shoot, coward, you're only going to kill a man. like so many epics, the story of the obscure argentine doctor who abandoned his profession and his native land to pursue the emancipation of the poor of the earth began with a voyage. in 1956, along with fidel castro and a handful of others, he had crossed the caribbean in the rickety yacht granma on the mad mission of invading cuba and overthrowing the dictator fulgencio batista. landing in a hostile swamp, losing most of their contingent, the survivors fought their way to the sierra maestra. a bit over two years later, after a guerrilla campaign in which guevara displayed such outrageous bravery and skill that he was named comandante, the insurgents entered havana and launched what was to become the first and only victorious socialist revolution in the americas.



the images were thereafter invariably gigantic. che the titan standing up to the yanquis, the world's dominant power. che the moral guru proclaiming that a new man, no ego and all ferocious love for the other, had to be forcibly created out of the ruins of the old one. che the romantic mysteriously leaving the revolution to continue, sick though he might be with asthma, the struggle against oppression and tyranny.



his execution in vallegrande at the age of 39 only enhanced guevara's mythical stature. that christ-like figure laid out on a bed of death with his uncanny eyes almost about to open; those fearless last words ("shoot, coward, you're only going to kill a man") that somebody invented or reported; the anonymous burial and the hacked-off hands, as if his killers feared him more after he was dead than when he had been alive: all of it is scalded into the mind and memory of those defiant times. he would resurrect, young people shouted in the late '60s; i can remember fervently proclaiming it in the streets of santiago, chile, while similar vows exploded across latin america. "no lo vamos a olvidar!" we won't let him be forgotten.

-time magazine-