Latin America Diaries

by Ernesto Che Guevara

  (This writing isn’t really my own scattered thoughts but because four Cubans are arguing right next to me.)

  Next time, when things are a bit quieter, I’ll send you any news I have…

  A hug for everyone.

  April 1954

  Vieja,

  As you can see I didn’t go to El Petén. The son of a bitch who was supposed to give me a contract made me wait for a month, only to tell me it wasn’t on. […]

  I’d already given him a list of medicines, instruments and everything else, and had studied up hard on the region’s most common tropical diseases. Of course, the knowledge will serve me well anyway, and more so now that I have an opportunity to work in a banana-growing region for the [United] Fruit Company.

  What I don’t want to miss is a visit to the ruins of El Petén. There’s a city, Tikal, there, which is a wonder, and another, Piedras Negras, much less important, where Mayan art nevertheless reached extraordinary heights. The museum here has a lintel, which, although completely broken, is a true work of art by anyone’s standard.

  My old Peruvian friends lacked this tropical sensibility, and weren’t able to create such high-quality work, apart from the fact that they didn’t have the limestone from around here that is so easy to sculpt. […]

  I am increasingly happy to have left. My medical knowledge is not expanding, and at the same time I’m absorbing another kind of knowledge that engages me much more. […]

  Yes, I want to visit those places, but don’t know when or how. To discuss plans in my situation would be to hurry a dream. Anyway, if, but only if, I get the fruit company job, I think I’ll try and settle my debts here, and the ones I left there, to buy myself the camera, visit El Petén, and take myself north in Olympian style, that is, to Mexico […].

  I’m happy you have such a high opinion of me. In any case, it is very unlikely that archaeology would be the exclusive concern of my mature years. It seems somewhat paradoxical to me that I should make my life’s “guiding star” the study of what is irremediably dead. I am certain of two things: first is that if I get to my truly creative phase at about 35 years, my exclusive, or at least main, concern will be nuclear physics, or genetics, or some other field that brings together the most interesting aspects of knowledge, and second is that the Americas will be the theater of my adventures in a way that is much more significant than I would have believed. I really think I have come to understand her and I feel Latin American in a way that is different from the way I feel about any other place on earth. Naturally, I will travel in the rest of the world. […]

  There’s little to say my about daily life that would interest you. In the mornings I go to the health department and work in the laboratory for a few hours; in the afternoons I visit libraries or museums to study a bit about the place; in the evenings I read medicine or whatever else, write letters and do domestic chores. I drink mate if we have it, and engage in endless discussions with the compañera Hilda Gadea, an aprista63 whom I try to persuade gently to leave that shit party. She has a heart of platinum, at least. She helps me in every aspect of my daily life (beginning with the boarding house).[…]

  Days pass—eventful and uneventful. I have the firm promise of a job as assistant to a medical worker. I returned my dollar. I visited Obdulio Barthe again, the Paraguayan who told me off for my behavior and confessed he thought I might be an agent for the Argentine embassy. I also discovered that his suspicion, or something along those lines, is widely held, except for the Honduran leader Ventura Ramos, who doesn’t believe it. As the fight with Sra. de Holst continues, I sneak in once a day and sleep in Ñico (the Cuban’s) room, who pisses himself laughing all day but never does anything. Ñico leaves on Monday, so I’ll shift rooms to share with a Guatemalan friend called Coca. A Cuban (who sings tangos) sleeps in Ñico’s room and has invited me to head south on foot as far as Venezuela. If it wasn’t for the job they’ve promised me, I’d go. They’ve said they’ll give me residency, and Zachrison has now become head of immigration. […]

  Once again the days pass uneventfully. I am at the boarding house, sharing with the Cuban songbird, now that Ñico has gone to Mexico. I go day after day looking for this job, but nothing, and now they’ve told me to leave it for a week, and I’m not really sure what to do. I don’t know whether the compañeros are still set on my not getting something or not. Little news arrives from Buenos Aires. Helenita is leaving for an unknown destination and I’ve stopped looking, but she will take me to her aunt’s house, who will give me lunch. She’s going to call the minister. I’ve got a good old attack of asthma, brought on by what I’ve been eating these last days. I hope I’ll recover with a strict, three-day diet.

