Che, speaking at the UN, December 11, 1964
The December cold in Manhattan has a special way of getting into your bones. On December 11, 1964, at 1:47 p.m., the sky was gray and low, as if it, too, were heavy with tension. Outside, the United Nations building stood like a spear of glass and steel against the river: a modern monument to the hope for peace. But inside, in the great hall of the General Assembly, there was no sense of hope. There was a sense of the Cold War.
It was one of those afternoons when the world seemed like a giant chessboard, and every word could become an irreversible move. Two years earlier, the Cuban Missile Crisis had left the planet on the brink of a nuclear abyss. The wounds were still raw. Mistrust was total. And there they were, seated face to face, 193 national delegations gauging silences, weighing glances, listening not only to what was said but to what was implied between the lines.
In the audience, journalists from every continent had their cameras at the ready. They weren’t there to cover a routine diplomatic speech; they were there to witness a clash. They knew it. When a man like Ernesto “Che” Guevara spoke, words ceased to be words and became deeds.
Che stepped up to the central podium with a calm that wasn’t calm—it was control. He was 36 years old, but his presence filled the hall as if he were a hundred. He wore his olive-green uniform, impeccably pressed for the occasion. His beard was precisely trimmed. The beret with the star sat perfectly on his head. And what was truly striking was not the military aesthetic: it was his gaze—intense, defiant, charged with a conviction that seemed capable of moving mountains.
He walked toward the microphone with the confidence of someone who had heard gunfire very close by, who had seen men fall, who had experienced both victory and persecution. Each step echoed in the silence of the hall as if marking the rhythm of a story that was still being written.
From the delegation of the socialist bloc—the Soviet Union, China, Czechoslovakia, Poland—they looked at him with anticipation, as if observing a living symbol. The newly decolonized countries of Africa and Asia—Algeria, Ghana, Egypt, Indonesia—saw in him a possibility: the idea that a small nation could stand up to a giant power and survive. But in the U.S. delegation, the hostility was almost palpable: tense faces, intelligence reports clenched in hands, a restrained demeanor that seemed to say, “This man shouldn’t be here.”
Because Che was not just a Cuban minister. He was the face of a revolution that had defied the world’s most powerful empire—and had not only resisted but changed the script. And that, on the stage of the Cold War, was a constant provocation.
He paused in front of the microphone, slowly looked around the room, and began.
His voice, amplified by the sound system, reached every corner clearly and powerfully. It had the unmistakable accent of Argentina, but also the cadence of someone who had learned to turn every sentence into a tool.
“Mr. President, distinguished delegates from the nations of the world… I come here on behalf of the people of Cuba, a small nation that has had the courage to defend its right to independence and sovereignty against the most powerful empire in the history of humanity.”
The simultaneous interpreters worked feverishly to translate his Spanish into English, French, Russian, Arabic, and Chinese. But even those who didn’t understand a single word could feel the tension and passion. There was something in that tone—restrained pride, precise indignation—that cut through any language.
Che went straight to the heart of the matter: he recalled that just a few years earlier, Cuba had been a semi-colony; that sugar, land, and industries were in the hands of foreign corporations; that the people lived in misery while others grew rich off their resources. In the U.S. delegation, some faces hardened. Every sentence was an accusation by name.
“The Cuban people said, ‘Enough.’ They rose up and reclaimed their dignity. We expelled the exploiters. We redistributed the land among those who worked it. We nationalized industries that for decades had bled our economy dry.”
He paused briefly, as if he were placing one stone upon another, patiently building a wall.
“And when we dared to act as a sovereign nation, the U.S. government unleashed against us a campaign of aggression unprecedented in the modern history of the hemisphere.”
He listed them methodically, as if reading a list of wounds: the economic embargo, the Bay of Pigs, the assassination attempts, sabotage, and diplomatic pressure to isolate Cuba. Each word fell into the room like a piece on a chessboard, reminding the world that violence does not always wear a uniform; sometimes it takes the form of sanctions, blockades, and covert operations.
