For the most part, my days are quiet and uneventful. Who I am is not in daily conversation, so when I meet someone who is intentionally told of my heritage, it takes me a bit off guard. This happened yesterday when I met a woman, introduced to me by Maria, her friend. Maria had explained the daughter of Che Guevara was staying here, knowing her friend’s great passion for the man, so she insisted on meeting me. Maria proudly brought her to my door, and we shook hands. But that wasn’t enough for this woman, she had to embrace me. Her excitement was obvious as she talked, her hands very expressive. In these moments it is difficult for me to accept who I am. It is a bit unsettling to be thought of in this way for me, content as I was for spending most of my life in my protected shell. I am not used to people listening to what I have to say, never mind seeing me as this man’s daughter. She told me it was an honour for her to meet me; I could only stand there in silence, as I allowed her words to sink in. I suddenly felt so small under her intense gaze as she said this. For the best part of an hour, she spoke to me in spanish as if I was able to understand everything she was saying. But my understanding was not based on the individual words she was speaking, rather it was the intense emotion behind those words, and her need for me to understand. We hugged each other, I cried, and she did her best not to, but the tears more than once were welling up in her eyes.
She was not comfortable on the keyboard to write what she was saying, so I just absorbed the words, understanding her intention. I did use the translator though to explain certain things. When I begin to explain about my journey in this way, talking about my father, the doubts disappear, I feel the strength of his presence as I speak. It’s not easy to explain this jumble of thoughts, knowing how difficult it would be for anyone to understand a complete life lived while being wrapped inside lie after lie. Where do you start? How do you share only a fraction of what happened and expect to have understanding? There are many moments when I wonder how all this is possible, how can I be the daughter of this man. But when I look at his picture, hear his voice, or begin to talk about him, something happens inside me, something really beautiful. It’s as if I can feel him standing beside me, encouraging me to trust, believe in the purpose of all that happened. I begin to cry as I comprehend the magnitude of his love allowing his spirit to remain with me throughout the years. He continues encouraging me to walk this path, the memory of his life alive in these people also.. Truth really can be stranger than fiction.
Che Guevara is a name associated with greatness here. He is remembered with respect, honour and love. Of course not everyone feels this way, but the overall connection to him is one of deep respect. His death occurred fifty-two years ago, yet his short life was so full of passion for the people of this continent, his determination to free them, can still be felt as you walk this land. There are not many people in our history who stay so close to men’s hearts as the years pass, but here, it is obvious he was one of those special leaders. Many own books about this man’s life, people who can not really afford such luxuries, collect the knowledge of his journey. Back in Canada I know many of us buy books without a thought, and then donate it once we are done reading it. How many in North America have extensive collections in their homes? I know I did, especially for my children. Here, it is difficult to find a bookstore or a library. They exist, but reading and having books is not a priority for most, so again it is a sign of great respect, when people tell me they have his history at home. I understand immediately how important his memory is to them.
July 4, 2019 – I include this personal diary entry to emphasize certain points made in todays blog entry….
I had made a post on the blog this morning and then went for my run. In this post, I had talked about Che and his dedication for the cause in which he fought for. Always when I think of my father, both before I knew who he was and after, I wonder if he would be proud of me. Not having accomplished anything of significance so far in my life, I worry I have not given him much to be proud of. He did so much in his short life by comparison.
As these thoughts went round and round in my mind, I was distracted by the shadow of a large bird flying low, directly overhead. I stopped to take a look, but I really didn’t need to see the bird to know it was Sapphire, my dear companion and protector (the stories about Sapphire can be found in my book “Finding Home”). He flew over, then past me, very low giving me a great view of him. He then circled back and flew towards me once more before leaving, no doubt in my mind his presence was for my benefit. He then circled back, flying into the bushes and trees on the “spirit mountain”. It is rare for me to see him so close here in the valley – normally he stays high in the mountains. Because of the timing, I felt this was a gift, letting me know that I should not doubt either my father’s love or his belief in me. A reminder to trust I am thought of well by him. My experiences over the years have taught me to doubt myself, so it is not easy to change these patterned responses, but if we ignore or deny the spirits when they bring us messages, then they no longer have purpose in coming.
I am my father’s daughter…..
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