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Argentinian man recalls ‘Pasapalabra’ game show world championship win

Brian Parkinson
Interview Subject
Brian Parkinson, 33, won the world championship edition of the “Pasapalabra” game show in April 2022, along with a prize of 38,000,000 Chilean pesos (about $47,700 USD). The competition was filmed in Chile, and Parkinson came out on top over 40 other international competitors.

Previously, in July 2021, he won the local version in his native Argentina, winning a total prize of 1,760,000 Argentine pesos (about $14,600 USD).

Born in the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires, Parkinson works in an oil company, studies systems engineering and is the father of Lola, Noah and Bruno.
Background Information
Pasapalabra” is a television program based on The Alphabet Game, a series broadcast by the BBC between 1996 and 1997.
In Argentina, it aired on different channels, since its debut in 2001. Its greatest popularity was reached in 2016, with the leadership of Iván de Pineda.

Brian Parkinson became the sixth Argentine participant to complete the donut.

“Pasapalabra” has aired in Chile since 2018. This year, the first World Cup was held in that country, with 40 participants from Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, Paraguay, Spain, and Panama, won by Brian Parkinson.

BUENOS AIRES, Argentina—I had only one word left to complete the circle and become the world champion of “Pasapalabra” (The Alphabet Game) in Chile. I already knew what it was. I only had five seconds left on the clock, and I could not wait for it any longer.

When the host, Julián Elfenbein, said the letter V, I let fly: I said “Vasera,” and as soon as the letter on the monitor changed from orange to green, I knew for sure I had won.

In front and behind me, the public erupted into cheers. To my left, Julián was also celebrating, as was the cameramen and technicians. The real surprise was my competitor, the Uruguayan Inti Lenina. Suddenly, I was in his arms. He was celebrating my triumph even more happily than I was.

The program ended, and I called my children. It was recorded a couple of days before it aired, so I didn’t tell them I had won. I just told them to make sure to see it, that I sent them my regards. For me, it was more exciting than they saw the step by step than simply telling them the result.

When they saw it with their mother, they called to congratulate me. I was already back in Argentina and had just returned home after work. Normal life resumed its course, but there I was as if I had been declared the world champion all over again.

A bad first experience followed by a second chance

A little over two years ago, my partner signed me up to compete on “Pasapalabra.” She saw it every day, and occasionally we watched it together. Sometimes, I would throw out some answers from my armchair; the participants seemed to have more trouble. That convinced her that I would do fine if I were to compete.

I was not convinced, but I was having a terrible financial time and the show, apart from being a fun game, was a chance to win some money.

I went to the first casting without preparation, and it went so badly. On the show, the circle is a wheel with all the letters of the alphabet; for each of them, contestants must decipher a word that starts with that letter. Usually, the clue is its definition in the dictionary.

The casting test consisted of two circles, and in both of them, I only guessed a few words well.

I left there with wounded pride. When I play, I’m serious, so that sparked my competitive spirit. I prepared myself to go back: I opened an Excel spreadsheet and started inputting words and their definitions. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands. Currently, that file has more than 35,000 words, although I must have only studied half.

The show’s production gave me a second chance, and I have been grateful to them ever since. Nothing that came after would have happened without that extra chance.

Support, studying and a bit of luck lead to winning streak

Once I started competing on the show, I kept winning, so I had to come back again and again. Suddenly my routine included my Excel spreadsheet study sessions and three or four tapings in the television studio per week.

I work preparing internal reports for an oil company and also study systems engineering. Though I gave up my university studies for a while, my job allowed me to change shifts, modify my rest days and combine schedules with other colleagues so as not to miss the show and stay employed. Those were exhausting days: leaving a shooting, going to work, arriving home at night, and shooting again the next morning.

Winning “Pasapalabra” involves monetary rewards, so little by little my financial situation improved. At the same time, my drive to keep playing grew stronger. Everything about it was fun: the game, the interaction with the local host, Iván de Pineda, meeting other participants, dealing with the channel’s technical team. I also enjoyed seeing the show’s impact; people who don’t know me get happy for me. It is weird but very nice.

In each little free moment—on busses, in my dressing room before a recording began or at home before sleeping at night—I referenced my spreadsheet of words and definitions. It gave me confidence, but I also noticed that luck seemed to work in a particular way as well; more than once, they asked me about a word that I read for the first time just that day or the day before.

I played 46 circles in a row until the channel discontinued the show. Luckily, another bought it, and I won another 53 times there. In the last one, I was able to complete the entire thread with correct answers, which won me a significant accumulated prize.

Competing in the ‘Pasapalabra’ World Cup

That win marked the end of my participation because when a contestant completes an entire wheel, they leave and new competitors get a chance to compete.

I would not change having won, not at all, but I did have a melancholy feeling when that daily life with the show wrapped up. I missed the tapings and never stopped preparing, studying definitions and words, and adding material to my study sheet.

When I found out the same show carried on in Chile, I signed up to participate. I didn’t think too much about the future; the logistics of playing in another country can be inconvenient, but I only thought of satisfying my desire to continue being linked to this competition. If things went as well as in Argentina and I ended up having to tape episodes several times a week, I would find a solution.

At that precise moment, without my knowing it, the Chilean production was organizing the “Pasapalabra” World Cup. They summoned me for that new contest.

In Chile, I was able to take advantage of everything I learned along the way. Some people know much more than me, but for some reason, they couldn’t beat me. It’s not just about knowing the words; you must also remember and say them on time, keep an eye on the clock, and play with what happens to your opponent.

Little by little, I was able to pay attention to more aspects of the game.

At first, I only listened to the word that came next and focused very hard on that. Then, I was able to retain pending words; to answer them in a second or third round while still listening to the following ones. Later on, I was also able to see what degree of difficulty my rival had ahead of me, to know how much room I had left to risk or if I should be more conservative.

In the midst of all that, I learned to interact with the host, respond to his jokes and return other jokes, all without losing my focus.

Preparing for what comes next

Since I became a world champion, I have not stopped giving interviews, and people greet me on the street. Though I’m still not used to the attention and I don’t seek it out, I do like it. I imagine that everything will calm down soon.

I think about what to do with everything I learned. My vocabulary is much richer, although for now I only use it to laugh with friends, throwing out weird words in the middle of conversations.

I want to keep playing this, to keep experiencing this adrenaline rush that I can’t find anywhere else. Just in case, before any possibility that may arise, I keep reading. I grab a batch of two hundred words and study them, the next day I review them, then jump to new ones or revise a batch I read a while ago.

I want to keep up the pace and be ready for whatever comes. 

Argentinian man with muscular dystrophy sings despite the odds

Cristian Dominguez
Interview Subject
Nicolás Olívola is a young Argentinian musician and composer who suffers from Duchenne muscular dystrophy. He has lived in a wheelchair since he was 15. He relentlessly chases his dream to build a solid career as a musical artist. Learn more about him on Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, and Instagram.
Background Information
Duchenne muscular dystrophy is a neuromuscular disease characterized by progressive muscle atrophy and weakness, as a consequence of the degeneration of smooth, skeletal, and cardiac muscles. This motor disability is a hereditary disorder that has no cure, but there are treatments that provide the patient with a better quality of life, such as physiotherapy and medications to minimize symptoms.

According to the Muscular Dystrophy Association, DMD affects the X-chromosome and therefore males, while females are carriers. About 1 in 5,000 live male births report DMD. Onset of symptoms occurs between 3 and 5 years old.

BUENOS AIRES, Argentina—I have not had the strength to stand for more than 15 years now. Day after day, I face the challenge to overcome a disorder that cannot be cured.

Despite my battle with Duchenne muscular dystrophy [characterized by progressive muscle degeneration], music is my refuge.

It gives me dreams and the desire to one day be a musician who makes albums and graces the stage to share my art.

Lifelong treatments for muscular dystrophy allow young man to sing

For as long as I can remember, I was different. Back in school, though my classmates treated me nicely, I felt shy. Walking proved difficult as I lacked strength and easily lost my balance. Kids did not play with me at recess, so I often stayed back, listening to music in the classroom.

