On a visit to Cuba last month, I stayed in an apartment complex the floor above Camilo Guevara, Ernesto “Che” Guevara’s eldest son, and his children. Now that’s a tough number — being the son of a legend for whom a single name suffices, an icon who is more ubiquitous now than he was at the time of his death in 1967. Camilo maintains, however, that distinctive revolutionary rectitude, working as a humble civil servant with no privileges of any kind.I looked out over the old harbour of Havana, where Alberto Korda took his famed portrait of Che, currently the subject of an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. It was taken on 4 March 1960 at a funeral service and not published until seven years later, after Guevara’s death. I mulled over how, since that time, the photograph — like the posters and murals derived from it — has become associated with every site of struggle from Soweto to the Seattle protests against the World Trade Organisation.That image continues to be one of the most iconic in contemporary culture, with reproductions available in the most surprising places. Korda (real name Alberto Diaz Guttierez) was a fashion photographer when first assigned to the Cuban paper Revolucion — and some argue that history has transformed Che’s revolutionary image into just another fashion accessory. It is tempting for those of us on the left to feel uncomfortable with his popular appeal; rather like music fans who, when their favourite underground band hits the big time, moan that they’ve “gone commercial” and sagely tell new enthusiasts that the latest gigs aren’t a patch on “the night they played the Crooked Billet in Scunthorpe”.I don’t see it that way. If only 10 per cent of the people who wear the image of this incredibly handsome figure know what he stood for, that is still many millions.Excerpted from an article by George Galloway in the June 12 issue of ‘New Statesman’
