La Furia No Rehúye: A Rhythm Too True to Translate
Full English Text Below
Euskara
Testu hau ingelesez idatzita dago, bihotzetik zuzenean, itzulpenaren beharrik gabe.
Nire euskara oraindik heltzen ari da, baina erritmoan.
Ez da azalpen bat. Opari bat da. Elkarrizketak piztu zidan zerbaiten isla.
Eskerrik asko egiaz jasotzeagatik.
Castellano
Este texto está escrito en inglés, porque es donde mi corazón se expresa sin buscar aprobación.
Mi euskera y mi castellano siguen llegando, poco a poco, como el ritmo del mar.
No es una traducción. Es un regalo. Un reflejo de lo que sentí al conversar con La Furia.
Gracias por recibirlo como es: imperfecto, presente, real.
Built From Within: A Rhythmic Dialogue with La Furia
She doesn’t reach. She reverberates.
My Basque was actually strong three months ago when we filmed this.
It hasn’t deepened in the same way since, mostly because I’ve done fewer live shows.
But it’s exactly where it needs to be—for this phase, this field of my life.
Language, like voltage, grows in rhythm. Not pressure.
I chose to release these interviews uncut for two reasons.
First, because perfection was becoming a gate instead of a gift.
Second, because I realized: the rhythm of the conversation is just as vital as the content.
In trying to trim them down—to match the illusion of the distracted, time-starved listener—I was unknowingly slowing everything down.
The offerings began to feel like tasks instead of what they truly are:
a devotion to Euskara,
a return-gift to the language and the artists who live inside it.
And the more I’ve learned about the Basque Country, about Euskaldunak—
the more I understand:
Speed doesn’t matter here.
Authenticity does. Recognition does. Remembrance does.
And those are forged slowly—like the rivers, mountains, and oceans that shaped this land.
Since filming these interviews, my personal life has changed profoundly.
And when I look back, I can see it now—
the residue of performance on my face,
the tightness in my voice.
I was still hiding—just a little—inside a surface rhythm.
That’s why my interview with La Furia struck me so deeply.
Because in that conversation, I let go.
I let the rhythm lead.
I floated between Basque and Spanish, not to show range,
but to serve the moment.
To honor the current.
I dropped the arbitrary parameters I had invisibly placed
around Kaixo Scott,
and something opened.
I attribute that to her.
Furia doesn’t just perform authenticity.
She contains it.
Yes—she’s a performer. A singer. A spectacle.
But she does not reach.
She does not create to be seen.
She creates to reverberate
what’s already alive inside her.
She is living the myth she embodies.
Her authenticity is not strategy.
It’s a byproduct of alignment.
She even said it plainly—
she despises promotion with every part of her body.
Watch the interview.
Watch my tempo shift.
Watch how my focus sharpens.
Watch how my rhythm begins to match hers.
She calls her songs miracles.
The same word a parent uses to describe their child.
Not a product.
But a presence that arrives through you—
improbably, and beyond your control.
She moves as if everything could be the last time.
And because of that,
she enjoys it all.
That kind of perspective can’t be faked.
It’s forged through loss.
Music, for her, is just the vehicle.
The message is the river.
Rap is the riverbed.
And I—
I was still a loose wire when we filmed this.
But something in her field
told my body the truth
before my mind could catch up:
I’m ready now. I can hold this current. I can contain my own energy. I can receive.
There was something else she said
that kept echoing after we stopped filming:
You are not the same person in the language you don’t speak well, as you are in the language you were raised in.
And that is true.
In a foreign tongue, you are slower.
Less precise.
Your personality doesn’t express itself as sharply.
But here is what is also true:
You reach a higher understanding of yourself
in the language you do not yet speak well.
Your fears show themselves
in the moments you choose silence.
Your courage reveals itself
when you enter the conversation anyway.
You unlock parts of your body, your memory, your knowing—
that have been sleeping since birth.
Not missing—just waiting.
Because if Basque, or Arabic, or Spanish had been your mother tongue,
your body was already ready to speak it.
And when you speak it now—
you do not learn.
You remember.
In the foreign tongue, you are raw.
And that rawness is holy.
You do not speak to master the world.
You speak to return to the multitudes you were always meant to be.
So speak.
Speak it imperfectly.
Speak it to remember.
Fluency is not the goal.
Remembrance is.
And the next time you hesitate,
the next time fear pulls at your tongue,
say to yourself:
“I am not learning this language.
I am remembering who I was
before I chose only one.”
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