My weekly routine, since I was 5 years old, includes treatments three times a week with doctors. Medication eases my pain, and physiotherapy helps me breathe. Using a self-inflating pump called an Ambu, I do manual exercises to carry air to different parts of my lungs.

A little bit of air travels to the vertex well at the top of my lungs, then to the middle, and finally, fills the well below the area attached to the diaphragm. My shortness of breath begins to ease.

Breathing properly and not getting agitated is crucial, because otherwise, I could not sing.

Formal musical studies inform compositions for disabled artist

The first time I sang in front of a large group of people, I feared I would lose my breath, or my throat would close. While I practiced for my performance, I wondered if my nerves would overcome me. On the contrary, I discovered that singing in front of a large group of people is actually easier than singing in front of a few.

Performing in my parish, I found my true dream: to sing to people and be a musical artist. It seemed logical to pursue musical studies, gain more tools, and learn to use my voice better. I learned to compose without an instrument by writing lyrics, humming them, and watching the melodies emerge.

My teacher helped me determine which voice to use. For example, my chest voice does not bother my breathing, but fatigue comes quickly if I keep my voice high or shift to my head voice. It feels like I am running out of air. I must limit my falsettos and melismatic singing, but I adapt to the possibilities.

Knowing this empowers me to adapt my composition to what I can or cannot do with my voice. I work at not tiring so I can sing.

Nicolás in his home studio
Nicolás in his home studio | Photo courtesy of Nicolás Olívola

Musician appears alongside Argentinian celebrity Guido Kaczka

The COVID-19 pandemic cut short numerous projects. I sang at one festival in Pilar before using lockdown to compose new songs. The time allowed me to begin shaping the melodies swirling in my head.

Expanding my social media from Facebook and YouTube to include Instagram, I could communicate with more people. In video calls I listened to their feedback, and I began producing my own music.

Success never comes without bumps in the road. Producers invited to a television appearance with Guido Kaczka, an Argentinian celebrity, with only one day’s notice. Nervousness swallowed me. I prepared and practiced one song, but they asked to perform another without my lyrics or music stand. Compassionately, Guido wrote out the lyrics and gave me the paper to use. I desperately wanted to win the audio equipment for my brother, who has the same disease as me.

Today, I have my first professional video uploaded to my social networks. Several songs are complete: one for my niece, one for a friend in the Córdoba province, and one for my mom.

Even with muscular dystrophy, dreams can come true

I love pouring my emotions into my music, writing the lyrics and the melody. As I hum the different parts of the song, I separate them with variations of tonality.

Working with a friend on the guitar, I make ballads, pop, tango, and new urban sounds. I write most of my songs with family and friends in mind, but also make music for my future love. As it plays, I hope someday love will touch me.

The road may not always be easy. There aren’t always opportunities for someone like me in Argentina, but the pandemic pushed me to become more creative. I’ve discovered new ways to produce and promote myself.

Displaced in Bogotá, singer-songwriter pursues musical dreams

Libardo Queragama
Interview Subject
Libardo Queragama, 27, is a member of the Embera-Chamí indigenous community. A singer-songwriter in the reggaeton genre, he has lived in the indigenous camp of the National Park in Bogotá since September 2021.

Libardo dreams of a full-time music career and has so far released four songs, available on his YouTube channel. He also has aspirations to study music production at the college level and learn English to sing his songs in that language in addition to Spanish and Embera.
Background Information
Colombia’s long-term, internal armed conflict have highly affected the country’s indigenous peoples. Constantly facing assassination of indigenous leaders, forced displacement, and widespread violence and threats, many indigenous people leave their territories and retreat to the cities in precarious conditions, as is the case of the indigenous camp in the National Park.

According to Colombia’s 2018 population census, the country’s indigenous population is 1.9 million people, 4.4% of the total population. There are 115 indigenous populations in the country, of which 68 are at risk of physical and cultural extermination.

BOGOTÁ, Colombia—I dream of making music and expressing myself for a living. However, as a displaced person, I must instead make money however I can to support my family first.

Where I am from, Pueblo Rico in the department of Risaralda, violence and poverty make it extremely difficult to get a job. Many of us fled to Bogotá and other cities as a result.  

I work to support my family

I am an Embera Chamí indigenous person. Though I was born in Pueblo Rico, I and my entire family—six brothers, five sisters and our parents—all currently live in the National Park in Bogotá. I also have two young daughters; they used to live here with me, but they left in December to live with their mother back in Risaralda. I work to support them.

The distance from my daughters is nine hours by car; I have to be apart for them for months at a time to save something up and return home.

If I could dedicate myself to singing all my life, I would. However, living as I do, resources to support my career are hard to come by.  

I spend a big chunk of my time creating handicrafts, which I sell to passersby on the street. I work to provide for my family and cover their needs, to put food in their mouths. On a good day, I can sell between $100,000 and $300,000 Colombian pesos (between $25 and $75 USD) worth of handicrafts. On a bad day, it can be as little as $8,000 pesos ($2 USD) or nothing at all.

Initially, I only learned how to make bracelets, but then my wife taught me how to weave necklaces and earrings as well. I like the work because it allows me to go at my own pace, pay for food, support my family and, occasionally, produce my music.

Doing whatever is necessary to create music

I have loved singing since I was very young. I used to mess around making music with friends, and I started listening to reggaeton. However, I also really like ballads and romantic music; I even liked to dedicate those songs to my girlfriends.

The first song I composed, I dedicated it to my wife. When we were newlyweds on our honeymoon, I wrote “Sin ti,” a combination of a ballad with reggaeton.

My songs come from my own hard work; I sing a romantic reggaeton, sometimes mixed with hip hop or rap. I compose and produce them myself in my indigenous tongue. I also love to perform live, but it takes contacts and support to do that regularly.

It costs a minimum of $800,000 pesos ($195 USD) to produce a basic video, but a video with more production value costs $1,500,000 ($367 USD). I finance my music through any extra made through selling handicrafts, and hard work in the fields when I have to. I have taken up a machete and a hoe, and I have also been a coffee picker. I do whatever it takes to pursue my dream.

Libardo Queragama at the camp in Bogotá National Park where he currently lives. He supports his family with money made from selling handicrafts, using whatever extra there is to record his music | Photo by Mariana Delgado Barón

Bogota, the flawed promised land

Though my life as a displaced person is difficult in many ways, I really like Bogotá. My prospects are better in the city. Here, I can easily go to the studio and record if I have the funds. In my hometown, the local radio stations are supportive and sometimes air my songs and invite me to events, which is wonderful. However, recording a song can take up to a year there.  it can take up to a year to record a song.

Before arriving at the National Park, I already lived in Bogotá, and I spent my time between the city and Risaralda. Going back there is scary and unsettling, so much so that some decide never to return. For some, their homes and farms have been completely destroyed and they can never return; that is why they ask for relocation to Bogotá, with decent conditions.

As for me, I will continue living my life the city and hope for better conditions. I dream of continuing recording songs and setting my life journey—of working in the fields, my effort to support my family, the story of my siblings who passed away—to music for all to hear.

Afghan judge, activist survives Taliban assassination attempts to run for office in UK

Marzia Babakarkhail
Interview Subject
Marzia Babakarkhail served as a judge in PuliKhumri Baghlan, Afghanistan from 1991-1998. She established the Afghan Women Social and Cultural Organization and served as chairperson of the women’s committee at Afghan NGO’s Coordination Bureau (ANCB).

When Marzia became a target of Taliban aggression, she fled first to Pakistan and then the United Kingdom. Marzia arrived in the UK unable to speak a single word of English. As an asylum seeker, she could not obtain paid work but took on volunteer opportunities.

She achieved refugee status in 2009 and focused on improving her English. Marzia speaks five languages and continues to study English today at Oldham College. She achieved British citizenship in 2016.

The following year she won the Fusion Woman of the Year Award and was recently short listed for a Northern Powerhouse Women’s Award as an outstanding mentor.

