welcomes me.

He came into my life when I was newly arrived. We shared an office, and he invited me

to live with him. We quickly became inseparable. Until a fateful night, everything

changed. I was drunk and he took advantage of me. At first, I remained silent because I

didn’t understand what had happened. But weeks later, I saw something that brought

me to clarity: I saw him harassing another woman. I couldn’t let him continue to cause

harm, so I spoke up. I confronted him and he became violent. He screamed at me; he

hurt me.

The entire scandal became public, and I had to report it at work. I was afraid. Would this

new community turn their backs on me? Would this be the moment when my dream

come true comes crashing down? But it was the complete opposite. I only received

support and understanding. Just like galaxies in a group, my community stood united

and strong to protect me. Three years later, it still hurts to remember. But it’s much

easier to chase away the ghosts when you have an entire community supporting you.

And it was all thanks to the fact that I spoke up.

Alejandro, Chile

I get lost...

I find myself...

and I get lost again.

I run, I jump, I walk... and I watch.

Answers come... and go.

Decisions I concrete.

and indecisions arise.

In my world, the ambition for knowledge reigns.

My world is complicated...

and at the same time, simple.

In it I seek only to understand my masks... and to heal the detriments of time.

And sometimes I feel that

I am falling behind time.

I’m having problems

remembering my youngest memories...

I try to remember them.

I try to feel them.

I try to touch them.

But it’s different now.

And I came so young to Australia,

not knowing about the world,

not knowing about me,

not knowing that one year.

would turn into seven...

I’ve been in the land of the kangaroos for 7 years.

So many birthdays, celebrations and farewells of my loved ones that I have missed...

There are so many times that I have dreamed of taking a bus and being only half an hour

away from where I come from.

I never thought I would be so long...

and to be honest, how fast everything has gone by...

Sometimes I wonder...

What version of me would I be if I had never left my hometown?

I’ve been here for seven years, and I still have a strong accent when I speak English....

But I don’t care, at least not anymore...

I guess...

I guess that sometimes we have to do crazy things to feel alive, to escape the monotony,

and to collect experiences that we can laugh about when we’re old.

I also guess

that we have to fight for everything that makes us happy.

Likewise, I guess we have to make an effort to be with those people who light us up and

make our hearts happy with just a smile.

I also guess

that we should let go of and ignore any harmful comments that limit and threaten our

happiness...

Because there is nothing more beautiful than being happy and making others happy...

I also suppose

that just supposing is not enough; we must do it.

For our hearts...

for our minds

and for our spirits.

Andres, Colombia

I can’t take this damn cold anymore—it only lets me see my past.

And I didn’t follow anyone or anything; there was no one to follow, no path left behind.

I didn’t listen to anyone either—not because I was deaf, but because I was stubborn.

Stubborn—what a word. They say it to children and the elderly. Could it be they’re the ones who truly know how to live?

I remember that Christmas surrounded by my twelve cousins and eight more, seven uncles and five aunts, my grandparents, my parents, my siblings—and me.

Alone, in the echo of so many voices.

I stepped outside to see the stars, under a sky so dark even the sun wouldn’t dare to shine.

I ran. I fled from that dissatisfaction, from that loneliness. I never went back.

I crossed many borders. I stood upon the stars. I stumbled through clouds.

I drove through destinies that were never mine.

And still, I felt alone.

They’ve told me meditation will give me what I seek.

Enough of your drama. Stop lamenting.

Who else will you hurt with your self-worship?

Put an end to this solitary pilgrimage—it's a grotesque satire of your life.

You've never been alone. I am just one more of those voices.

Not homicide, not suicide—simply a natural introspective process.

Reflection becomes empty when we don’t take care of our own matters.

Matters that seem like giants in our lives—

But they are fleeting.

Our life—fleeting,

Just like that first glance at that first love.

Candela, Argentina

Living here taught me to live better:
I eat varied and generous portions, I walk when I’m angry, I keep my muscles healthy and strong, I use one cream for my body and another for my face, I sleep nine hours every night, I treasure my memories, I ask for help, I say what I feel.

