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  1. Inside the Mind of Che Pope
  2. Producer Che Pope on Tracking the Preservation Hall Jazz Band '60s-Style with Apollo
  3. Che on My Mind | D&R - Kültür, Sanat ve Eğlence Dünyası
  4. Recensie(s)

Che Guevara. Andrew Sinclair. Guide to the Perfect Latin American Idiot. Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza. Alvaro Vargas Llosa. Story of a Death Foretold. Oscar Guardiola-Rivera. Georgie Geyer. A Lexicon of Terror. Marguerite Feitlowitz. Tapestries of Hope, Threads of Love. Enrique Krauze. George Ciccariello-Maher. Visions of Power in Cuba.

Lillian Guerra. Brutality Garden. Christopher Dunn. The Ideological Origins of the Dirty War. Federico Finchelstein. Cruel Modernity. Jean Franco. The Color of Modernity. Barbara Weinstein. Nick Caistor. Javier Tusell.

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David Stoll. A Camera in the Garden of Eden. Kevin Coleman. Earth Beings. Marisol de la Cadena. Mariano Ben Plotkin.

Inside the Mind of Che Pope

The War and Its Shadow. Helen Graham. Remembering Pinochet's Chile. Steve J. Battling for Hearts and Minds. Salt in the Sand. Julia Adams. Securing Sex.

Producer Che Pope on Tracking the Preservation Hall Jazz Band '60s-Style with Apollo

Benjamin A. Rebel Mexico. Jaime M. Revolutionizing Motherhood. Marguerite Guzman Bouvard. Luz Arce and Pinochet's Chile. Subcommander Marcos. Nick Henck. The Marxism of Che Guevara. Enrique Moradiellos. Peter McLaren. A Century of Revolution. Greg Grandin. Becoming the Tupamaros. Lindsey Churchill. The Mayan in the Mall. Speaking of Flowers. Victoria Langland. Cuban Identity and the Angolan Experience.

Fat Is A Feminist Issue. Susie Orbach. Who Is Rigoberta Menchu?

Anarchism and Other Essays. Emma Goldman. Contemporary Dance in Cuba. Suki John. The Unmade Bed. Stephen Marche. The Memory of the Argentina Disappearances. Emilio Crenzel. Simone de Beauvoir. Cuban Anarchism. Ann Veronica. Women and Guerrilla Movements. Karen Kampwirth. Manifesta [10th Anniversary Edition]. Jennifer Baumgardner. The Revolution Is for the Children. Anita Casavantes Bradford. These musings may also help us rethink revolutionary change and see how a reexamination of history may point to more productive ways of achieving that change. This is the story of how Che haunts me.

Georgia on My Mind. Its that spirit and wandering rhythm I wish to evoke: moving in one direction and then another, exploring this texture or that, giving free rein to memory and to a consciousness Che helped to shape. In these notes I want to remember that Guevara was first and foremost extraordinarily human. He felt the pain of others deeply and subverted every social hypocrisy, every greed-based corporate crime and mean- spirited exploitation. Without doubt, the quality he embodied that made him beloved by millions was his unerring capacity to be who he said he was.

In Che, words and actions were one. What he did was consistent with what he said.

Che on My Mind | D&R - Kültür, Sanat ve Eğlence Dünyası

In a world where corporate crime, governmental sleight of hand, and the deterioration of moral values are every day more evident and endemic, the mans principles shine. Because the energy of his internationalism burns as hot now as when he was alive, Ches image moves beyond easy metaphor. His myth has remained alive in disparate cultures. That myth, however, has been woven by friend and foe alike. Ches image, words, values, intentions, successes, and failures have all been shaped to symbolize that which he most deeply abhorred as well as that for which he died.

The most famous image of Che in life, the photograph of him wearing a black beret with the single star and looking into the future, was snapped by chance on March 5, Che appeared at the mass funeral, and when he stepped to the edge of the speakers platform, Alberto Korda Daz snapped two consecutive 35 mm frames. This iconic image has circled the globe; it has been featured on posters, clothing, and even in an advertisement for Smirnoff vodka.

Yet from the grotesquery of his 2.

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The way he acquired that name is worth a few lines. In Ernesto Guevaras country of origin the brief syllable is broadly applied to all young males, much the same way Buddy or Dude or some other generic might be used in English. As a young man in Argentina, Guevara was Ernesto or Ernestito: the oldest son whose name echoed his fathers. Occasionally and at different periods during his childhood or adolescence, he responded to a variety of nicknames. It wasnt until he arrived in Mexico and joined Fidel Castro and his group of Cuban exiles that he became Che: the Argentine. Meeting the man who would lead him to his destiny gave him the sobriquet that stuck, the one that would be inscribed in history.

So Che denotes the foreign as well as the familiar. One of the twentieth centurys most unique personalities assumed the commonest of verbal identities, one shared by hundreds of thousands in his native land. At the same time, once applied to him it took on a new and individualized meaning. In Chethe name as well as the manthe ordinary became extraordinary.

We may also coax out an additional layer of meaning from this name. Its Argentinean application to all males draws our attention to culturesevery culture I have knownin which the very terms dude, guy, buddy, man, bro, or their equivalents bring to mind a sort of macho stance, tolerated or even forgiven because boys will be boys and men will be men.

In English, all one has to do with the visual iconography is to remove the C ; what remains is he: he, him, the male pronoun. We remain unconscious of the leap our eyes make as they subtract the initial letter. Implication lodges itself in our cells. It is through the multiple and contested narratives of public discourse that reality, thought, interpretation, and A Death That Leads Us Back to Life 3. I never met Ernesto Guevara, but every so often, with an insistence as physical as spiritual, his memory draws me to revisit his life, ponder the attraction he exerts long past death, and read anew his writings and what others continue to write about him.