Marzia’s continuous work for underprivileged people, particularly those in the refugee community, created leadership opportunities in the UK. She is now a part-time case worker, lobbyist, campaigner, and advocate. International media regularly interview her regarding the experiences of Afghan women, and she has garnered over 50,000 signatures for her petition to evacuate and resettle female Afghan judges.

This May, she is running for local elections in her city representing the Labour Party.
Background Information
According to the Council on Foreign Relations, the Taliban are a “predominantly Pushtun, Islamic fundamentalist group that returned to power in Afghanistan in 2021 after waging a twenty-year insurgency.”

The long and storied history of the Taliban’s rise and fall from power in Afghanistan spans more than 40 years. Part of this history includes pervasive human rights abuses. In the 2021 takeover of the country, according to Human Rights Watch, the Taliban have stripped girls and women of education and journalistic freedom. They were removed from nearly all government posts, and continue to be kept from secondary education. Food insecurity and civilian casualties have increased sharply.

Among those murdered included two female judges. In addition, the Taliban eliminated the Ministry for Women’s Affairs and replaced it with a department to legislate women’s clothing rules and ability to move around outside the home. Women’s shelters for victims of violence were closed, and some of those living there were transferred to prison. 

OLDHAM, Greater Manchester, England—I have no answer for why I became an activist. It has always been inside me.

Forced from my homeland by the Taliban, my fight continues from the UK. They tried to kill me, but I have survived and built a new life for myself.

Hiding in a sewer, I escaped execution by the Taliban

My hometown is PuliKhumri, a city in Northern Afghanistan, where I grew up with my parents and siblings.

I lived within the patriarchy, but as a young woman in the 1990s, I served as a family court judge. There were only 26 female judges at that time. 

When I entered the role, I became acutely aware of my naivety. The law in Afghanistan treated women markedly different. Having witnessed the discrepancies, I started a small shelter for divorced women. My family and I helped three to five women at a time. We provided food and worked on their literacy. 

Now in its third decade of existence, the Taliban began as an armed group that emerged in the 1990s out of Afghanistan’s Civil War. By 1996, they had come to rule most of the country.

They quickly learned my name. There were whispers saying, “Look what she is doing.” One afternoon in 1997, my worst fears became reality.

Eleven Taliban soldiers arrived at our home. Outside of the house, they beat our driver before breaking through the front door. We all knew who they were after.

I escaped into the sewers in an alleyway behind the house, while my parents and siblings remained inside. “Where is Marzia?” they demanded to know. For four hours, I huddled there, surrounded by dirt and stench, flies biting me all over. I knew the Taliban men had come to kill me. In my hiding place, I thought they would find me. I was just waiting to be shot, but they left.

That very night, I fled to Pakistan. For the first time, but not the last, I became a refugee.

They ran me over with a car to try and silence me

I stayed with a friend in Pakistan while others took in my family. The Taliban stripped everything from us. They confiscated all our belongings and property, leaving behind an empty house. 

We were safe in that moment, but our work was just beginning. 

Walking the streets of Pakistan, we saw young Afghan refugee children selling goods to survive. My mother is a teacher, and we felt called to help them, so we started a children’s school.

Sometimes the Taliban came to threaten us, but I fought on. I took my message to the media, and I stood up for my country. 

When the Taliban lost power in 2001, I leapt at the chance to return and help heal my homeland. Back in Afghanistan as the Chairperson for the Women’s Committee of Afghan NGO’s Coordination Bureau, I had hope that things would change. I even felt bold enough to support the Asia Foundation’s events for Women’s Day. Sadly, my joy would not last. 

Though the Taliban were not ruling the country, they were still extremely active, and our sense of safety shattered once again in 2005 when they killed a young female journalist.

During this time, I traveled back and forth between Kabul and Pakistan. I risked my life with each trip, and soon I paid for it. First, the Taliban began a misinformation campaign, questioning the integrity of our school. Their efforts shut us down. 

Then, in 2007, they found me.

On a typical Friday, I left Kabul to see my my mother, who was ill in a hospital in Peshawar. A car suddenly sped toward me as I walked outside. I had no time to react, and this was no accident; I was a target. The car ran me over and nearly killed me in a horrific hit and run.

A refugee in the United Kingdom, I fought for citizenship

For six months, my body fought to heal, wrapped in a plaster cast in a hospital bed and then a clinic. The Taliban had nearly achieved their goal of killing another outspoken Afghani woman. 

My mother suffered seeing my body broken in my bed. Her instinct to protect her children consumed her. She begged me to flee, and for the second time, become a refugee in a foreign land.

My heart wrenched at the thought of it. For years, I put all these seeds into the ground, hoping to see them flourish. I suffered and sacrificed to serve and help my people. 

I knew that one day I would die and was not afraid of death. Rather, I was sad to leave my people behind.

I made the decision to leave, and friends in the United Kingdom appropriated a ticket for me. At two o’clock in the morning, I put on a burka and traveled to the airport in Pakistan with my mother. I left everything behind: the love, the care, the status, the work. I left it all for safety, but I found a new set of problems when I arrived.

Entering the UK began another journey. I knew no one, did not speak the language, and was not guaranteed asylum. Coming off the plane, my mind swirled with questions. I encountered an officer at the airport who was Indian. “Can I speak Urdu,” I asked him, and he replied in the affirmative. Relieved to have help, I connected with friends from London who gave me a place to stay.

In those early days, panic consumed me.

In the middle of the night, I would involuntarily stop breathing. My lungs tightened as I ran outside and inhaled big gulps of the fresh night air. I had no future and no plan, and it felt tortuous. 

Later, sitting in front of my lawyer in her office, I felt insecure as we tried to distinguish my next steps. “What evidence do you have of your case?” she asked. “None,” I replied. She looked at me for a long while then said, “Marzia, I can see the evidence. It is the pain all over your face.” 

She began an investigation and soon the proof of what the Taliban had done to me in Afghanistan and beyond piled up. Eventually, the UK granted me refugee status. It allows me to stay in the UK for five years, as well as permission to work and study; access benefits, housing, and the National Health System; and seek family reunion.

Marzia often speaks to international media organizations about the state of women’s rights in her native Afghanistan. Here, she gives an interview to India Today during the Taliban takeover in 2021 | Screenshot courtesy of India Today

The 2021 Taliban takeover stripped my vision and my hope

Seeing Afghanistan fall again in 2021, my entire body sobbed. In the immediate aftermath of the takeover, the Taliban killed two female judges in Kabul. They murdered civilians, women, and children. This was not easy to take. I know how hard we worked, and it seems like we lost everything.

These developments left me feeling like I’d gone blind; like I lost all the vision of my eyes. However, I will never stop fighting. Today, English is like my oxygen. I can be alive; I can speak. 

Over and over again, I tell reporters: the Taliban can force me out of my country, but they cannot force me to change my mind. This is my purpose, and my spirit will not die before my body does. I believe I can fight injustice all my life.

Inclusive theater in Kazakhstan breaks down social prejudices

Yuliya Melnichenko
Interview Subject
Yuliya Melnichenko founded Nur-Sultan’s first inclusive theatrical school for teens and young adults, the KIT Inclusive Theater, in 2017.

A young mother, Yuliya had eight years of experience working with people with special needs as part of her contribution to the local public associations prior to establishing the theater, which currently has 26 participants.

In the less than five years of the theater’s existence, Yuliya has organized three performances including the “Dreamers” musical, several cooking sessions, and led regular training that helped her pupils to overcome the fear of society.

Follow the KIT Inclusive Theater on Instagram and Tiktok.
Background Information
According to the KazInform International News Agency, there are 99 inclusive schools in Kazakhstan, but only 15,000 out of 94,000 disabled children have an opportunity to study at those schools.

Although children with disabilities could study in public schools, roughly 80% of facilities are inaccessible for people with special needs.

NUR-SULTAN, Kazakhstan—I was scrolling through a list of disability-inclusive theater programs in Nur-Sultan when I realized that not only were the options quite limited; all of them were for children or young teenagers. “But where do these people go afterward?” I thought.

Finding no answer to my question, I decided to open my own inclusive theatrical school that would help people with special needs socialize and show their abilities.

