It has been difficult to face over the months following my sons visit to see me last year, the failure over my documentary. Once he returned to Canada, he was faced with losing his job due to Covid-19, something which somehow tore us apart. At least this is what I blamed his silence on. However, in recent months, I began to see this situation differently. I believe he is ashamed of me, which is of course not easy to accept. But I also feel he cannot accept my story because of how it also affects him. It is easier to see me as crazy and write me off.
He has a new family with his girlfriend, and seems eager to forget about my existence. In fact all my children feel this way about me, so it takes some effort not to agree with them, seeing myself as having lost my marbles. Strangely enough, or perhaps not strange at all, the image of my father is the one thing which gives me the strength to keep facing each day alone. Many people tell me this is not true, that I am never really alone, but I am, always have been. I understand what they mean and accept this truth, but the reality is, in my situation regarding my life, I am alone. I am alone in my understanding of the whole burden of truth I carry. Without the proof to back me up, there is no justification for what I feel, why I feel it or the impact it has had on me, my family. I am the only one alive in my world who understands what it feels like to have this story and no way to tell it, so it can feel as real as it is. I do not know anyone who understands what it has meant to carry this knowledge in silence for so long. There is an emptiness in my life which cannot be filled because of it, a loneliness which seems to never leave despite how many ways I try to ease it. So for this reason, I continue to share my story, despite the obvious possibility of rejection, humiliation and failure. It is only when I keep trying to break through the barrier stopping me from getting proof, that I feel some relief from the pain and sorrow. I don’t need the proof for others. No, I need the proof for myself. To see the beauty of this gift of who I am written down or displayed in a photo, so I can touch it, look at it in a different reality than what I have been given. It is not about justification, it is about having the same physical proof most take for granted about the importance of heritage. It is about being able to hold once more what was taken from me as a child. It is about the strength of connection which can only be felt with something physical.
With time, I have heard it said, one forgets the details of a loved one who has passed. This is why we hold onto letters or photos – to remind us of that person. But if those things are removed from your possession, do we start to let go of certain memories? In my case the memories became locked in a vault to protect me from what was bad, being as it was, connected quite closely with what was beautiful. I could not have one without the other. Just describing these things, eases some of the pain, as long as I do not have to describe in detail what caused me to lock my memories away in the first place. I hold onto the hope one day my story will be told, even if it is just for my family, because one day they may regret having shut me out of their lives. I want them to have something which tells them who I am, who I lost, and how my journey helped to bring me some semblance of peace.
The script:
I faced some of my biggest fears in both going to South America as well as telling my story which seems unbelievable, even to myself at times. It would have been more in character for me to have stayed in Canada and not put myself in such a vulnerable position.
At first when I arrived in Ecuador my body remembered the fear. At the airport, in front of the doors, which I hoped would lead me to the truth of my past, I stood as if frozen.
In the beginning, this man I started to understand was my birth father, was just that – an ordinary man, at least it seemed that way until I was told he was executed. That he looked like Christ was also a clue that perhaps he was not so ordinary, but these were things I could not understand or explain. The clues were complicated because I was not aware of the circumstances of his life, he was just a face and a voice I recognized as belonging to my father.
In South America however, Che Guevara is so much more than a man, so to go there, trying to justify my belief, seemed pretty crazy.
When I think of Che, I have a variety of emotions. I feel connected to him in a way I have never felt with anyone in my life.
I feel stronger, complete, when I think of him. When I see his face, I become quiet inside, calm. I remember what it is to be loved when I see his smile, and then I wish I could talk to him, hear his voice. I almost always cry when I see or think of him.
If I had only dreamt of him once, I could understand that it meant nothing, but to have so many dreams not only of him but telling me the aspects of his life I had no previous knowledge of, then I have to believe there was a purpose for my dreams.
To dream often of people we have no connection to seems unlikely to me.
Do I believe I am his daughter by birth?
Yes, it is the only thing which makes me feel whole as a person to think of him as my father.
Is is important that others believe he is my father?
No, it is only important you consider the possibility.
Either way, I spent time in Ecuador, because of this man known as Che Guevara. This was only the beginning of my journey to find home.
Additional Explanation regarding feelings:
I liken my need to tell my story to that of someone just coming out of the closet about their sexuality. It is about freedom, it is about the right to express my love for the man who set me free, nothing more.
