José Alberto "Pepe" Mujica Cordano (born 20 May 1935) is an Uruguayan politician. When I met a prominent Uruguayan economist, Gabriel Oddone, in his downtown Montevideo office, he apologized before we took our seats in leather-backed chairs for the furnishings being too nice: that’s Batlle’s influence, the reluctance to show off any possessions that might elevate you above your brethren. José Mujica was a Tupamaro, a member of a … A Tupamaro in charge of the country? If, after casting our ballots, we don’t buy books instead of new cell phones, don’t use less gas, don’t do more to stitch back together the social fabric of our own neighborhoods—if, rather than answer the call, we retreat safely back to our old cynicism—then whose fault is that? Or they have been blurry. He returned to Latin America fired by ideas of liberté, égalité, and fraternité. Before he came to power, Uruguay was cowboy territory, a thinly populated no-man's land between Brazil and Argentina patrolled by pseudo-warlords called caudillos who waged bloody turf battles. ... Everything is business! He rapidly developed a following among poorer workers, and in the mid-’90s entered parliament. Prior to Pepe's rise, Uruguayans' enduring suspicion of the group might have made such an idea unthinkable. I booked two weeks in the country and scheduled more than two dozen interviews. So why are Uruguay's progressives so disappointed? It was exciting and fascinating to me, then, that this man became our president. When Vazquez decided to ban smoking in public buildings—“something that was really important for him as an oncologist,” Rabuffetti, the journalist, said—he didn’t involve Congress at first. In 2013, José Mujica is the president of Uruguay. People hunger for radically different, plain-speaking, human leaders, leaders who can speak directly to the sources of their existential anguish and fear of an uncertain future. In the late '50s, as Mujica was finding his direction, Batlle's socialist paradise was beginning to fracture. A riot of blinking “sale” lights and pumping music, the complex has six banks lining the entryway like sirens, beckoning shoppers to sign up for lines of credit. More than a century ago, Uruguay was ruled by another president determined to change the country’s course. It goes against everything Mujica talks about, but he has been powerless to do anything about it. Uruguay is a place of strange contrasts. New Audi dealerships are popping up, and mechanics crash online courses to bone up on the expensive imports. When he came back to Uruguay in 2011 after a tour in Rio de Janeiro, he was startled to see his own society hurtling in the same direction, even as Mujica delivered his anti-materialist sermons. “Of course he understands us better,” Almirón said, blinking perplexedly, as if my question itself—whether Mujica had been good for the poor—was not even worth asking. “Sometimes we confuse the two.”. She seemed a bit sheepish admitting it: It was unquantifiable. He donates 90 percent of his income as president to charities working on housing for the poor and lives on a small farm … The relatively rich and the relatively poor live side-by-side, and the signifiers indicating which are which are often blurry. It's a pattern: We keep creating saviors whom we expect to single- handedly restore lost values. A former Tupamaros freedom fighter in the 60s and the 70s, he was detained, like a hostage by the dictatorship between 1973 and 1985. It wasn't just that Mujica had not managed to curb Uruguay's accelerating consumerism. He took this sense of toughness with him when he joined an armed revolutionary group. Yet our response is to want more out of them, not less. Progressives, in particular, long for leaders actually living their values. The suspicion is that they are buttering us up only to eat us later. He managed these successes thanks to a political persona as authoritarian and charmless as Mujica's was gaily anarchic and alluring. The man was old and rumpled, no tie over his blue-and-white striped shirt. But José Batlle y Ordóñez—popularly known as Batlle, pronounced "BAH-zhay"—fared better. It's in the mind. We place our faith in them—fall in love with them—for what they say and the incorporeal impact they have on our national consciousness. "It is a civilization against simplicity, against sobriety, against all natural cycles, and against the most important things: Adventure. Crumbling houses gave way to cinder-block shacks with black garbage bags for curtains. More than 400 professors weighed in on the plan, but union opposition squashed it, too. When he was elected president in 1903, Uruguay still had an underdeveloped central state. “We are poor people,” Almirón told me with a