by Aleida March
“And we will continue together
until the road vanishes...”
from a poem Che wrote to Aleida.
REMEMBERING CHE
MY LIFE WITH CHE GUEVARA
Aleida March
Ocean Press
www.oceanbooks.com.au
Cover design: Runa Kamijo
Book design: Vanessa Hutchinson
Copyright © 2012 Ocean Press
Copyright © 2012 Aleida March
Photographs © 2012 Ocean Press
Photographs © 2012 Aleida March
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Translated by Pilar Aguilera
First edition: 2012
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943980
ISBN 978-0-9870779-9-8 (e-book)
Published in Spanish as Evocación: Mi vida al lado del Che ISBN 978-1-921700-16-3
PUBLISHED BY OCEAN PRESS
PO Box 1015, North Melbourne, Victoria 3051, Australia
E-mail: [email protected]
OCEAN PRESS TRADE DISTRIBUTORS
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Cuba and Latin America: Ocean Sur
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www.oceanbooks.com.au
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CONTENTS
Publisher’s note
Our Aleida by Alfredo Guevara
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Afterword
Appendix:
“The Stone” by Ernesto Che Guevara
Publisher’s note for the English edition
The publishers of this English edition of Evocación: Mi vida al lado del Che by Aleida March would like to thank the following people for their contribution to this book:
Jo Connolly, Christine Graunas, Vanessa Hutchinson, Runa Kamijo, María del Carmen Ariet, Lidoly Chávez and Pilar Aquilera, for her sensitive translation.
Above all, we would like to thank Aleida March herself for being prepared to share for the first time her memories of a great legend and a great love.
OUR ALEIDA
She held her silence for decades, finding refuge on another plane. Aleida March drew strength from her pain and then dedicated her life to planting the seed of irrepressible memory. In this book, she has given us something authentic, profound, complex and rich.
Moreover, her memories are remarkably precise and astute. Oblivion can take different forms: To perpetuate Che as a myth, an ideal, is to assign him to oblivion. As the icon of liturgies is also oblivion for Che, as is Che gazing into the future as seen through the lens of Korda—Korda the poet. Similarly, the left that does not struggle, and is sluggish of mind, can no longer be considered left—it, too, is destined for oblivion.
Memory is sown in a different way—through immortal texts, supported by an immortal example. Action as the result of a material expression of thought can be the inspiration for a new generation, one that knows how to struggle relentlessly, indefatigably, with clarity and courage.
Our Aleida, the revolutionary, despite her doubts, has shown she knows how to give. She knew that pain is nourished by the blood of martyrs and the blood of the universe. In this book she now reveals to us the Che that was missing, the loving Che, with an affection that transcends love. An eternity of love, when the essence of a life lived is revealed. A love that transcends tenderness and has nothing to do with abstract idealism. It is a love that is returned to the person offering it, and in that person finds its dwelling place.
This young urban guerrilla, who was shaped by the struggle, now many years later bravely offers herself to us in letters, notes, poems and reflections on a life full of pain, fulfillment, challenges, transgression and heartbreak. This was the love lived. Here Aleida shows us how a personality grew, how it was discovered and displayed. She shares the meeting that marked forever how two lives became united.
She shows us how these lifetimes can define one’s destiny. How the fragile nature of a poet can reside within steel—the “poet” who unleashed hurricanes. I knew that poet who unleashed hurricanes, and I knew that young woman of firm convictions. They knew the secret of love. How fortunate it is that she has been able to share with the reader some of this story, by extracting memories from her well-guarded intimacy as a way of sharing her beloved and thereby allowing us to come to know him better.
For all of that, Aleida, many thanks.
Alfredo Guevara
Havana
DEDICATION
To my children,
My greatest source of inspiration.
To Fidel,
To whom I owe everything.
To Alfredo Guevara,
A friend for all times.
To Abel Prieto and Roberto Fernández Retamar,
Patrons of a different kind and of a new era.
To María del Carmen Ariet,
A friend, always willing to offer her help.
To Camilo Pérez,
Thank you for your much appreciated support.
PREFACE
One afternoon I held a tape recorder in my hands to collect my memories. But although I tried, I found I just couldn’t do it. So I discussed this with my friend and collaborator, María del Carmen Ariet.
At the time, I was working to create the Che Guevara Studies Center. Together, María del Carmen and I had archived Che’s documents, photographs, letters, poems and other personal items. It was a huge challenge. From that project emerged the plan to publish systematically all Che’s works. We wanted new generations to be able to know Che and understand what he fought for, to help young people feel close to him, not just as a symbol but as a real person who, from an early age, had great dreams and realized those dreams with a creative spirit.