Social prejudice against those with disabilities

Here, in Kazakhstan, and perhaps in many other places too, when people see someone with a disability, they ask about their diagnosis first and only then ask about their names. It shouldn’t be so.

One of my pupils, Aida, is an Instagram blogger and an aspiring actress, but people usually refer to her as “the girl with Down syndrome.”

The same thing happened with every one of the 26 teens who study in our inclusive school. They’re seen in society as their disability rather than a person who thinks, feels, and dreams like everyone else. 

We decided to break these prejudices down by staging a musical performance, “Dreamers.”

An inclusive showcase of joy, energy and tenderness

We started working on our musical in fall 2019. We hired more than 50 volunteers to help us write songs, choreograph dances, and teach the teens the basic rules of acting. 

I especially loved their dances. The choreographers were able to create pieces that captured the special features of each dancer. I found them so beautiful.

Energy, tenderness, and joy united in the performances, reflecting the atmosphere and aesthetic of our theater. Every time the students danced, I saw a little glint light up their eyes. The energy of that glint grew into a bright flame of passion that spread among the hall that day.

When the spotlights shone on the teens signifying the end of the musical, they grabbed each other’s hands and took their bow for the public. I could barely hold in my tears, and my heart beat loudly in my chest. It felt like many little needles pricked my skin. I was so proud of these children, of my little dreamers.

However, deafening applause interrupted my thoughts. I turned around and saw everyone in the hall standing up from their seats, clapping until the performers hid behind the curtains. 

Yuliya and a performer, Natasha, after the "Dreamers" performance
Yuliya and a performer, Natasha, after the “Dreamers” performance | Photo courtesy of Yuliya Melnichenko

A small step towards big changes

An autograph session after the show
An autograph session after the show | Photo courtesy of Yuliya Melnichenko

As I went to the lobby to praise my dreamers, I couldn’t see them in the crowd of people walking out of the hall. I went through the crowd, hearing a chorus of voices complimenting “these amazing children.” “I want to see this performance again!” exclaimed one woman. I couldn’t help but smile.

My dreamers were at the head of this crowd, many of whom were queuing with pens in their hands and smiles on their faces.

“I always wanted to sign autographs,” whispered Aida. “I might seriously start my career in acting.”

“You will be the greatest actress,” I told her.  I felt like I would burst with pride that my little school had helped give her this moment of confidence and hope.

Zhibek Satenova is a member of Orato’s Spring 2022 Writer’s Workshop & Internship Program.

‘Run Nuki!’ is born: Finding inspiration to tell a new story during a pandemic

Peter Juliá
Pedro Juliá, 26, is a multidisciplinary artist from Buenos Aires who works in music, drawing and cinema.

Run Nuki!” is his first animated project. It is about a little raccoon named Nuki discovering a huge world full of amazing creatures. The series promotes ecological values in an entertaining way.

You can see the pilot of “Run Nuki!” on Youtube.
Background Information
On March 19, 2020, Argentine President Alberto Fernández announced a strict quarantine throughout the country due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Many creative industries experiences shutdowns, delays and difficulties, but the animation industry flourished despite the new logistical challenges.

Boasting more than 140, Argentina is the country with the most animation studios in Latin America. The territory already has produced more than 45 animated feature films. However, making a minute of animation can cost up to more than $5,000: a budget that is expected in North American and European countries but extravagant in South and Latin America.

Pedro Juliá largely self-financed the “Run Nuki!” short—he said that though he was able to compensate his team, it was not equivalent to the time and effort they invested.

BARILOCHE, Argentina— I am from Buenos Aires, but whenever I come to the south—to the striking beauty of the Patagonia region—fits of creativity strike me. I don’t seek them out; it’s as if someone whispers to me or downloads information into my brain from somewhere else.

I wanted to act on these ideas and give them life. From this desire, Nuki was born.

Creating my main character

I drew the initial character of Nuki and composed some music around the idea a long time ago in Bariloche, a city in Patagonia. Initially I envisioned the character as more of an adult, but my ideas shifted as I imagined bringing him to life in a TV series. I wanted it to be entertaining but also endearing and metaphorical.

In the end, Nuki took the form of a child. I loved to tell his story when he was a baby because it allowed me to showcase his gigantic learning stage. I felt like it was an allusion to me being a baby in the world of animation. He’s chaotic too, which I think will help children see themselves in him.

Nuki lives in a world where ecological values are paramount. Caring for the environment and fostering awareness for the state of the world feels so important to me. It’s even more so at this moment of humanity because there is a sort of war against time, an urgent need to reverse the ruin we’ve already caused. With Nuki, we have a chance to make little ones aware, so they make adults aware.

Sketches of Nuki | Photo courtesy of Peter Juliá

Bringing an idea to life during COVID-19

Bringing a vision to life and elevating it to a bigger platform is a huge, overwhelming undertaking—even when you’re not in a global pandemic. I had never directed a project like this before, but my ignorance turned out to be a gift. Because I didn’t fully understand the challenges that lie ahead, my innocence and desire to see the process through made it feel more like a game.

I relied on talented coworkers to lead areas I was less experienced in, such as production and logistics, while I headed animation.

Because of the COVID-19 lockdown, we worked on everything virtually for the first Nuki short. We worked on everything without even seeing each other’s faces. Most of the team is introverts, so they often didn’t even have a profile picture. It was challenging, but also magical in a sense; it felt like I was working with the very souls of these people.

We met in person for the second short—it was crucial to finally see each other’s faces and discuss the project face to face, to convey the depth of our feeling and energy for this story.

I wore my kitty ears for our first meeting at a café in Buenos Aires. I had already composed the music for the short film, and created a very basic storyboard with another team member. We stood in front of everyone, ready to present.

I was nervous, but I knew now was the time to lead. Though I am a peaceful person, that does not mean that I am passive. I needed to be confident, to show my passion. When you don’t have show fighting spirit, you start to say to yourself, “what if they don’t hear me out?”

In the end, I stated a clear direction: “I trust this is going to be more beautiful than Ghibli, guys.” That’s how the meeting ended, with laughter and energy. To reach the stars, you have to aim for the moon. I wanted to set high goals, and I always trusted my team had those capabilities.

Run Nuki! team in a coffee shop, talking about the new animated short
Run Nuki! team in a coffee shop, talking about the new animated short | Photo by Luz Tapia

Seeing the world react to Nuki

At first, my insecurity awakened many questions and doubts. But by our second short, I felt in control of my vision. Whether it’s judged as good or bad, it’s mine. I take responsibility for this creation we put out into the world.

The first animation was for festival screenings, but I also craved feedback from real people, not just industry judges or animation fans. I wanted anyone with internet access to be able to see it, give their opinion, and judge for themselves. We also needed feedback from real people, not just judges and animation fans.

When we shared it to social networks, we got the feedback we sought—people reacted with an explosion of love for this little raccoon.

Relief, happiness and fulfillment fill my heart when I see these comments. I am glad to know that people understood our intent, the references we made, the wink to the past. They reacted with tenderness, and told us what they were seeing was like an awakening to the soul.

The next step with Nuki is to be able to start communicating those ecological values in his adventures. For now though, we have proved that it spreads a lot of love regardless.

Kenyan man combats poverty and hopelessness with dance

Mike Wamaya
Interview Subject
Mike Wamaya is the founder of Project Elimu. Through this initiative, he teaches ballet to children and teenagers in Kenya’s Kibera and Mathare slums.

In 2017, he was named a Top 10 finalist for the Varkey Foundation Global Teacher Prize, a $1 million award that recognizes one exceptional teacher who has made an outstanding contribution to the profession.

Follow Wamaya and Project Elimu on Facebook, LinkedIn, and Instagram.
Background Information
Project Elimu is a community-driven non-profit organization offering after-school arts education and a safe space to children living in Kibera, an informal settlement, or slum, in Nairobi, Kenya. In addition to the arts, it offers programs in digital literacy, sexual and reproductive health, and community engagement.

Its mission is “to empower children and young people to become contributing citizens and positive influences in their communities by helping them to identify and nurture their talents through participation in co-curricular activities.”