note of defiance, “but we are people at the end of the day.”, One of the weightiest responsibilities a president holds is the ability to characterize, by speech and example, his society and the meaning of the lives that are in his charge. His lack of experience was exactly his appeal—as it was for Obama and de Blasio, as it is for Elizabeth Warren. "Even the times he is in silence, some profound expressions cross his face," Garcé remembered. “It is a civilization against simplicity, against sobriety, against all natural cycles, and against the most important things: Adventure. Seven years after Batlle passed away in 1929, Pepe—Mujica’s lifelong nickname—was born to a poor second-generation family descended from Basque and Ligurian immigrants. He does not have much, since, he declares, he does not need much. But if his attire didn't make it clear that his allegiances lay elsewhere, what he was about to say would. Within a few years, Batlle had built perhaps the most perfectly rendered socialist society the world has ever seen. Tupamaro antics could be comic—the group once spray painted “everybody dances or nobody dances” on a nightclub wall. One in every 500 Uruguayans spent extended time in prison, and one in every 50 endured police interrogation, often accompanied by torture. Mujica (left) leaves prison in 1985. José Alberto "Pepe" Mujica was born 20 May 1935 in Montevideo Uruguay. Uruguay's former President Jose Mujica Tuesday resigned from the Senate and announced his retirement from political activity. Calls a Necktie a "Useless Rag" For all the white-collar workers out there who loathe ties, Mujica … One morning over coffee, I spoke to a former Mujica staffer named Conrado Ramos. Love for all men turned out to make for an ineffectual management style. Or they have been blurry. "Sometimes we confuse the two." Family. Over the phone, Naím and I spoke about a recent trip I took to Israel, where I'd been struck by how much conservatives' complaints about Benjamin Netanyahu—that he'd been unable to turn his country from a polity riven by fissures and self doubt into a united community confident of its moral purpose—echoed the Uruguayan progressives' language critiquing Mujica. They called themselves the Tupamaros, after a Peruvian indigenous rebel named Tupac Amaru II. Ultimately, Mujica did establish a single new technical college. He tried to pass a new tax on the big landowners to help the poor, but failed to ensure that the legislation would be constitutional. Mujica pledged to fix that. But that was part of the problem: Mujica's pan-enthusiasm placed everything, and consequently nothing, at the top of his agenda. But they are not entirely satisfied. It’s a pattern: We keep creating saviors whom we expect to single- handedly restore lost values. Two people who've worked with Vazquez used the same word when I asked them about him: "Asshole." That’s why footage of Elizabeth Warren talking smack to Tim Geithner, or Pope Francis carrying his own luggage, is shared so wildly, and why American liberals are wary of Hillary as she leaves the high-priced lecture circuit and prepares for a possible second presidential run. The man was old and rumpled, no tie over his blue-and-white striped shirt. The Uruguayans I spoke to admired Vazquez’s efficacy—hence the second term they just extended him. A billboard exhorting you not to be caught without Ray Ban sunglasses welcomes you to Punta del Este, a resort town teeming with condo developments boasting on-site spas. The amazing story of world's poorest President, José Mujica. Just what’s necessary. A similar lack of political will and strategic savvy doomed another educational reform effort to give more autonomy to the principals of troubled schools to design their own curricula. “Because everything we draw from society comes out of the well of education.”, He never got very far past the writing. From the start he eschewed the normal rites of power. His knuckles blanched around the car’s steering wheel. "I could not believe how materialist your country is," he told me with an apologetic smile. More than 400 professors weighed in on the plan, but union opposition squashed it, too. It was the barrio I drove around in with Rabuffetti, and this time, I didn't just pass through. The guerrillas came first. Uruguay's public school system has also been effective: The country's literacy rates far outpaced Argentina's and Brazil's throughout the twentieth century. His eyes squinted; his hair looked like it was slicked back with kitchen grease. Both bills had been in the works for years, they claimed; he had simply let them happen. Historically, Uruguay has had the lowest inequality and the most cohesive society in Latin America. The