  May 10, 1954

  Vieja,

  […] My future appears brighter, and my permission for residence is advancing, although with all the typical red tape common in these places, so within a month I’ll be able to go to a movie without sponging off some kind pal.

  I have promised myself something I think I’ve already told the old man, and I’ve also given him a vague idea of my plans. I have decided to leave these lodgings on the 15th and head off into the open air with a sleeping bag I inherited from a compatriot who was passing through here. That way, I can get to all the places I want, except Petén, where you can’t go because it’s the rainy season, and I’ll be able to climb a volcano or two. For some time now, I’ve been wanting to take a look at Mother Earth’s tonsils (what a nice turn of phrase). This is the land of volcanoes to satisfy everyone’s taste—those I like are the simple ones, not very high and not very active. I could get very rich here in Guatemala, but only if I put myself through the abject business of ratifying my degree, setting up a clinic and treating allergies (the place is full of fellow snufflers).

  Doing this would be the most horrible betrayal of the two me’s that do battle inside me—the social reformer and the traveler […].

  Warm and damp hugs because it’s been raining here all day (and while the mate lasts, it’s very romantic). […]

  Recent events belong to history: a feature, I think, appearing in my notes for the first time.

  A few days ago, some planes from Honduras crossed the border with Guatemala and flew over the city in broad daylight, shooting at both people and military targets. I joined the public health brigades to work in the medical corps and also the youth brigades that patrol the streets at night. The course of events was as follows: After these planes flew over, troops under the command of Colonel Castillo Armas, a Guatemalan émigré in Honduras, crossed the border and advanced on the town of Chiquimula. The Guatemalan government, although it had already protested to Honduras, let them enter without putting up any resistance and presented the case before the United Nations.

  Colombia and Brazil, docile instruments of the Yankees, drew up a plan to hand the matter over to the OAS but this was rejected by the Soviet Union, which favored a cease-fire agreement. The invaders failed in their attempt to get the masses to rise up with the weapons they had dropped from planes, but they did capture the town of Bananera and cut off the Puerto Barrios railway line.

  The goal of the mercenaries was clear: to take Puerto Barrios and then ship in various arms and more mercenary troops. This became clear when the schooner Siesta de Trujillo was captured as it tried to unload arms in that port. The final attack failed but in the hinterland areas the assailants committed extremely barbarous acts, murdering members of SETUFCO (the union of the United Fruit Company workers and employees) in the cemetery, where hand grenades were thrown at their chests.

  The invaders believed they only had to say the word and the people would rise up as one to follow them, and that’s why they parachute-dropped weapons, but the people immediately rallied to defend Árbenz. Although the invading troops were blocked and defeated on all fronts until they were pushed back beyond Chiquimula near the Honduran border, the pirate airplanes kept attacking the battlefronts and towns, always coming from bases in Honduras and Nicaragua. Chiquimula
was heavily bombed and bombs also fell on Guatemala City, injuring several people and killing a three-year-old little girl.

  My own life unfolded as follows: First I reported to the youth brigades of the Alliance where we stayed for several days until the minister of public health64 sent me to the Maestro Health Center where I am billeted. I volunteered for the front but they wouldn’t even look at me.

  June 20, 1954

  Dear vieja,

  This letter will reach you a little after your birthday, which might pass a little uneasily on my account. Let me say there’s nothing to fear at the moment, but the same cannot be said of the future, although personally I have the feeling that I’m inviolable (inviolable is not the word, perhaps my subconscious is playing a bad joke on me).

