Before the stories are gone
She has stories they've never heard. Vozara is how they'll hear them — in her voice, in her words, translated, preserved.
Carmen arrived in Melbourne in 1968 with two children under five and a photograph of her mother she still keeps on her bedside table. She has six grandchildren. None of them have heard the full story of how she got here.
Her granddaughter Sofia set up Vozara one Saturday morning. Carmen was suspicious at first — she had never liked talking about herself. By the fourth question, she was describing the journey from Seville in 1967, the one that changed everything.
Vozara conducted the interview in Spanish — Carmen's language, her pace, her words. Her children read the translation in English for the first time.
Vozara asks the questions — in Spanish, at Carmen’s pace.
Tap to switch between her words and the English translation.
Original audio is always preserved. The translation sits alongside it — a bridge, never a replacement. More languages are being added based on the communities who need them most.
Vozara builds a living record across generations — Carmen's arrival, her daughter Ana's two worlds, her grandchildren who are only now learning where they came from. Eduardo passed away in 2018, but two recordings from 1991 are preserved in his profile. His grandchildren can now hear his voice.
Ana had wanted to capture her family’s stories for as long as she could remember. Her mother told them in Spanish; Ana’s children didn’t speak it. When she tried recording on her phone it felt like an interrogation — Carmen would go quiet, or wave it away with “we just got on with it.” She never knew what to ask, and the right questions only came to her too late.
What she already had was scattered — a cassette from 1991, a handful of voicemails, photographs with no names on the back. None of it connected, all of it fading. And there was never time; “someday” kept slipping. Her father Eduardo passed in 2018 before she ever captured his.
Vozara changed where the effort went. It asked the questions for her — gently, in Carmen’s own language. It transcribed and translated every session, so Ana’s children could finally hear their grandmother’s life in their own language, in her actual voice. And it gathered the scattered pieces into one place, each beside the right person, on a timeline that finally made sense.
The 1991 cassette, the voicemails, the photos — each finds its place.
The stories Ana was most afraid of losing are now the ones her children will grow up knowing.
Ana found a cassette from 1991 — her father Eduardo, recorded at a family gathering by a cousin who has since passed. She had it digitised. Vozara transcribed it, translated it, and attached it to Eduardo's profile.
Old voicemails. Recorded phone calls. Home videos. Photographs. Vozara accepts anything. Whatever you already have — it finds its place here.
Your stories. Your people. Your language. Vozara can begin with a single conversation — no setup, no account needed, no technical skill required. Just a voice and the time to listen.
Step inside the Flores archive → Begin my family's story →No account needed. Your recordings belong to you, always.