current President of Uruguay, José Mujica, is known as a champion of the poor and sets an example for citizens of Uruguay by living modestly. "If he had taken the opportunity to consult more specialists in law, he wouldn't have failed," said Garcé, the political scientist. The 85-year-old leader of the Broad Front (BF) revealed that he took such decision because he has a chronic immune disease. Public education has powerful symbolic value in the country. His eyes squinted; his hair looked like it was slicked back with kitchen grease. More than a century ago, Uruguay was ruled by another president determined to change the country's course. The 45-minute cri de coeur that he delivered before the General Assembly had the astonishing quality of seeming so word-for-word true yet simultaneously so unsayable—so against the ordinary logic and boring jargon of contemporary speeches about world problems—that it was as if somebody had taken a knife and slashed through the flimsy set-painting that serves as the backdrop to our politics, revealing the real, crumbling world behind it. The guerrillas came first. The Tupamaros' reputation among the Uruguayan populace was similarly split. Much as American character is still subconsciously shaped by Abraham Lincoln, who imprinted on our national psyche the notion that sacrifice leads inevitably to glory, so is Uruguayan character shaped by Batlle. Several years ago, Rabuffetti did a stint working for Agence France-Presse in Washington. It was exciting and fascinating to me, then, that this man became our president. But then, not only do we judge their performance on entirely different metrics, we also stop listening to them. And with his tenure ending in March­—Uruguay prohibits consecutive presidential terms, and a successor is set to take over—he also presents an ideal test case for how such leadership bears out in practice. On YouTube, the U.N. speech raced past a million views. Eagerly, she showed me paintings she'd done on the shack's walls—stylized fairy images reminiscent of Tinkerbell—and the new wardrobe and table in her bedroom. But if his attire didn’t make it clear that his allegiances lay elsewhere, what he was about to say would. The goal was to humiliate the government by disrupting Uruguayan life. The man was old and rumpled, no tie over his blue-and-white striped shirt. Instead, I followed a gravel path off the main road as it turned to dirt, then mud. He was 74 years old when Uruguayans elected him their commander-in-chief in 2009. They drafted a proposal, only to withdraw it after encountering pushback from the teachers' union. As he continued, his high voice rose to a keen. Eduardo Galeano, the world- famous writer, loves the shabby-chic Café Brasilero on Montevideo’s Ituzaingó Street. In Uruguay, Mujica's personal austerity made him an object of fascination. Some anarcho-syndicalists working in a butchery near Mujica's house were so bold that they held up their employer's delivery trucks, seized the meat, and distributed it to the poor. Eve Fairbanks is writing a book on South Africa. He taxed big landowners to boost worker’s pensions and championed unions. "We promise a life of consuming and squandering. But, she explained, “Mujica thinks every kid has the right to privacy with his own fantasies.” She had started saving for those beds. I’d met Almirón’s 14-year-old son at a struggling public school I’d visited a few days earlier. For post-dictatorship Uruguay, his language was healing, a triumphant return to the country’s traditional values of humility and shared responsibility. When some butchers began selling more affordable asado, people lovingly nicknamed it the “asado del Pepe.” A 2007 poll showed that he’d become far and away the country’s most-liked government official, and he decided to run for president. In his 2013 book The End of Power, the writer Moisés Naím catalogues the ways leaders of institutions—whether political, commercial, or cultural—have become increasingly circumscribed in the transformations they can effect. José “Pepe” Mujica is stepping down after five years as perhaps the world's most humble presidents. He made health care a universal right and university education free; the country's literacy rate soared to 95 percent. Little Pepe had to go to work in a bakery and sell flowers to support the family. During their twelve-year imprisonment, the Tupamaros’ leaders, a group called The Nine, worried that the experience was leaving Mujica permanently damaged. He'd asked her a question that had stuck with her ever since, affecting how she thought of herself and her five boys and girls: "Does every child of yours have a mattress of his own?"
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