Ernesto Che Guevara - latynoski mit Wybawiciela

dokończenie recenzji:

The statements and manifestos that Havel has signed have been published in Le
Monde in Paris, and in Letras Libres magazine in Mexico, but have remained
practically invisible in the United States. The days when American
intellectuals rallied in any significant way to the cause of liberal dissidents
in other countries, the days when Havel's statements were regarded by Americans
as important calls for intellectual responsibility—those days appear to be over.

I wonder if people who stand up to cheer a hagiography of Che Guevara, as the
Sundance audience did, will ever give a damn about the oppressed people of Cuba—
will ever lift a finger on behalf of the Cuban liberals and dissidents. It's
easy in the world of film to make a movie about Che, but who among that
cheering audience is going to make a movie about Raúl Rivero?

As a protest against the ovation at Sundance, I would like to append one of
Rivero's poems to my comment here. The police confiscated Rivero's books and
papers at the time of his arrest, but the poet's wife, Blanca Reyes, was able
to rescue the manuscript of a poem describing an earlier police raid on his
home. Letras Libres published the poem in Mexico. I hope that Rivero will
forgive me for my translation. I like this poem because it shows that the
modern, Almodóvar-like qualities of impudence, wit, irreverence, irony,
playfulness, and freedom, so badly missing from Salles' pious work of cinematic
genuflection, are fully alive in Latin America, and can be found right now in a
Cuban prison.

Search Order
by Raúl Rivero

What are these gentlemen looking for
in my house?

What is this officer doing
reading the sheet of paper
on which I've written
the words "ambition," "lightness," and "brittle"?

What hint of conspiracy
speaks to him from the photo without a dedication
of my father in a guayabera (black tie)
in the fields of the National Capitol?

How does he interpret my certificates of divorce?

Where will his techniques of harassment lead him
when he reads the ten-line poems
and discovers the war wounds
of my great-grandfather?

Eight policemen
are examining the texts and drawings of my daughters,
and are infiltrating themselves into my emotional networks
and want to know where little Andrea sleeps
and what does her asthma have to do
with my carpets.

They want the code of a message from Zucu
in the upper part
of a cryptic text (here a light triumphal smile
of the comrade):
"Castles with music box. I won't let the boy
hang out with the boogeyman. Jennie."

A specialist in aporia came,
a literary critic with the rank of interim corporal
who examined at the point of a gun
the hills of poetry books.

Eight policemen
in my house
with a search order,
a clean operation,
a full victory
for the vanguard of the proletariat
who confiscated my Consul typewriter,
one hundred forty-two blank pages
and a sad and personal heap of papers
—the most perishable of the perishable
from this summer.