When you reach your thirties and discover everything about your life was a lie, you fall into a hole of eerie silence. Everything comes into question, every discomfort, every fear, every feeling of unease ever felt during your life. When you begin to dream and have visions of people and places you cannot explain, yet feel strongly connected to, once more you fall into a hole of eerie silence. This is when you begin to connect dots of images or events to emotions. The relationship between those two things changes your perspective just enough to allow yourself to accept the idea your story is significantly different from the one you believed was true.
Grama Grizzly told me my soul had been shattered into thousands of pieces. The Shaman told me the family who raised me tried to make me into a monster. In addition to this, he told me after doing my ayahuasca ceremony two important things. First that I had very beautiful long white wavy hair which represented my beautiful history. Second he said I had no face, which represented the heavy burden placed on me that I have been carrying. During our discussions when I met with him a year later, he told me everything I was doing was helping me to find my face. It was important to not give up. He said I must tell everyone my story, it was very important I do so. But I expressed my concern about the fact I have nothing to prove who I am. He explained I did not need proof, it is up to them to prove you are wrong, let them try. He told me I needed time to become comfortable with who I am, enough that I could face the many questions people would be asking me, without fear. What he told me has all become a significant part of my journey back to Canada. It also explained my great need to travel to Ecuador in the first place. One cannot understand home until one feels it in their body. This is when you know what the truth is, proof or no. The body does not lie.
I have been asked many times if it feels good to be back, am I happy to be here. Then they express their feeling of relief I am back where I am safe. I answer truthfully, that it is a difficult question for me. I cannot give them the resounding Yes, they wish to hear. How can you explain briefly what it meant to find home after a lifetime of being denied the memories? How can you explain you felt safer there than here? How can you explain how difficult it was to leave when you had only begun to understand the complexities of your life? Yes, I am very grateful to be here, and for all that was done to help me return, while I got my feet back under me. There are so many people here I owe my thanks and gratitude to, and it will never be forgotten, the appreciation deep. However, my heart now belongs to 2 countries, to many beautiful people in both, the adjustment not as easy as one might think to leave either now.
Soy la hija de Che Guevara. I am the daughter of Che Guevara and I feel it is time to share my story more openly. To finally be allowed to be myself, no matter what others think, is a freedom most cannot possibly comprehend. To have had everything beautiful about my life destroyed because of hatred and fear, something I can finally face, even though I know it will not be easy. The most important aspect of my story, is not the identity of my parents, in particular my father, but the love which was passed onto me not only during the first 2 years of my life, but through the memories and dreams. This is the backbone of my story because it has been this deep love felt from him which kept me from hating, kept me from giving up, kept me from wanting revenge against those who hurt me.
I came back to start a revolution, but one very different from the revolution my father was part of. Essentially, they are the same with respect to my hope it becomes a voice for change, a voice for the people. My revolution cannot be one of violent intent, rather it is the opposite. It is of the heart and it comes in the guise of The Hummingbird Project. For those of us who have been so terribly broken our voices were lost in the fight for life, so it is a revolution demanding our truth be heard. It is a revolution about forgiveness rather than revenge, love rather than fear. And it is for understanding, because it takes courage to ask for help every time we fall down – yes we fall often.
The Script;Part I continued:
My name growing up;
Brenda Catherine Ann Phyper – I hated my name growing up. It was strange, but I always felt the name belonged to someone else.
My name today;
Gabriel Kacie Chudleigh; Chudleigh is my married name
I had a vision of my birth father naming me. I saw him holding me as an infant, his back turned to me as if I was an observer, watching as he looked down on my face, saying “I shall call you Gabriel”.
Why did I change my name?
Everything in the vision was in black and white except for the pale yellow shirt he was wearing. This was my favorite color throughout my childhood, and still is.
His hair was curly, shoulder length and dark, his profile was that of a very handsome man, with a beard and moustache. There was familiarity in his voice, something I did not forget over the years.
He was nothing like the man I grew up believing was my father. This man gave me comfort and love – I wanted to find him, hear his voice and be held by him.
The most definitive image I had of my father came in a flurry – a black and white photo which popped into my mind with a series of others flashing before and after.
The only one that stuck firmly in my memory, is this one, but it seemed the other images may have been of the same man at different ages. I can’t be sure, the memory of the other photos were not as strong.
It was not until the Fall of 2017 when I saw this same image on the cover of his brothers new book, that I was able to identify the man in my dreams and visions. It was quite a shock, but I never questioned it’s validity, this was the same man, however unbelievable to anyone else.
To me seeing this photo was like “Finding Home”.