In addition, Project Elimu works to “impart new skills, knowledge, and information to help young people explore their potential and creativity: who they are, what they think and believe, what they want for their future.”

Kibera Slum: The Kibera slum in Kenya’s capital city of Nairobi is the biggest in the country. About 250,000 impoverished people live in closely packed, 12-by-12 shacks, often built with mud walls, a corrugated tin roof and a dirt or concrete floor. Kibera residents face deplorable living conditions, including lack of food, electricity, and access to clean water and healthcare; poor security; and no sewage facilities, meaning raw, untreated sewage is a constant health threat. Residents of Kibera also experience rampant unemployment, drug and alcohol use, teen pregnancy and prostitution, and high rates of disease including malaria, cholera, dysentery and HIV/AIDS infection, among many others.

NAIROBI, Kenya—My unlikely path to dance began when I was just as teenager. Though I’ve had opportunities to escape my surroundings, instead I choose to stay in the slums and pass on the beauty and possibilities of dance to the younger generation. I know from experience that it can be life-changing.

Tragedy leads to a new path

My father’s death and the resulting financial constraints forced me to drop out of school near Lake Victoria when I was 13. My life turned upside down, I returned home to a small slum in the Kariobangi area.

I had to help support my family, so I got a job selling car parts. While working one day, I saw a poster announcing auditions for the Kenya Performing Arts Group. I decided to check it out; I didn’t know it then, but that decision ended up changing my life.

Although I didn’t have prior dance training, I was asked to join. I performed well and eventually moved to Nairobi and studied dance with the group.

At the start of 2008, I received an offer to join a European performing arts group.

This was during a period when the country was facing a crisis. A disputed presidential election in December 2007 led to violence, which wracked the country and split the nation into ethnic lines. It was a tough period for Kenya.

Still reeling from the shock of this bloodshed, I decided to make change in my homeland using the art of ballet dancing.

When I’m dancing, I feel my true self, and I see the strength in me that is hidden from most others. I see my inner self, my energy, what I can do, and I wanted my fellow Kenyans to experience that same rush of feeling.

I decided to turn down the offer from Europe and returned to my country in the hopes of using dance to unite people of my nation.

Bringing ballet to the slums of Nairobi

The Anno’s Africa group approached me with an offer to teach ballet in the slums. With my own experience living in and dealing with young people in that environment, I knew how to handle the training.

I had grown up in those same conditions and somehow, been given everything. I wanted to give back. This is how I began teaching ballet as an after-school activity to orphaned and vulnerable children living in the Kibera slums.

Ballet dancing has traditionally been considered an elite art form, but I have always believed that everybody deserves the right to dance and express themselves. Dance is meant to unite.

With no facilities at hand, we transformed classrooms into makeshift studios.

When the children of the slums join school, they are oftentimes hopeless. The overwhelming opinion is that education doesn’t pay; that’s why most resort to crime, sex and drug abuse: because of hopelessness.

My dreams grew, and through fundraising and donations, I was able to open my dance center, Project Elimu, in June 2017.

A Project Elimu student performs on the streets of Kiberia | Photo courtesy of Project Elimu

Project Elimu opens doors for Kenyan children

Situated in the heart of Kibera, the school offers a wide range of lessons, from classical ballet to African dance to jazz.

I use ballet as a tool to draw in young students, so they have the chance to take advantage of everything we offer. My aim is not to make children professional ballerinas, but to give them the courage to build a better future for themselves.

I use dance more as a therapeutic tool. I use it to give them confidence, to make them believe in themselves, to help them understand what they want.

Kibera is quite rough and tough for young people living here. The center has turned into a refuge where they can come to feel safe, to hang around each other, and to discuss issues that are affecting them within their community. Some of our children who used to struggle academically started to thrive since finding dance.

In my 12 years of teaching dance in the slums, I have seen some of my students bloom with true talent. Their skill has led to opportunities not only locally, but even on the international stage. Through Project Elimu, students have obtained scholarships to prestigious schools in Kenya and access to grants and opportunities abroad. Over Christmas, some performed “The Nutcracker” at the Kenya National Theatre.

This are some of the reasons that give me the strength to move on despite the challenges.

I teach possibilities. Dreaming is possible, and I let children dream in my class. Hundreds of children have passed through this dance program. They’ve learned much more than just steps; they’re dancing their way out of hopelessness. 

Once a victim herself, Kenyan Parliament hopeful fights to eradicate female genital mutilation

Sadia Hussein
Interview subject
Sadia Hussein is a women’s rights advocate, female genital mutilation (FGM) survivor and the founder of the Brighter Society Initiative.

Born in an interior village in Kenya’s Tana River County, she underwent FGM at 10 years old and later endured severe complications while giving birth. Determination to keep her daughters and other young girls from the same fate led her to becoming an anti-FGM activist.

Sadia has also expressed interest in politics and is gearing up to run for a position as a Woman Representative in the Kenyan Parliament in 2022.
Background Information
According to the World Health Organization, Female genital mutilation (FGM) involves the “partial or total removal of external female genitalia or other injury to the female genital organs for non-medical reasons.” The United Nations estimates that 200 million women and girls have undergone FGM around the world, with 80 percent of cases occur in Africa.

In Kenya, 4 million girls and women have undergone FGM, representing 21 percent of girls and women ages 15-49. Risk factors include living in a rural area, poverty, and lack of education. The practice is viewed as a prerequisite for a “good” marriage by some rural communities.

The Kenyan government criminalized FGM in 2011, with a punishment of three years imprisonment and a fine of $2,000 USD. Despite the government policy, cases of FGM have continued. However, non-government organizations in partnership with survivors of FGM continue to make strides in awareness and eradication.

TANA RIVER COUNTY—I fight against the practice of female genital mutilation (FGM)—it is my life’s work. My journey began when I was a victim myself at just 10 years old.

An unspoken childhood ritual

In our culture, society considered girls who had not undergone “the cut” to be unclean. I was no exception, though I didn’t understand what the words meant.

When I was around 10 years old, other girls kept telling me I wasn’t clean. This confused and embarrassed me—often, I would cry in response.  After school, I would ask my mother what that meant, but she rarely answered my questions and instead changed the subject.

I was in grade 6 and expected to sit my final primary exam and proceed to high school in two years’ time. Many boys underwent circumcision from ages 10-12, as preparation to exit primary education and enter adulthood. I knew about that because they were very proud of it and talked about it regularly. In contrast, I had never heard of anything like FGM until it happened to me.

Undergoing FGM at 10 years old

Everything changed when one morning, my mother and grandmother informed me I was supposed to be cleaned. I was young and naive and thought they just meant bathing. As they led me to a bush, I felt excitement and anxiety wondering what was in store for me.

Women were gathered at this spot; some were aunties and close neighbors, but others were strangers. They started undressing me, and fear began to grow in my mind. There was no water anywhere around us—only sharpened razors.

I asked my mother what was going on, but before she replied, one of the women grabbed me and laid me on the ground. The women formed a circle around me—some pulled my hands apart, others pulled my legs apart, and my grandmother pressed my chest to the ground. Finally, another woman stuffed a piece of cloth into my mouth. There was nothing I could do to fight it.

I silently prayed, waiting in fear for whatever was about to happen. A few minutes later, I felt a sharp pain in my genital area as my flesh was cut off. They gave me no painkillers or anesthesia as they cut; the pain overwhelmed me, and I lost all my strength.

The women used traditional plants to treat my wound and told me the healing process would take two weeks; it ended up taking two months. Gradually, I came into terms with it and returned to life as normal. Little did I know it was only the first time I would have to endure this agonizing practice.

Cut again during childbirth

I got married at 20 and was due to give birth to my first child at 21. In our culture, when one nears giving birth, the expectant women may return home to get help from their mother, grandmother, or other female relatives. I followed suit as my due date approached and I prepared to become a mother. However, this day also turned horrific.

As I gave birth, I experienced days of extraordinary pain and complications. My mother and her friends refused to take me to a hospital; they said everything was normal and that I was overreacting. They were prepared with razors to help me deliver successfully.