My sources are mostly secondary, my intuitions those of a poet. I am mesmerized not by the mans power, which I often find to be exaggerated or hotheaded, but by his continued capacity to empower. I am moved more by his consistency and great generosity of spirit than by his sometimes- questionable political strategy or tactics.

I remember the moment of his death as vividly as if it were yesterday. October 9, Mexico City. A single mother, I had brought my ten- month- old firstborn to live in that city at the beginning of the decade. Now I also had a Mexican husband and two daughters. South of the border had become my home. The news came, impossible to believe at first but quickly and devastatingly confirmed, that the man my generation was counting on to lead Latin Americas great movement for social change was dead.

Young and rebellious myself at the time, I joined others who flooded the streets that night to paint Che Vive Che Lives on walls that had borne witness to struggle from the time of the Spanish conquest. Three weeks later I traveled to the tiny island of Janitzio on beautiful Lake Ptzcuaro in the state of Michoacn. On their shoulders they carried immense ofrendas, armatures of hardened bread dough adorned with painted flowers and birds.


At that moment Ches assassination at the hands of my own countrys Central Intelligence Agency cia stood in for every death I had known. Witnessing the rituals of these indigenous poor, I thought of the Bolivians of the Altiplano for whom Che fought and died. Cultural devastation. Resignation and rebellion. The ugly residue of conquest. Mexicos elaborate ritual and Ches final effort in Bolivia became inextricably linked in my consciousness. Today, when I think of one, the others float to the forefront of my memory. It would be years before I could begin to piece together how Che Guevara died.

Were he and his two comrades ambushed at Quebrada del Churro or Quebrada del Yuro? Did an enemy bullet incapacitate his m2, or did that even make a difference? Was he so doubled over with asthma, hunger, and exhaustion that he was unable to resist? Another member of the guerrilla force, one of the few who survived, describes his leader as weighing ninety pounds on that last day. Another portrays him dragging his rifle in the mud, without the strength to lift it off the ground. At the moment of his capture did Che really say, Dont shoot.

I am Che Guevara: more useful to you alive than dead? What of the mysterious young teacher some say brought him a last meal shed cooked herself? Most men in that remote village oscillated between reactions of brutality and fear. A woman alone brought the doomed man sustenance and a few friendly words. What can we infer from this gender disparity among the villagers responses when the mysterious enemy combatant suddenly appeared in their midst? The men were soldiers, firmly under the command of their superiors.

Their meager paychecks demanded obedience to a chain of command. A few risked a human gesture; most mimicked a conquerors stance. The lone woman was a teacher. In addition to. What of the conversation Chea teacher to the endis rumored to have had with one of the young Bolivian soldiers guarding him, about a misspelled word on a piece of paper? And after his captors took him, wounded and with hands and feet bound, to the small schoolhouse at La Higuera, were his last words really Shoot, coward, you are only killing a man? All these incidents or presumed incidents, all these real or embroidered quotes, have been passed down from witnesses to friends or acquaintances as well as wending their way into the writing of utterly removed scribes, each with a particular interest to defend.

We do know that in the final effort to capture Guevara and the remaining rebels in his emaciated force, an extraordinarily cruel offensive was launched. Che was severely asthmatic, and for months all asthma medication and cortisone were removed from every hospital, pharmacy, and clinic over a vast area to prevent the possibility of the guerrillas attacking a dispensary and getting their hands on the precious remedies.

Many of the Bolivian troops were replaced by US Rangers. The enemy outnumbered the guerrillas approximately three thousand to one. A handful of exhausted, hungry, sick revolutionaries were surrounded by battalions of well- trained well- armed soldiers with a single objective: to do away with the man who struck such fear in imperialisms heart.

Some of those soldiers treated their famous prisoner with respect; others taunted or battered him. One stole his last possessionsa dead combatants watch he had promised to deliver to the mans family, his pipe, money, maps, a single hardboiled egg, and of course his diary.

Among those present was an official who called himself Capitn Ramos. This was Flix Rodrguez of the cia. He subjected Guevara to a belittling interrogation, then took him outside the schoolhouse and propped him up so he could get someone to snap his picture with the guerrilla leader. Only after he had this personal 6. In subsequent years Rodrguez would repeat in self-serving detail his story of those moments with Che, embellishing it at every telling.

With their prize prey dead, the Bolivian military staged the tableaux that imprinted itself upon a world in shock. A couple dozen members of the press were taken to the small hospital in the nearby town of Vallegrande, where the laundry room had hastily been conditioned to display Bolivias trophy of unequal war. There they were permitted to observe the bodies of Che and the other two guerrillas, Willy and El Chino, captured and executed with him.

Guevaras body was elevated, presented front and center, those of his two companions crumpled on the floor. Bolivian news photographer Freddy Alborta defied orders not to climb up onto the table that held the legendary guerrilla, and took a series of photographs that would become important icons, not only in keeping Ches memory alive but also in shaping that memory into the future.

They show a man displayed on a cement slab, his head and torso slightly raised, long hair disheveled, naked from the waist up, torn pants and an artfully arranged jacket hiding his wounds. His lips are slightly partedalmost a faint smileand his eyes open as if fixed on a future only he can see, one in which redemption for the worlds disenfranchised is assured. On a stretcher placed over the slab- like trough, he seems to be floating, but in what? Surely not in the sordid ambience of that hastily set stage. In fact, Che had already begun to float in our collective consciousness. Death deepened and fixed forever the values he stood for in life.

The message depicted in those photographic images transcends every vain hope of finality launched by Guevaras enemies. You cant kill transcendence. Standing around the sad bier are the soldiers who participated in the heros capture and execution. Nicolaes Tulp. In the latter, the doctor commands the attention of his students much as the high- ranking military officer in the photograph does of his troops.