What do we base truth on? Our body, our soul knows the truth, we choose whether to believe it, but it is the truth none the less, despite what others believe. The question is do you have the faith and the courage to accept it no matter what the consequences? My courage to believe came from seeing this picture, knowing he was real not a figment of my imagination. But the reality of this discovery also revealed a more difficult truth because of who my father was to the world. Who I am could not be more difficult to accept, if I only had the imagination to make it up.
The shaman also told me I was struggling so much because I felt ashamed I was so unremarkable by comparison – his spirit is and always has been so large, while mine has been mostly invisible. But I was comfortable with that, or thought I was until I spent time in a place where his presence was still so strongly felt. I have found myself wanting to be the person I was born to be, rather than the mouse hiding in the closet deemed to be safer.
Over the years with this one image, the sound of his voice as he named me “Gabriel”, and a series of dreams which described him, I tried to comprehend who this man was.
To have the understanding he was my father without the knowledge of who he was to the world gave me hope he was still alive and that one day we would meet again.
Knowing nothing of the political situation in South America, or anywhere really, I could not have realized how complicated being his daughter would be. My lack of understanding, my ignorance of the events in other parts of the world stood firmly in my way of discovering more about this man during those years.
I simply did not have a place to start.
How do our experiences alter our perceptions of the reality around us?
- how about the view we have of ourselves?
- of those who we are connected with?
We are the sum of our experiences.
Being abused changed my personality, took away my ability to be comfortable in my own skin. Doubt ruled my life, the questions never answered truthfully, therefore taking away my ability to trust. I lived someone else’s truth, until I was old enough to see through the lies. The full extent of the lies told did not become apparent until recently, my sense of belonging non-existent.
I would like to believe my values, morals and my ability to discern the truth remained intact. The problem was I was too afraid to speak my own mind, knowing I faced humiliation. You become smaller because of it. I never understood what it meant to belong….
How do our experiences change our view of ourselves and those around us?
We change and grow as we learn both on our own and from those we encounter through life. If we are never challenged on our beliefs we cannot accept a broader view. If we are continually put down because of how we think, we cannot gain much confidence. If we are not given the freedom to choose, we cannot learn to be independent.
As an abuse victim, I found it safer to live in the constrains of a prison of my own making. As a child I was locked in a room with no furnishings other than a bed, no window and no color. This is what my dreams and visions tell me. Coming out of that room did not increase the size of my space. I learned it was better to keep those walls close to me. Our experiences change everything about how we think and feel.
It can take away our freedom, or give us more than we need. My trip to Ecuador pushed those walls confining me throughout my life down. I stepped out of my cage ready to accept whatever the world was about to show me. And yes this was difficult as the likeliness of humiliation was great and I was as vulnerable as a new born baby. Indeed, it was being this vulnerable and facing such possibilities of utter defeat which allowed me to become stronger, tell my story, be accepted or rejected. This is what the shaman meant, I think. Tell my story, because every time I do, I feel closer to that beautiful man who stayed with me throughout so many years. My face becomes clearer with every telling and I realize I only want to share this immense love I feel from my father, it gives meaning to the pain.
When doubt would creep in, I would find myself face to face with his image: on the bus, on the wall in a bedroom I stayed for the night, painted on the side of a building, in a store window, or driving by me on the side of a taxi. Each time I saw his face I was brought back to a peaceful centre which comes from feeling the truth.
Yes I am happy to be here, but how can I be happy about leaving the place which gave me such freedom? How can I be happy about leaving the first place I felt so deeply the presence of the man I thought was only a dream, so many years ago?
Che Guevara was a man hated as much as he was loved. I met those who had a deep intense love for him and what he stood for. However, I also met those who saw him as a villain, an assassin and could not express deeply enough there hatred of him. Strangely listening to those people gave me calmness as I could feel his love through their hate. One such woman told me I could not be blamed for the sins of my father. It was during her rants I had better understanding of my torture and abuse, this hatred behind what happened to me. In its strange way this gave me understanding it was not my fault, nor was it my fathers. It was fear which caused such actions of hate from the men who took me. This somehow gave me the courage to feel the opposite in return rather than be triggered into the submissive behaviour of my past.
Had it not been for my visions and dreams, I would not have found my way to Ecuador. I would not have had the great pleasure of knowing Susi and her family, Maria and her family, Miguel and his family Fernando and his family and of course Jenny and her family. I would have stayed comfortable in my ignorance.