'Island Voices'- Writers capture cultural identity for the Orkney 2025 Island Games

Pieces of writing from participating Island groups have been compiled for the Orkney 2025 Island Games.

The collection has been published as a limited edition pocket book for Orkney 2025 volunteers, participants and delegates.

Orkney Museums say:

‘Island Voices’ is a unique collection of writing from across the world to celebrate each Island’s cultural identity. Each piece has its own mood and own method of telling and each piece reflects a moment in time and space special to the writer and their relationship to island places. The writing has been generously shared and represents the work of both seasoned and newer writers of all ages from communities connected to the Games.

There were five entries from Gibraltar:

The Two Halves Which Make Us Whole by Benedict Vasquez

Recently cognitive scientists have posited that memories can only be formed after language. So I often wonder what they’d make of Gibraltarians who speak in a forked tongue, flickering between English and Spanish neither here nor there - it falls just short of a language and is instead relegated to that linguistic purgatory, that space between languages; a dialect. Suitable ambiguity. Llanito we call it.I wonder if because of this they’d consider our memories half formulated. How do memories built on the loose foundations of a dialect develop? In our case, not very well. To the Spanish Llanito is too English and to the English it’s too Spanish; two halves which leave a hole, they’re incompatible so that at best we’re half complete, as a result our voices get caught in our throats and our history is passed down through whispers. We’ve betrayed our mother tongue, we haven’t looked after her and in return she has refused to nurture us. Of course, memories can’t be consolidated without a language to celebrate them, to share them in, or to scream them with.I feel it myself, my tongue which spoke of home is now tongue tied. When I consider my language divided, I consider my home divided, my own memories foreign. I consider my own traits as borrowed from England and Spain before I consider them as Gibraltarian, before I remember that we are not an island but instead a bridge marrying two halves, two halves which make us whole.  

Camp Bay by Kim Foreman

I’m longing to feel like myself again. The winter has been long and dark — cold and bleak. My mind has been as grey as the sky, my brain foggy and confused. I step onto the metal ladder, its rungs warm under my feet from the sun’s rays. I’m back in my special place. There’s no one around — the bay is empty. I’ll have ‘my spot’ to myself for a few hours.

I look out at the sea. The peaks on the gentle waves are liquid glitter, sparkling like thousands of actual diamonds. The water laps at my toes as the waves reach me on the ladder. The coldness of the water momentarily takes my breath away, but I’m already starting to feel revitalised. I peer across the distance — Spain is just a hazy outline in the shimmering heat, and I have to squint to shield my eyes from the glare.

The water calls to me, and I can’t wait to be beneath the surface in my underwater world. Reaching the last step on the ladder, I dive into the blue — no hesitation. The water welcomes me, instantly kisses my skin and soothes my mind. All thoughts are gone. My head is finally clear. I swim deeper, at one with the sea and my surroundings. Down and down, I go, with only the sunlight piercing the surface.

I’m finally me again. Finally free.

La Roca, My Rock – The Place I Call Home by Davina Barbara

Home is where the heart is,
For me, La Roca – standing tall, proud,
Embracing the community, grounding us all.
Here he crecido – moments shared, moments lost,
An identity shaped by versatility.
The salty sea air surrounds, parte de nuestro being,
Childhood memories held en mi corazón:
Summer teatime, late-night dips, el agua fresquita soothing the soul.
Main Street buzzing – alive with tourists,
Locals weave through the crowd, la calor thick in the air.
Caves and tunnels, secret alleyways,
Stories waiting to be discovered, cuentos begging to be told,
Quirky corners, Mediterranean shutters,
Details that capture the soul, y sentimientos that never grow old.
Street art leads you on a journey with color and passion.
A melting pot of cultures que nos hace unique,
El Llanito – ever-changing, our heartbeat, 
Pulsating, evolving and nuestro, 
To use, cambiar, to bend, to bruise.
A community that supports,
La familia at the core, los vecinos part of the web, 
el caldeo, the laughter, the stories,
Shared resilience, an energy that pulsates.
We rise through adversity,
Juntos, as one, stronger each time,
To shape this place we know well.
La Roca, my Rock,
Always in my laughter, my dreams, my voice.
Wherever I may be,
The place que I will siempre call home.

Land and Sea Mammals Indulge in Play- by Melanie Soiza-Stagnetto

Nova, a waterdog, was rescued from Spain when she was just a few weeks old.
Now a one year old junior dog, she loves to be out at sea. People flock round to see her dive into the water with her eyes open and pick up a rock or two.
Nova loves being out at sea aboard Aronnax and helps collect plastic pollution which she then helps to bin. 
On one of the boat trips, Nova encountered the common dolphins in the Bay of Gibraltar for the first time. It was amazing to see two different species of mammals so engaged with each other as the inquistive pod swam in the Mediterranean sea inching ever closer to check out the dog.
As humans we still have so much to learn about respecting nature and learning to live alongside each other, conserving all species.
This was a magical moment captured on camera which neither Nova the waterdog or the dolphin pod will ever forget!

Hearth (All I ever wanted was to be able to swim) by Sheridan Povedano

All I ever wanted was to be able to swim. I wanted to swim because no one could ever have taught me to swim. It was only me and mum – taking footsteps along the coastline, dipping ourselves into the cold water, moving our legs and arms like baby frogs. There mustn’t have been anyone else, there mustn’t have been because you could only hear the gushes of wind. It wasn’t that my friends weren’t interested, or that I lived on the other side of the earth, but that they were in absence, they were in absence from it all. There was silence then, walking summer’s golden beds into the winter’s dark – straying off into the water as it touches my thighs, it freezes my pulse; as the dawn is arriving. The glaciers can only ever be seen from a distance. The naturality of every season was engulfed by air, it corroded the rocks; I bled from my knee, down to my toe. My reflection was semi-permanent and mirror like, the birds were little croaking staples above the sky. I had drowned in their noise – singing away: skies are pouring, my tears are sowing beneath my skin; unravel the silk, unpoison the milky clouds, make me beneath a shed, wooden crafted you – write my name in lead, Hearth, all I ever wanted was to be able to swim.