  To paint a picture of the situation: For the first time, five or six days ago, a pirate aircraft from Honduras flew over Guatemala, but did nothing. The next day and on successive days they bombed several Guatemalan military installations, and two days ago a plane machine-gunned the lower neighborhoods of the city, killing a two- year-old child. The incident has served to unite all Guatemalans behind their government, and others who, like myself, have been drawn to the country.

  Simultaneously, mercenary troops led by an ex-army colonel (dismissed from the army some time ago for treason) left Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, crossed the border, and have now penetrated quite deeply into Guatemalan territory. The government, proceeding with great caution to ensure that the United States cannot declare Guatemala the aggressor, has limited itself to protesting to Tegucigalpa and sending a full report of events to the UN Security Council, allowing the attacking forces to advance far enough that there would be no so-called border incidents. Colonel Árbenz certainly has guts; he’s prepared to die at his post if necessary. His latest speech only reaffirmed this fact, which everyone already knew, bringing a measure of calm. The danger does not come from the number of troops that have entered the country so far, as this is minimal, or from the planes that have done no more than bomb civilian homes and machine-gun people; the danger lies in how the gringos (in this case, the Yankees) manipulate their stooges at the United Nations, since even the vaguest of declarations would greatly benefit the attackers.

  The Yankees have finally dropped the good-guy mask Roosevelt had adopted, and now commit atrocities everywhere. If things reach the extreme where it’s necessary to fight the planes and modern troops sent by the [United] Fruit Company or the United States, then a fight it will be. The people’s spirits are very high, and the shameful attacks, along with the lies in the international press, have united even those who are indifferent to the government. There is a real climate of struggle. I have been assigned to the emergency medical services and have also joined the youth brigades to receive military instruction for whatever comes next. I don’t think the tide will reach us, although we’ll see what happens after the Security Council meets, which I think is tomorrow. At any rate, by the time this letter reaches you, you’ll know what to expect in this regard.

  For the rest, there’s nothing much new. As the Argentine embassy is currently not functioning, I’ve received no fresh news since a letter from Beatriz and another of yours last week.

  I’m told that at any minute I’ll get the job at the health department, but the offices have been so busy with the commotion that it seems a little imprudent to hassle them about my little job when they’re busy with much more important things.

  Well, vieja, I hope you had the happiest birthday possible after this troubled year. I’ll send news as soon as I can.

  Chau

  Today, Saturday, June 26, the minister came by when I had gone to see Hilda; she gave me hell because I wanted to ask him to send me to the front […].

  All of Guatemala’s admirers have taken a terrible, cold shower. On the night of Sunday, June 28, without prior notice President Árbenz declared his resignation. He publicly accused the fruit company and the United States of being directly behind the bombing and strafing of the civilian population.

  An English merchant ship was bombed and sunk in the port of San José, and the bombing continues. Árbenz announced his decision to hand over command to Colonel Carlos Enrique Díaz, explaining that he is motivated by a desire to save the October revolution and to block the United States from marching into this land as masters.

  Colonel Díaz said nothing in his speech. The PDR and PRG65 both expressed their agreement, calling on their members to cooperate with the new government. The other two parties, the PRN and PGT,66 said nothing. I fell asleep feeling frustrated about what has come to pass. I had spoken to the Ministry of Public Health and again asked to be sent to the front. Now I don’t know what to do. We’ll see what today brings.

  Two days full of political developments, although they have not involved me much personally. The events: Árbenz stepped down under pressure from a US military mission threatening massive bombing attacks, and a declaration of war from Honduras and Nicaragua, which would have led to the United States becoming involved. Árbenz probably could not have foreseen what would come next. The first day, colonels Sánchez and Elfego Monsón, avowedly anticommunist, pledged their support for Díaz and their first decree was to outlaw the PGT. The persecution began immediately and the embassies filled with asylum seekers; but the worst came early the next day when Díaz and Sánchez stepped aside, leaving Monsón at the head of the government with the two lieutenant-colonels as his subordinates. Word on the street is that they totally capitulated to Castillo Armas, and martial law was declared as a measure against anyone who might be found bearing any weapons of a prohibited caliber. My personal situation is more or less that I’ll be expelled from the little hospital where I am now, probably tomorrow, because I have been renamed “Chebol”67 and the repression is coming.

