I was born on the outskirts of democracy: in Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, on October 8th 1975.  I first knew exile at the age of 4, when I was taken from kindergarten in my pajamas for drawing the teachers, old men with huge red noses and big-headed old women.  I started working at a newspaper at the age of 11...

I, Allan McDonald, who for 30 years have sought the smile of peace in the midst of the damnable mud of ignominy.

I, who only desire to uproot people's sadness.

I, who want only to tear out this heart of mine overflowing in the depths of misfortune.

I, who have ceaselessly sought the light in a line flowing from my pen.

I, who learned to draw so as to find myself.

I, who invented the sentimental compass beneath my skin.

I, who have sought to take from myself this chalice of blood and pain.

I, who have drawn with an invincible thirst to make others happy.

I, who seek laughter's peace in the midst of explosions of barbarism's violent arrogance.

I, who was born in a country without memory, with neither past nor future, and a present made glorious by police batons and tears enveloped in smoke.

I, among fits of horror and flights of bullets and white swords of injustice.

I, who was forgotten, who was never wanted, for having joined my soul to the drawing table, the pen, and the table

I, who understood dialectics but not the signs of love...

I, who turned the other cheek before turning my pen against prideful and violent ways of declaring that I am a man...

I, who have bowed my head only to draw...

I, who cut my hands in April.

I, a simple mortal, cartoonist, citizen of the world, made worse by being Honduran in times of open season for murder.

I do not aspire to winning the Nobel Peace Prize, it is enough to earn my living without killing anyone.