Text: Víctor Montoya
Animation: Miro Coca Lora
Translation: Elizabeth Gamble Miller
Music: Adagio G - Moll
Composer: Tomaso Albinoni
Photographies: Alberto Korda Freddy Alborta Michel Gladu and anonymous
© Miro Coca Lora
Animation and production
Stockholm, november, 2008
LOVE IN LA HIGUERA
When El Che arrived in La Higuera tied to a military helicopter, he looked like an immortal guerrillero with his gunshot wounded leg.
The next morning on my way to do my duty as a teacher, I came face to face with a reality that would never again let me live in peace. El Che was sitting on a bench in the little school and when he saw me, he teased me, by asking,
-What is such a pretty young lady doing in this village?
I didnt answer him. I was shy and didnt have any experience dealing with strangers.
As they were moving him out to take photos, his eyes searched the crowds to wink at me. It was the first time I returned his look, somewhat abashed, although feeling extraordinarily happy, like anyone who finds the love of her life when least expected.
In town the atmosphere was tense and people were listening to the Presidents speech on the radio telling them that the guys with beards were foreign invaders who carried off the young men at gunpoint, raped the women and would kill us all. I didnt know whether to believe the words of the President. I was in love and my heart began beating faster and faster. I never saw such a handsome man. It seemed like he didnt cut his hair so he would look like one of the heroes in the movies. With his torn, dusty clothes he looked like Christ, his sweet smile and tender eyes.
That night I didnt sleep comfortably. I listed to voices of soldiers and officers who seemed to be celebrating their victory shouting and drinking. Later, in the dark of night I heard some gunshots that made me shudder in bed.
The day following his assassination, now in Vallegrande, I saw him lying on a bench in the laundry; his eyes were shining with the same light that had pierced my heart like a arrow. I was sad and crying inside, but I didnt want the soldiers to notice my feelings.
Leaving the laundry, making my way through the group of soldiers, photographers and curiosity seekers, a deep feeling of love began growing in me, while a mysterious voice was crying out from the depths of my soul: This was the man who, like bouquets of flowers, offered his love and his ideals to the lovers of liberty.
Since then, many years have passed and I still hear that voice, which was surely the voice of El Che, which in word and history was transformed into rebel poetry.
My life would have been different if they hadnt killed him that day. I still hear the sound of gunshots in my head and there are nights when they dont let me sleep How I would love to find him again, to give him my love, asking nothing in return, now and at the hour of my death.
Translation: Elizabeth Gamble Miller