As the Che Guevara Studies Center has developed, we have not only aspired to encourage the study of Che’s thought, life and example, but also to work with our local community in Havana to promote one of his most important qualities—ethics—so that they can understand the better world he fought for.
A few years ago, Mr. Giuseppe Cecconi, a gentle and persistent Italian man, approached me; he wanted me to write a script for a film he was making about Che. I wasn’t particularly interested in that project, but I realized that, apart from anything else, I owed it to my children to give my account of my life with Che. So I began to write down my recollections, everything I had lived through, everything we had experienced together.
This book is therefore my recollections, nothing more. I am not a writer. I simply put down on paper my most cherished memories, hoping that readers might appreciate what it cost me to share these precious letters and poems that until now I held so close to my heart.
Aleida March
Time, time that always passes.
It might be oblivion to forget,
a memory blown away like ash,
ash left to settle that can easily disp
erse,
disperse with the slightest breeze.
That is life, or tends to be life.
We must understand it and confront it.
I exist, nevertheless. I act and I even write,
and I am filled with love.
Alfredo Guevara
1
When I was very young, I loved to read romantic literature. Among the books I read was the novel Headless Angel by the Austrian author Vicki Baum and it awoke in me an urge to know more about the history of Latin America. My thirst for this knowledge led me to ask my friends for books about the Mexican revolution. This might seem insignificant now, but with the passing of time memories of one’s youth seem to become more vivid. I think in a way my life parallels that of the protagonist of the story in that book.
I have never fancied myself as a writer, probably because when it comes to writing my standards have always been set high, and I feel I can’t meet that standard. Nevertheless, I have written what could be considered the brief story of my life. Writing about my own life also provided an opportunity to narrate some of my memories of Che.
In this short account, I don’t want to highlight some moments over others. If I were to do so, I might run the risk of making mistakes or letting myself be swayed by subjective factors, and this would divert me from my original purpose.
It is quite a daunting task to describe my personal experiences with a man who, well before he was my partner, was already recognized as a remarkable individual. Of course my perspective is colored by our shared experiences and our shared political commitment. I made that commitment willingly and, as I have stressed, in many ways I had to abandon my individuality to become less of an “I” and more of a “we.” I have never regretted this.
The story begins with my first encounter with Commander Ernesto Che Guevara in the Escambray Mountains during the revolutionary war in Cuba. My first contact with the guerrillas occurred when Che and his column moved west, down from the Sierra Maestra in the former province of Oriente, into central Cuba. Che, an Argentine, with an already well-deserved reputation, was the leader of the Eighth Column. I was active in the urban underground movement and was sent on a mission by local leaders of the July 26 Movement. Our province (formerly known as Las Villas) was surrounded and closely monitored by repressive forces of the Batista dictatorship.1 My mission was to act as a courier, delivering money and documents to the rebels when they reached the Escambray Mountains.
It was a dangerous mission and this was my first chance to have direct contact with the guerrilla movement. On reaching the rebels’ camp, I found they were observing me as much as I observed them. Some of the guerrillas couldn’t figure me out at all, wondering what on earth I was doing there. This wasn’t particularly surprising because I hardly looked like a tough guerrilla fighter. I was quite a pretty young woman, looking anything but a battle-ready combatant.
My famous “first encounter” with Che has been somewhat embellished by many writers and journalists. In reality, it had nothing to do with fairy tales and Prince Charmings. Even though the Escambray Mountains are incredibly beautiful and the ideal setting for enchantment, those of us there at that time weren’t able to focus on the surrounding natural beauty.
Some years had to pass before I learned what Che had thought of our first encounter. In a letter he sent from the Congo in 1965, a letter full of nostalgia, he revealed what he had thought when he saw me the first time and in the days that followed. He described how he felt torn between his role as a strictly disciplined revolutionary and as an ordinary man with emotional and other needs. He remembered me as a “little blonde, slightly chubby teacher.” When he saw the marks left by the adhesive tape around my waist,2 he “felt an internal struggle between the (almost) irreproachable revolutionary and the other—the real one—overcome by shyness, while pretending to be the untouchable revolutionary.”
It was some time before we were able to acknowledge and then express our feelings for each other. Before doing that, we had to endure some terrifying moments and a few misunderstandings...
1. Fulgencio Batista y Zalivar (1901–1973) participated in the military coup that took place September 4, 1933.. The conservatives used him as a US stooge in the overthrow of the Grau-Guiteras government in 1934. He then ruled Cuba until 1944. On March 10, 1952, he organized another coup and initiated a bloody dictatorship. He fled Cuba along with a group of cronies in the early hours of January 1, 1959.
2. Aleida had brought a package containing money to the guerrilla camp in a pouch strapped around her waist with adhesive tape.