Then, it was like a repeat of that day a decade before. They tied my legs down, and I felt continuous cutting in my genitals. I begged and screamed, but they would not tell what was happening.

Despite the overwhelming pain, my baby girl entered the world safely. I named my little daughter Maryam. I was so excited for my child, though I had no strength to hold her. My mother held her as they untied me, and I began to realize more mutilation had been done.

All this as a way to keep one “safe” for their husband and to discourage women from having intimate relationships outside marriage.

Breaking generational traumas

As I healed, it was a time of reflection for me. I knew it was just a matter of years before my little girl would be forced to undergo FGM herself; there was no way you could live in my village with my aunties, mother, grandmother and neighbors and yet refuse to have your girl mutilated.

However, I somehow gained courage and informed my parents that Maryam would never undergo the tradition. They did not take it lightly, but there was no turning back for me.

Following the completion of my education, I decided to take a bold step and move from my village to the town of Hola in Tana River County. I decided to form groups that would advocate for the eradication of FGM.

After spending almost two years advocating against FGM in the surrounding villages, I realized many young mothers who had undergone the cut did not support of the act. What’s more, none of them wished that their own child undergo FGM. In response, I formed the Dayaa Women Group and the Brighter Society Initiative, supported and financed by my husband and additional donors. I’m proud to say that we have greatly reduced the practice of FGM.

I also have decided to run for Tana River County Women Representative in 2022. Once in Parliament, my priority will be to ensure FGM is fully eradicated in Kenya and that girls from vulnerable and rural places get a chance to be educated.

Searching for sustainability at sea: a sailboat adventure inspires a dream to deplastify the world

Agustina Besada
Interview Subject
Agustina Besada, 36, is the executive director of Asociación Sustentar, co-founder and director of Unplastify, and a National Geographic explorer and grantee. A native of Buenos Aires, Argentina and a graduate of Columbia University, she has dedicated her life to the pursuit of a more sustainable, less wasteful world.

For more information about Agustina’s journey aboard the Fanky, including maps and blog posts, visit Unplastify’s Adventure page. You can also follow her on Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn and Twitter.
Background Information
According to National Geographic, “it is estimated that since 1950 some 6,000 million tons of [plastic] have been produced, enough to cover the entire planet with plastic wrap.”

Though larger pieces crack and break down due to their chemical makeup and external atmospheric conditions, the smallest pieces, known as microplastics, can last for hundreds of years.

Through education, business and public policy initiatives, Unplastify works to “accelerate systemic deplasticization processes with individuals, organizations, companies and governments – minimizing the use of disposable plastics through the re-design of operations, habits and norms.”

BUENOS AIRES, Argentina—I’ve always been obsessed with waste; in fact, I’ve been studying and working in sustainability my entire adult life.

Inspired by that obsession and my sobering findings on an oceanic adventure, I founded Unplastify and have pledged my life’s work to changing the human relationship with plastic.

Combining sailing with sustainability

My fascination with sustainability led me to travel from my home in Argentina to live abroad and work as the director of a recycling center in the United States, which is known for its culture of consumption and waste.

At the center—as I sat literally surrounded by mountains of plastic—I started to obsess about the plastic that hadn’t made to our facility, wondering where it would end up. The answer was in the ocean.

I remember perfectly the moment in 2017 we decided to leave on our sustainability adventure. My husband Ignacio Zapiola and I had been married for just two months. We were having lunch and discussing our projects, what we wanted to do, and if we wanted to continue living in the United States. We decided no—it was time for something new.

Around the same time, we had started sailing and even bough our own 11.3-meter (37-foot) sailboat with a friend. We named it after the song “Fanky,” a song by Charly García, a famous Argentinian singer we were fans of. The opening lyrics go “I’m not going to stop / I have no doubts / I’m not going down / let it go up;” they echo the freedom we feel when we sail.

We had once fantasized about the idea of ​​sailing home to Argentina. Now I added to the dream, building on the idea of collecting samples of the water as we navigated across the Atlantic Ocean back to Argentina by sailboat. We wanted to explore, observe firsthand, and personally understand what was happening with the number of plastics in the ocean. We wanted to develop possible solutions.

Voyaging across the Atlantic

Our plan was to sail back to Argentina from New York and see what we found along the way. However, due to prevailing currents and winds, completing the route turned into a six-month venture that necessitated crossing the Atlantic twice.

 In May 2018, we set sail aboard the Fanky for the first leg of our trip, from New York to Gibraltar (a British Territory on Spain’s south coast). We were a crew of four; we added two friends to the expedition who had navigation experience. It took us 56 days to cover the 3,700 nautical miles, including two stops—one in Bermuda and the other in the Azores.

In our first days offshore, we had a rough start. The first two nights were terrible. The sea tossed continuously; we endured waves, rain, and freezing cold temperatures. The ship never stopped moving—it was like a mixer. Later, arriving in Bermuda, the sun came out and everything was better.

Our longest stretches at sea were 14 and 12 days. There were moments I was afraid, but I didn’t give up.

We set off again and reached Salvador de Bahía, Brazil in November, where we left the Fanky to return to “real life.”

Discovering the ubiquity of plastic pollution

Throughout the trip, we took different samples of plastics, large and small, from the ocean. Even after carefully cleaning everything we found, the smell was horrible. I spent hours aboard our sailboat, separating every bit.

We had already seen a lot of plastic floating around as we approached Bermuda, but it got even worse around the Azores. The sea was so calm in that area. At first, we thought that the water was clean and crystal clear—but then we realized it was actually horrible. Calm waters are the conditions in which you see large accumulations, and we saw plastic was everywhere.

It was a terrible, sinking feeling to be in such a remote place, several days away from the mainland, and look out from our boat deck and see large plastic objects bobbing around: balloons, buoys, even a punctured ball. We were in the “middle of nowhere,” yet there was always something floating near us and microplastics in our water samples.

These findings helped drive home the fact that plastic does not disappear; it always remains somewhere, and many times that place is in the ocean. Microplastics are also found in the air itself as well as the stomachs of animals such as fish and birds. It’s truly everywhere.

Far from paralyzing us, this finding motivated us to take further action and to seek solutions. We needed to start changing the human relationship with plastic and to de-plasticize the world. The idea that became Unplastify was born as we sailed through the Atlantic.

Female skateboarder fights sexism, empowers women through community

Stefany Castaneda
Interview Subject
Stefany Castaneda, 27, is a recent graduate with a bachelor’s in tourism management. She is the founder and leader of the first female skating group in El Salvador: the Rider Sisters.

Recently, Stefany became an ambassador for Longboard Girls Crew from Madrid. They have around 60 representatives around the world. Her role is all about empowering women and promoting skating in El Salvador. The ambassadors hold a meeting once a month, sharing their progress.
Background Information
Gender-based Violence in El Salvador: According to the United Nations General Assembly, figures on sexual violence in El Salvador remain a cause of great concern. The data provided by the Institute of Forensic Medicine showed an increase from 3,368 sexual violence cases in 2007 to 4,120 in 2008.

The Salvadoran Institute for the Development of Women declared that between March 1 and June 30, 2020, care was provided to 707 women; 55.4% of those cases indicated situations related to psychological violence (392), followed by 17.4% who were treated for physical violence. Both types of violence represent 72.8% of the cases that came in.

During the same period, the PNC registered a total of 958 crimes related to acts of violence against women.

SAN SALVADOR, El Salvador- I have been drawn to boards since I can remember. Growing up, I loved watching my father surf and skate. He was the reason I ever stepped onto a skateboard.

Today, I am the leader of Rider Sisters, a skating community exclusively for women of all ages, where we listen, protect, support, and challenge each other.

Growing up as a female skater in a male-dominated sport

When I was a child, my father regularly surfed and skateboarded with his friends; it was the norm. It intrigued me, and I would spend hours just watching them. I began to ask my dad to teach me how to skateboard, but he was always busy working. 

One day, maybe because I was a little older or insistent enough, he told me, “Listen, I’ll buy you a board.” He taught me the basics, but that was it. If I wanted to learn more, I would have to commit and do it by myself; and that is what happened. I practiced every day, experimenting with new things all the time. 