Living here, I also forgot how to break myself:
How to leap into the void, fall into the abyss, scatter myself, wallow in mud, feel ashamed of myself, scream at my mom, stuff myself with sweets, overdose, pass out, smash the things I love, hide from myself, drown my feelings—until I’d find in my chest a distorted heart, shattered to pieces. To keep swimming like that, gasping for the surface, breathing again. To see myself on the shore and swim the opposite way.

Since living here, walking rescues me.
When I’m angry, I walk. If I’m stuck, I walk. If I despair, I walk. Sometimes I even run.

Running used to feel awful—the jarring bounce and the desperate sense of never getting enough air made me quit instantly.

Now I have a technique:
I focus on accepting the discomfort and making it my friend. I also try to go as slow as I need, watching closely—the trees, the streets, the people, the cars. As I run, I tell myself: "Run as if you’ll run forever, as if this rhythm is yours for life." Someone also advised me to run at a pace where I could talk.
That’s why I talk.

Alonso, Mexico

If I look at it from different angles, my identity can behave as a particle or a wave. Ten years

after having landed on this continent-island, I can feel the trace of my belonging become

blurry, and I am having trouble deciding whether I stand on the side of a fatherland or of

freedom – it’s been a while since the two stopped meaning the same thing. In my search for

a substantial answer to this problem, the only word that echoes meaningfully inside my head

is ‘diaspora’.

I am not a philologist nor a linguist to be sure of the word’s origin or how it came to be

lodged among so many other thoughts. Maybe I can break it in half: ‘di’ which means ‘two’,

and aspora, which sounds like ‘spore’… two spores. Does it make sense? Two cells capable

of reproduction without touching, replicate within me as two partial worlds that sit

geographically separate but can create a third one. A third world that is so unique - it is as

potent as it is fragile, as rootless as it is needy. If it were a flower, it would belong to the

Orchidaceae family, characteristically extravagant as its petals show, yet cursed with short

aerial roots that push it to be uprooted without any prior notice.

The diaspora is a tapestry of migrants. We who learnt the rules of two societies, we who

share from diametrically opposite cultures, we who confuse our vocabulary, sometimes on

purpose but mostly by accident, as if to restore small fragments of forgetfulness. In that

tapestry, I feel comforted by those who, same as me, defend the right of having two

surnames shown in every online form; they are the ones that constantly restart the search to

find the most authentic temples of our national cuisines. On the other hand, it becomes

clearer by the day that there is a line marking my otherness. Behind it, there are events I

don’t have access to, paths I may not walk freely, an awareness of distances that cannot be

broached, of intimacies that may never be communicated.

There, at the interstice of apparently incompatible narratives, that is where my present reality

sits. Tell me, how can I stretch it out? What to do if I just want to breath out all the atrophy

that comes from feeling -always- partly alien? How much further do I need to walk until my

skin begins to display the colours of my destination? Diaspora, guide me to safe haven and

lead me to the place where all this strangeness is in fact a sign of familiarity.

Alejandra, Argentina

I came to Australia for love.
For a relationship with an Argentine man who lived here.
After a 25-year marriage, a divorce, and with two adult daughters on their own paths—why not give myself a second chance at love?

And so I left everything behind. A whole life reduced to four suitcases, and I came to Australia.

The relationship was a true failure. What a disappointment.
Starting over again.

Faced with returning to Argentina or staying, I chose to stay here.

The truth is, since arriving, I feel there are two Alejandras: one here, and one there.

The one there lived everything that was lived.
The one here observes the one there. She revises every stage of that Alejandra’s life:
The traumas, the pain, the loneliness since childhood, the fears that paralyzed her—or worse, drove her to make wrong choices;
To hurt those she loved most, and to hurt herself.

From here, Alejandra observes and understands. She observes and accepts.

The one here also observes that there were beautiful moments: dreams, goals, challenges, triumphs, love, daughters, and music—so much music.

But the Alejandra here lives. She lives new things: new challenges, new goals, new experiences.
And here, for the first time in her life, she feels safe.
This is the Alejandra who begins to heal.

Migrating gave me the chance to see my whole life in perspective—and to value my strength and my essence.

Lately, I wonder…
Will the two Alejandras ever become one?
If they do meet, where will it happen?
Will the one here go back there?
Or will they both finally meet here, and stay?