  Ventura and Amador are seeking asylum, H. stays in his house, Hilda has changed her address, Núñez is at home. The top people in the Guatemalan party are seeking asylum. Word is that Castillo will enter the city tomorrow; I received a beautiful letter that I’ll keep safe for my grandchildren.

  Several days have passed now without that earlier feverish rhythm. Castillo Armas’s victory was total.68 The junta is made up of Elfego Monzón as president, with Castillo Armas, Cruz, Dubois, and Colonel Mendoza. Within a fortnight they will hold an election within the junta to see who comes out on top—Castillo Armas, of course. There’s neither a congress nor a constitution. They shot the judge from Salamá, Rómulo Reyes Flores, after he killed a guard who was trying to trick him.69 Poor Edelberto Torres is behind bars, accused of being a communist; who knows what the poor old man’s fate will be.

  Today, July 3, the “liberator” Castillo Armas entered the city to thunderous applause. I am living in the house of two Salvadoran women who are seeking asylum—one in Chile, the other in Brazil—with a little old woman who is always telling stories about her husband’s misdeeds and other interesting matters. The hospital sent me packing and now I’m installed here…

  July 4, 1954

  Vieja,

  Things have happened as in a beautiful dream from which you don’t want to wake. Reality is knocking on many doors and the gunfire rewarding the most fervent devotees of the old regime is beginning to be heard. Treason continues to be the birthright of the army, and once again we have proof of the aphorism that the liquidation of the army is a fundamental principle of democracy (if that aphorism doesn’t exist, nevertheless I believe it) […].

  The cold, hard truth is that Árbenz did not know how to rise to the occasion.

  This is how it all happened: After the attacks from Honduras began, without a declaration of war or anything, in fact all the while protesting against alleged border violations, planes began to bomb the city. We were completely defenseless, without planes, anti- aircraft guns, or shelters. There were some deaths, not many. But panic took hold, especially among the “brave and loyal army” of Guatemala. A US military mission met the president and threatened a bombi
ng campaign that would reduce Guatemala to ruins, and then there was declaration of war from Nicaragua and Honduras, which the United States would have to join under the terms of its mutual- aid pacts. The military stood up and gave Árbenz an ultimatum.

  Árbenz did not consider the fact that the city was full of reactionaries, and that the homes being destroyed would belong to them rather than the people, who have nothing and who were defending the government. He did not consider that an armed people is invincible, despite the recent examples of Korea and Indochina. He could have armed the people but he chose not to, and this is the result.

  I already had my little job but lost it immediately, so I’m now back to where I started, although without debts, having canceled them for reasons of force majeure. I live comfortably thanks to a good friend who is returning some favors, and I don’t want for anything. I know nothing about my future, except that it’s likely I’ll go to Mexico. I’m somewhat ashamed to say that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed these recent days. That magical sensation of invulnerability I mentioned in another letter really got me going when I saw people running like crazy as the planes appeared or, at night, when blackouts meant the city was lit up with gunfire. By the way, the light bombers are impressive. I watched one heading for a target relatively close to me. It grew larger by the second as little tongues of fire flicked intermittently from its wings, and the noise of shrapnel exploding and its light machine guns firing was so loud. For a moment it was suspended in the air, horizontal, before diving sharply and quickly—you felt the impact of its bombs against the earth. Now all this is over, and you only hear the rockets of the reactionaries who have emerged like ants from under the ground to celebrate victory and hunt down communists to lynch, as they call anyone from the previous government. The embassies are full to the brim, and ours along with Mexico’s is the worst. You could make a sport of all of this, but it’s obvious now that the few fat cats can be easily conned.