I fell in love with skateboarding. It is my passion, and I really cannot imagine myself doing anything else. At first, I practiced in secluded areas; space was limited, but it was enough for my needs. As I progressed, I needed challenges and places with ramps. Slowly, I befriended guys who skate and would go with them to parks, not caring I was the only girl. I just wanted to have fun and practice.

I remember I constantly felt frustrated in the beginning, impatient that my progress was not as fast as I wanted it to be and upset because I could not go and practice whenever I wanted and at my own pace. Others always had to come along for safety. 

My skateboarding journey paused for a short time because I had no one who could teach me the things I wanted to learn. It did not last long, though; I restarted and self-taught through videos.

It was tough to be the only woman within a group of men, but that was not enough to prevent me from learning, practicing, and perfecting what I love.  

On the verge of quitting my passion and fearing for my safety

Despite my love for skating, it has not been an easy road. I could not just show up in public parks and skate alone. The dependency on others was annoying—I wanted to skate daily, but sometimes I had to wait days until friends could come along with me—but it was the best I could do. 

I occasionally brought some of my girlfriends along, but most girls are not interested in skating due to prejudice and gender stereotyping. My attempts to get them excited or involved often came to nothing.

Being in a group was safer, but that did not mean I was untouchable or that other skaters in the park would respect me.

I practiced at some of the well-known skate parks, such as El Cafetalon or Parque Cuzcatlan, but it was hard to enjoy my time there. Knowing that something could happen, I was always on guard. I remember I wore shorts a few times, and as soon as I arrived, I noticed sexual gestures, followed by verbal harassment and insults. I felt objectified and unsafe. 

My gender and the way I dressed weren’t the only problems; more advanced skaters also treated me disrespectfully if I lacked advanced skills in their eyes. They made comments if someone was below their level. They were rude and would go out of their way to make me feel like a nuisance. 

I remember one time I was trying to learn a new trick, and someone shouted, “This is not a place for you to learn.” I was not surprised, but this time, I didn’t stay quiet. I replied, “Look, this space is for everyone. If you can practice here, I can too.” 

El Salvador is not a place where you can argue with strangers, let alone a female skater with a man. You never know what could happen. It did not escalate physically, but I had to leave.

A kernel of an idea begins to grow

For a short time, incredibly busy with work and college, I contemplated thoughts of leaving skating behind me. I was tired of feeling like an outcast.

Then the COVID-19 pandemic hit. 

Watching videos about groups of female skaters from Los Angeles and Spain, I would wonder, how different would it be if I had something like that here? I would dream about it, but the idea seemed incredibly unreachable.

I experienced anxiety during the isolation of the pandemic, but decided to channel it by writing and planning out my ideas. From the flurry of my thoughts, my inner voice found a way out: you have to encourage a change. 

I figured there must be other women who want to skate freely and feel the same way I do. I finally realized that I had to be the one to create the community of my dreams; giving it my best, I came up with a name and a logo idea. Now, I just needed to search for those kindred spirits.

Recruiting female skaters during Covid-19

I was part of a Facebook group where women openly discussed their experiences with abuse. At first, it was for emotional relief, and then, it became a place of empowerment. Instead of complaining about our sexist culture and pitying each other, we would talk about solutions. 

Many of the members shared their projects and ventures, so I posted about mine when I was ready. It received about 500 likes and many comments. I felt so elated. 

However, the second time I tried to post, it was rejected. The administrators notified me that it had too much engagement to be appropriate for that space. It was disheartening to feel that women did not have my back. They never shared a valid reason for their rejection. 

I was able to get in touch with some girls that responded to my first post and created a separate group. However, I lost momentum and couldn’t reach out to everyone. That experience lowered my spirits. I could not understand why women would treat other women like enemies. 

For this and other reasons, the year 2020 was a challenge for my mental health. I fell ill and experienced depression. I did not want to do anything. 

As I started therapy and meditation, I slowly started regaining my energy. I am confident that creating that group saved my life. It gave me a purpose again after I got better. I hosted our first in-person meeting on May 23, 2021; we were about 10 to 12 women.

Fostering sisterhood and solidarity with Rider Sisters

The purpose of that first meeting was just to get a few of us together. I could have never imaged the impact that would have. 

Skateboarding and supporting each other through sexism
Skateboarding and supporting each other | Photo courtesy of Stefany Castaneda

We began meeting every week. I felt so excited, finally doing what I had been dreaming about: skating with a female group. Every week, more women and girls of all ages showed up, with the youngest being just 5.

It is incredible to see the progress some of the younger girls have made. Their passion fills my heart with joy. It is breathtaking what a group of women can do when they take care of each other. There is camaraderie, and we all share our equipment to take turns. Lately, I barely have time to skate. Now I teach, guide, and help others; what a rewarding experience!

I am always surprised by the positive comments and the support from other people. Several men have shown up to encourage and support our cause, including my friends and father. My partner at that time told me, “You have to believe in yourself. There are girls out there that need a safe space and are going through the same experience. They need this.” I will never forget those words. 

All of these women saved my life and continue to enrich it. They are incredible and talented. I am grateful to be part of Rider Sisters. I never thought it would become something so special and meaningful. Not only have we become a female skating community, but we genuinely share a bond. We are confidants and are there for each other, even when it does not include a skateboard. 

Rider Sisters has become a social responsibility. It shows the wonders women can accomplish together. As female skaters, we share a path, and we are opening opportunities for other women.

‘El Cruce’ champions education throughout Argentina by bicycle

Juanjo Vargas
Interview Subject
Juanjo Vargas, 52, is one of the founders of El Cruce por la Educación Argentina. In addition to being the father of five children, he is an international speaker, former professional rugby player and the founder of several companies. 

Follow El Cruce por la Educación Argentina on Facebook.
Background Information
El Cruce por la Educación Argentina describes itself as “the social action of 5 friends, parents, committed ordinary citizens, whose purpose is to raise up the fundamental value of education in the community.”

The five riders bike throughout the country and collect letters from students across Argentina, asking them “What would you like to be when you grow up?” and “What Argentina do you dream of if you were president?” They then transport the letters to a final destination, symbolizing that with hard work and education, anything is possible.

In the six trips over different parts of Argentina completed since 2011, El Cruce has received 210,000 letters and covered 10,600 kilometers by bicycle.

The remaining members and founders are Santiago Fernández, Rodolfo Deccico, Federico Giacomino, and Pablo Pascual. Manuel Fernandez joined the group several years ago.

SAN JUAN, Argentina—El Cruce por la Educación Argentina (Crossing for Argentine Education) was born in 2011. Despite a five-year pause, we’re proud to be back cycling and spreading dreams 10 years later.

An idea takes shape

One night, we were considering cycling to San Juan when suddenly, someone robbed one of our friends. Our friend left because his family was waiting, while we, dismayed at what had happened, stayed behind. We asked ourselves: what should we do to stop this kind of behavior? We concluded that there is a need for an increase in education.

A child with no exposure to theft will not follow that as an example; he will not steal. We realized that education is the door to a better life. The next day, we began our work.

We did not know the impact it could have. Many friends told us that it was silly, but we ignored them. We went to the first round of schools, and the children told us their stories; they all shared their ideas and dreams of who they wanted to become when they grew up. All of that could only be possible through education.

Riding an emotional rollercoaster

It has been a journey full of emotions, hugs, and beautiful experiences. Some teachers put up banners to welcome us, and parents flock to the school to see how the children deliver their dreams. When we leave a school, parents and children with Argentine flags follow us in a caravan of cars for about 3 or 4 kilometers (roughly 2 miles).

Sometimes, a child appears and says that you are their hero, that someone finally asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.

There is not one story or child that has impressed itself on us; there have been many. We met with some kids in college who had finished high school in 2011. Even after a decade, those boys were waiting for us with the same enthusiasm as ten years ago. That was exciting.

We were shocked when we went to a small town where the school was like a shrine. There were eight students and a woman who fed them. We saw hope and a wonderful educational system—not because of the system itself, but because of the teacher’s commitment and the support she gave the children. It was a completely different feel from the large schools in big cities.