2
From the moment of that initial meeting, without my even realizing it, my life took a certain turn and I never looked back. I became involved in crucial events, now part of our country’s history. The memories come back to me like flashes of lightning. The intensity of events left no time for lengthy reflection. I felt we were living at a unique time, but we had no idea what the future might bring. Surprisingly, I came closer to really knowing myself, not because I feared death, because we were always aware of it, but rather because I was always challenging myself about what had led me there and about how strong my commitment really was.
Before I found myself in the guerrilla camp in the Escambray, my life had been like that of most other campesinos.1 Poverty, humiliation and violence were bitter realities in our lives.
I lived in Los Azules, so called, according to my mother, because of the color of the water in the river in earlier times. This was some distance from Santa Clara, the capital city of the former province of Las Villas, in the center of Cuba. It was an idyllic place with beautiful scenery. My world was the small piece of land that my father worked with much determination and, which despite his great efforts, was never very productive. I sometimes agreed with my mother, who saw it as the end of the world. We were surrounded by uncles and aunts and other poor neighbors, who had no hope for a better future.
I remember how the little kids would have fun swimming in the river while the older children would have chores to do. I was the youngest of five siblings: Lidia, Estela, Octavio, Orlando and me. I was completely unplanned by my parents and when I came into the world my older sisters were already interested in boys and dating. Lidia was 16 years old and my unexpected arrival was a cause for embarrassment, especially in those prudish times. The reason for the embarrassment was the fertility of my older parents, but I had a happy childhood within the small world of my family. My parents were strong and energetic, poor tenant farmers. But despite the difficulties they faced and their unfavorable situation, they did everything possible to encourage and improve the lives of their offspring.
My father, Juan March, was of Catalan origin, a typical campesino, but one who hailed from the city, which gave him a particular air. He liked to read and was cultured to some degree. He was honorable and egalitarian, but also quite introverted. My mother, Eudoxia de la Torre, was the complete opposite. She was a pure campesina with a fierce character, stubborn and persistent, who made sure we got by with what we had. They built a home founded on firm moral principles. They met all our basic needs with love, not by spoiling us or with excessive displays of affection, something not the norm among campesinos, who live very hard lives. We felt the love and support of our parents and we felt secure in the sense they would do everything they could for us.
My family experienced tragedies. Before I was born, my brother Osvaldo had died, leaving both my parents with a grief they never really overcame. My brother always remained present in our home. It was the custom to pay homage to departed loved ones by keeping photographs of them in the main room. In our home, the treasured photos were of my brother and my paternal grandparents.
Death was, however, a daily occurrence in the countryside, the result of the government’s corruption, neglect and apathy toward those living in the country. The rural poor often died because of a lack of medical care, often without ever knowing the exact cause of death. There were no roads or public transpo
rt in rural areas, and this meant a lack of access. Often the sick person could not be reached in time.
I was an innocent country girl, happy with my life. I was like a little bird, with few restrictions on my freedom in a beautiful landscape, surrounded by the beauty of nature. Behind my mother’s back I would go off riding horses and, while my sisters and mother washed clothes in the river, I would enjoy myself swimming with my cousins. We used the palm tree fronds to make skis to slide down the slopes into the river. There was nothing like it!
I still see myself as that peasant girl, a mixture of my parents with the strong influence of my father, a timid, quiet, not very expressive man. But I’m also restless and like to dream, a tendency that drew me closer to my mother, whose strength and spirit I always admired. I have to admit I cry easily, even to this day, probably due to being the youngest child of the family. Maybe I was a bit spoilt.
If I had to mention anyone else who helped shape me it would be María Urquijo, my teacher in the little rural school with multiple grades. By the grace and good deeds of my parents, the teacher used to stay at our house during the week. This made me respect and love the school even more, despite the poverty that was evident within its humble walls. Our little school was made strong through the discipline of a teacher who had found her true vocation. She forgot her personal problems—she was poorly paid and had a sick daughter—but she opened the doors of knowledge, despite obvious limitations, giving us a basic education to ensure we weren’t ignorant or indolent.
When María was unable to attend classes, Ursula Brito or Gilda Balledor would replace her—both also excellent teachers and wonderful human beings.
Of course, I can’t describe my childhood without confessing to some incidents of mischief. I will never forget the day an inspector came to our school, looking very elegant on his horse. I innocently invited him to stay at our house. Looking surprised, he said he could not stay because he would have nowhere to sleep. Without thinking, I told him he could sleep in the same bed as the teacher. You can imagine the look on everyone’s face, especially the look on Gilda Balledor’s face—she was the substitute teacher who was staying at our house, and she was single.