A Note in the Margin - Che Guevera

சே குவேரா
ஜூன் 14,1928 - அக்டோபர் 9,1967

The stars drew light across the night sky in that little mountain village, and the silence and the cold made the darkness vanish away. It was - I don't know how to explain it - as if everything solid melted away into the ether, eliminating all individuality and absorbing us, rigid, into the immense darkness. Not a single cloud to lend perspective to the space blocked any portion of the starry sky. Less than a few meters away the dim light of a lamp lost its power to fade the darkness.

The man's face was indistinct in the shadows; I could only see what seemed like the spark of his eyes and the gleam of his front teeth.

I still can't say whether it was the atmosphere or the personality of that individual that prepared me for the revelation, but I know that many times and from many different people I had heard those same arguments and that they had never made an impression on me. Our interlocutor was, in fact, a very interesting character. From a country in Europe, he escaped the knife of dogmatism as a young man, he knew the taste of fear ( one of the few experiences making you value life), and afterwards he had wandered from country to country, gathering thousands of adventures, until he and his bones finally ended up in this isolated region, patiently waiting for the moment of great reckoning to arrive.

After exchanging a few meaningless words and platitudes, each of us marking territory, the discussion began to falter and we were about to go our separate ways, when he let out his idiosyncratic, childlike laugh, highlighting the asymmetry of four front incisors:"The future belongs to the people, and gradually, or in one strike, they will take power. here and in every country".

"The terrible thing is, the people need to be educated, and this they cannot do before taking power, only after. They can only learn at the cost of their own mistakes, which will be very serious and will cost many innocent lives. Or perhaps not, maybe those lives will not have been innocent because they will have committed the huge sin against nature;meaning, a lack of ability to adapt. All of them, those unable to adapt - you and I, for example - will die cursing the power they helped, through great sacrifice, to create. Revolution is impersonal; it will take their lives, even utilizing their memory as an example or as an instrument for domesticating the youth who follow them. My sin is greater because I, more astute and with greater experience, call it what you like, will die knowing that my sacrifice stems only from an inflexibility symbolizing our rotten civilization, which is crumbling. I also know - and this won't alter the course of history or your personal view of me - that you will die with a clenched fist and a tense jaw, the epitome of hatred and struggle, because you are not a symbol (some inanimate example) but a genuine member of the society to be destroyed; the spirit of the beehive speaks through your mouth and motivates your actions. You are as useful as I am, but you are not aware of how useful your contribution is to the society that sacrifices you."

I saw his teeth and the cheeky grin with which he foretold history, I felt his handshake and, like a distant murmur, his formal goodbye. The night, folding in at contact with his words, overtook me again, enveloping me within it. But despite his words, I now knew...I knew that when the great guiding spirit cleaves humanity into two antagonistic halves, I would be with the people. I know this, I see it printed in the night sky that I, eclectic dissembler of doctrine and psychoanalyst of dogma, howling like one possessed, will assault the barricades or the trenches, will take my bloodstained weapon and, consumed with fury, slaughter any enemy who falls into my hands. And I see, as if a great exhaustion smothers this fresh exaltation, I see myself, immolated in the genuine revolution, the great equalizer of individual will, proclaiming the ultimate mea culpa. I feel my nostrils dilate, savoring the acrid smell of gunpowder and blood, of the enemy's death; I steel my body, ready to do battle, and prepare myself to be a sacred space within which the bestial howl of the triumphant proletariat can resound with new energy and new hope.

- சே குவேராவின் The Motorcycle Diaries-ல் இருந்து.

8 பின்னூட்டங்கள்:


கப்பி அப்படியே இந்த படத்திற்கு விமர்சனத்தையும் எழுதிடேன்...இந்த படம் பார்த்து உறைஞ்சி போன பலரில் நானும் ஒருத்தன்



ஏற்கனவே இந்த படத்தின் விமர்சனத்தை எழுதி இருக்கேன் தல :)




New Statesman - Still a messiah?: "Forty years after his death, Che Guevara has little to offer as a guide for making revolution. So why does his image continue to inspire an almost religious following?"


பா.பா.. கூறிய சுட்டி போல் எனக்கு சில சமயம் தோன்றும்... ஆனால் அதையும் மீறி அவரின் மேல் ஒரு மரியாதை, பற்று தானாக வருகின்ற அவரின் வாழ்க்கை வரலாறை படிக்கும் போது.


என்ன மொழி இது? புரியலை. :-S


நல்லதொரு பதிவு


பாஸ்டன் பாலா

வேறெங்கோ கூட இதே மாதிரி ஒரு கட்டுரை படிச்சிருக்கேன்...பகிர்வுக்கு நன்றி தல :)

நாகை சிவா


மை ஃப்ரண்ட்

உங்களுக்கு மலாய் தெரியாதா? :)))

நன்றி தேவ்!


நான் எனது முதல் புது பதிவு போட்டிருகேன்.வாங்க வந்து சூடா படிச்சு உங்க கருத்த சொல்லுங்க....