In 2013, we spent the night in Los Gigantes, in Córdoba, at a school with strict teachers. When it was time for breakfast, a teacher said, “sit here facing in that direction.”

We looked out of the window toward a mountain; suddenly, tiny white dots began to appear in different places. They were children heading towards the school—some on mules, others on horseback, others on foot. They came to live in the school for the week because it also serves as a shelter, completely for free.

The Argentine educational system is magnificent because it delivers. After all, it wouldn’t be possible if everyone had to pay. Children find what they need there—food, support, and education.

One of the riders speaking to students at a small, rural school | Photo courtesy of Juanjo Vargas

Changes and challenges throughout the years

As the years have gone by, we’ve faced different obstacles in our quest to keep El Cruce running.

The members all still have considerable family and professional responsibilities, and running the organization requires additional expenses from us all. We walk a tightrope in order to do it all.

We took a five-year break because I became very ill with pneumonia. The doctors gave me three months to live; so, a few years ago, I called my children, put my affairs in order, and said goodbye. However, here I am. We were happy to revive El Cruce in 2021.

Learning from the children

When we ride up, the children do not see five overweight people arriving on bicycles; they see the simplicity of our mission.

Their eyes light up—they are fascinated by their dreams and excited to share them. It is beautiful to witness that purity that children have of expressing their emotions without prejudice. They improve us all with their genuineness.

Adults make problems seem huge, but children have a simple way of looking into things. They teach us that life can be simple.

A child has two great pillars for which he dreams.

One is to help others—they want to find solutions to any problem. He wants to be a butcher because he lacks meat in his house. She wants to be a policeman because she lacks safety. He wants to be a doctor because his family had to wait in the hospital.

The other is the “circle of destiny,” where a child witnesses something and learns from what he sees. He possibly ends up emulating that same thing he sees every day.

“El Cruce” is about those pillars–opening doors through education and showing them that positive dreams can become a reality.

Music bridges gap between father and autistic son in Argentina

Gabriel Rubinstein
Interview Subject
Gabriel Rubinstein is a father, economist and singer. He and his son, Pablo, who has autism, create music together.
Background Information
– Explore Gabriel and Pablo’s compositions on their Youtube channel.

– Learn more about autism/autism spectrum disorder at the following resources:

The Autism Society

Center for Disease Control and Prevention

BUENOS AIRES, Argentina—Life surprised me with a son facing autism, a diagnosis and a condition I did not expect. When we found out, I was scared. Today, I’m able to bond with him thanks to an unexpected facet of communication: music.

The start of our challenges

My life was that of an average man. I studied, settled down, and worked in my profession. Until one day approximately 35 years ago, I found out that my wife was pregnant. It was time to start a family, and I was so glad; how could I not be! I never expected all the challenges that awaited me in fatherhood.

My son, Pablo, was born, and everything tinged with hope and expectation for the future. But as he got older, he began to exhibit concerning behaviors. I thought I shouldn’t worry. However, as time passed, his behaviors worsened—he did not play like other children his age; he did not share toys; the slightest inconvenience or change from routine greatly upset him; and he struggled to communicate with us.

I finally decided to take him to the doctor, not sure what to expect. However, I never imagined my son had autism. I cried when I found out. Emotions warred within me: fear of what was to come for him in life, and outrage with myself—not because of Pablo’s condition, but because I let all that time go by, naively thinking that it would only be a stage and that at some point he would get better.

As Pablo grew, communicating with him became increasingly difficult, but we did what we could. 

Discovering music as communication

I’ve always liked playing the guitar. One day, I sat on the couch in the living room, relaxed and calm, and strummed the guitar strings to sing a Beatles song.

Pablo, a teenager at the time, looked up at me—a rare occurrence—with amazement in his eyes. We made eye contact—I will never forget that moment as long as I live. I felt full of love, almost like magic.

“Come on, son. Sit down; why don’t you help me compose a song?” I told Pablo, unaware he was about to enter what would become our paradise.

My son didn’t hesitate. I made a place for him on the couch, and he sat next to me. Pablo was nervous; his hands shook, and he bit at his lips. Due to his condition, it was difficult for us to share moments like this. I patted him on the back so he knew everything was fine.

I plucked out some melodies on the guitar, and Pablo’s legs began to move up and down, following the rhythm gently. The music filled the room. I cannot explain how happy and satisfied I felt at that moment. A jumble of emotions ran through my body. He looked like he wanted to cry with happiness and excitement as well. 

After a few minutes, Pablo began to hum. I wrote. Suddenly, we had our first song. “What do you think, son; is it okay like this?” I asked. Pablo just smiled. He was no longer shaking or nervous; he was calm. We had found a beautiful activity to do together, finally.

Sharing that space and time together in the living room became our everyday routine. We looked into each other’s eyes, and Pablo paid attention to each note the instruments released. We decompressed and had fun at the same time. Music had become our communication and our favorite pursuit.

Expanding our musical bond

We no longer wrote our songs on sheets of paper—Pablo started using the computer, and now he was the one composing. He expressed his inner poetry with a few clicks of the keyboard. It was incredible. I was surprised by his broad vocabulary, considering he had never gone to a traditional school.

I started putting music to the words that Pablo typed out. The result was beautiful songs. Comfort and relief flooded my heart, now that I knew we had a way of understanding each other. Every moment we were together, the music never ceased.

One day, we decided to leave the living room. I didn’t want Pablo to get used to being there. Now that we could communicate and understand each other, I wanted him to go out into the outside world. I took him for a car ride, and we found another activity that we love to this day. Music plays on the stereo while we wander through landscapes, father and son together.

An arduous road, but not unfeasible

Though music has opened doors for our relationship, we can’t ignore that Pablo has autism and will never be able to live alone, much less perform basic tasks, like cooking or bathing, on his own.  

Today, 20 years have passed since we had that first experience together with music. It was the best unintentional decision of my life, asking him to help me write a song. Every time I see Pablo, he tells me, “I want you to play something to me,” and that’s where I start. My guitar, he, and I are in our own universe.  

In Pablo’s early years, I worried and stressed all the time, destroying my mind trying to understand my son. I even thought I was not a good father, that I was doing things the wrong way. When one is close to these situations, it’s so easy to become immobilized. I was a new dad, and I just didn’t know how to react.

Today, I do not consider my son to be sick. He has special abilities. To connect, have fun, and communicate with him is a blessing. We saved both our lives when we discovered our musical bond.

A coping mechanism during the pandemic

How can it be that a couple of musical notes create the union of an autistic son and father? It’s an unknown that I will never be able to answer. I feel so much love for my son that it does not fit in my chest, and it is difficult for me to express it.

Every time I pick up the guitar, he looks at me. That connection is incredible; it overwhelms me with emotion because I know that right there is when we are ready to listen to each other and understand each other.

Though Pablo could not understand what was going on in the world during the pandemic or show any interest, it threw obstacles in our path just the same. The only way to cope and spend 24 hours a day together was to take refuge in music. 

I enjoy the routine of being with Pablo. It makes me happy that everything we do together leads to music. I adore spending time with him, whether we’re composing, listening, watching a documentary on a band, or just keeping each other company.

Continuing connection and love

I try to visualize communicating with Pablo through music as something much more magical than a traditional dialogue. Ordinary talk can lead to boredom, but with music we always find something new, something that dazzles us and leaves us exhausted, in a good way.

The challenge of connecting the sentences Pablo writes and putting them to music excites me. It’s like a puzzle—I move this word here, this melody here, and suddenly we have a song that becomes a masterpiece.

We’ve uploaded our songs to several platforms, such as Spotify and YouTube. Every time we upload a new one, I listen once I find a moment alone. I can’t believe they are ours—I listen over and over again. My ear goes into an alien mode, and I wear a smile from ear to ear. Even seeing our names in the description of each song excites me.

We are in an era where music plays a fundamental role in the life of any human being. People listen to music while cleaning, working out, bathing; they listen to distract or simply for pleasure. My son and I use it to understand each other, to start a conversation. It it is what powers our relationship today.