The delegates from Africa and Asia nodded with an understanding that needed no explanation. They, too, knew that history: changing flags does not mean changing masters. And Che knew it. That is why, when he said that Cuba did not invade distant countries or maintain military bases in foreign territories, he did not say it as a defense—he said it as a mirror.
It was then that the unthinkable happened.
From the U.S. delegation, a voice rose above the diplomatic murmur. Thomas Mann, Assistant Secretary of State for Latin American Affairs, stood up, his face red with indignation, and shouted:
“You are a communist terrorist!”
The insult struck like a bolt of lightning against the sacred protocol of the UN. An instant, deafening silence fell. 193 delegations turned their heads at the same time. Journalists sat up. Cameras swiveled. Even the interpreters hesitated for a second, as if the air had grown too heavy to translate such unprecedented disrespect.
The entire world—connected by radio and television—held its breath, waiting for Che’s reaction.
And there came the first surprise: he didn’t lose his composure. He didn’t shout. He didn’t storm off the podium in outrage. He didn’t strike back with another blow.
He smiled.
A serene, almost paternal smile, like that of a teacher who has just heard a naive question from an impatient student. That gesture, so simple, defused the situation. Because it’s one thing to fight against a furious man, and quite another to be exposed in front of a man who doesn’t lose his composure.
Che waited a moment. And when he spoke, he did so with a calm more powerful than any shout.
“Thank you, Mr. Representative of the United States government, for that most illuminating statement.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Some delegates let out a soft laugh, surprised by the elegance of the sarcasm. Che let the silence work for him, like a musician who knows that the pause is also part of the melody.
“You have just demonstrated, better than I could have done, what the fundamental problem is in relations between the United States and Latin America: you cannot conceive of a Latin American having the right to speak as an equal in this forum.” You cannot tolerate a small country criticizing the policies of your great nation. You cannot accept that someone who does not submit to Washington’s dictates has a voice in world affairs.
And then, without losing his composure, he shifted the focus from the insult to a pointed question.
“You say I am a terrorist. Let me ask you: Who has dropped more bombs in history? Who maintains the most military bases on foreign soil? Who has overthrown the most democratic governments? Who has killed the most innocent civilians in the name of freedom?
The first applause came timidly from the Algerian delegation. Then Ghana joined in. Then Indonesia. Egypt. And like a fire that spreads when it finds oxygen, the applause began to grow.
But Che didn’t stop. He wasn’t just throwing a tantrum on the spot. He was crafting a response that seemed to have been brewing inside him for years.
“You call me a terrorist because I defended the sovereignty of my adopted country with arms. Because we fought against a military dictatorship that tortured and murdered. Because we refused to be an economic colony.”
And then he delivered the most clever blow, the one that changed the mood in the room:
“Let me remind you of some history. What would George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin be called today if they had lost their War of Independence against the British Empire? They would be called terrorists. Insurgents. Traitors to the established order.”
The impact was immediate. It wasn’t just a comparison—it was a perfect mirror image. Che had just taken the founding myth of the United States and used it as a moral weapon. Several delegates stood up to applaud. Because in that sentence lay an uncomfortable truth that diplomacy rarely dares to voice aloud: the victor is called a “liberator,” the vanquished a “terrorist.”
“The difference, Mr. Mann,” he continued, “is that we won our revolution. And you cannot forgive us for having proven that the giant can be defeated.”
The applause swelled like a wave. Some delegates were already on their feet. The room was buzzing.
Che took a breath, and now spoke without apologizing for who he was.
“You say ‘communist’ as if it were an accusation.” Yes, I am a communist. I believe that a nation’s resources should benefit the people of that nation, not foreign corporations. I believe that education and healthcare are human rights, not privileges. I believe that every human being deserves to live with dignity, regardless of the color of their skin or the size of their bank account. If that is what it means to be a communist, then I am proud to be one.
There was a brief, tense silence, as if everyone understood they were witnessing a moment that would be recounted in history books.
And then Che pointed with words, not with a finger.
“Because there are victories that are won not by force, but by dignity.”
Source: Revolucion