José ‘Pepe’ Mujica: ‘I dedicated myself to changing the world and I didn’t change a damn thing’

One afternoon, in 1970, José “Pepe” Mujica was talking with other men at a table in La Vía bar, in Montevideo, Uruguay. A regular recognized them as Tupamaro guerrillas and reported them. The police surrounded the place: Mujica was shot six times.

At the Military Hospital, he was treated by a surgeon who “was a comrade, a Tupa at heart. He gave me a bucket of blood and saved me. It makes you believe in God,” Mujica recalls.

Fifty-four years later, he’s sitting in the small living room of his rural house in Rincón del Cerro, nine miles from the capital. He’s surrounded by books, small sculptures, paintings and photographs. There’s a wood-burning stove, a small television and a couple of mismatched chairs. A white light hangs from the ceiling. On a small table, there’s a glass of water and a box of tissues. Mujica lifts his light blue shirt and shows EL PAÍS the gauze covering the hole in his body. That’s how he receives food.

“He’s so strange… he was shot nine times in his life. When they put the tube in, they found a hole from an old bullet and they put it through there,” says his wife, Lucía Topolansky. She’s also a former senator, congresswoman and vice president.

Mujica is recovering from esophageal cancer. “I was given 31 [x-ray] shots at 7 a.m. every day. They beat down [the cancer], but they left me with a hole like this.” With his fingers, he draws a circle as big as an orange in the air. “Now, the hole has to be filled. I’m an old man, I’m 89-years-old. Until it’s covered, I cannot eat. You have to pamper it until it hardens.”

He doesn’t hide his bad mood due to the after-effects of the disease, which leave him “without energy.” But, minutes later, he’ll be the same old Mujica: the politician and the philosopher. A lively old man, who stares fixedly at you with his small, clear eyes. It’s impossible not to listen to him with a certain rapture. He defines himself as “a weirdo” — although, in times where the strident styles of Donald Trump, Javier Milei and Jair Bolsonaro abound, listening to Mujica is a healing balm: he composes with words, carefully selects tones, measures intensities.

“Deep down, I’m a farmer.”

“I gave meaning to my life; I’ll die happy.”

“I dedicated myself to changing the world and I didn’t change a damn thing.”

Mujica fires off memorable phrases throughout the conversation. Over the course of two hours, he’ll talk about the presidential elections in his country, about young people, about his fellow presidents, about the extreme-right and left, about resentment, about death. And, also, about happiness.

When asked if it’s ok to take photos of him, he answers mischievously: “The police took more of me.”

Question. At some point in your life, did you lose your fear of death?

Answer. Death is a complicated lady: she doesn’t forgive, she’s always there. But, if death didn’t exist, life wouldn’t be so tasty — it would be boring. Death makes life an adventure. The only miracle in the world for each one of us is to have been born. Why? Because there were 40 million chances that someone else would be born. And yet, it was your turn. But since living is an everyday thing, we don’t value it. It’s the most valuable thing, the adventure of being alive. The big question is how we spend the time in our lives. Because if it runs out… what’s the meaning of our life? That’s the big personal question.

Q. Did you ever find the meaning of yours?

A. I dedicated myself to changing the world, and I didn’t change a damn thing! But I was entertained. And I’ve made many friends and many allies in that madness of changing the world to improve it. And I gave meaning to my life. I’m going to die happy. Not happy to be dying, but because I set the bar high above me. Nothing more. I didn’t have a wasted life, because I didn’t spend my life just consuming things. I spent it dreaming, fighting, struggling. They beat me up and all that, but it doesn’t matter, I don’t have no debts to pay. Lucía and I spent our youth on this whole adventure of living.

The current political situation is Mujica’s adrenaline. That’s why he cannot avoid speaking about the upcoming elections. He launches into the subject almost without being asked. Uruguay will elect a president on November 24, in a runoff between Álvaro Delgado — a conservative who’s backed by the incumbent president, Luis Lacalle Pou — and Mujica’s man, Yamandú Orsi, the candidate for the progressive Broad Front political coalition.

Delgado won the first round with 44% of the vote. “We can win,” Mújica assures EL PAÍS. “It’s not going to be easy, but we can win, because we have a good candidate. We ran a good campaign.”

Q. What do you think of far-right figures, such as Donald Trump, Javier Milei, or Jair Bolsonaro?

A. They’re the culmination of ultra-liberal preaching that eventually turns into libertarianism. If that’s what liberalism is, it’s filth. Liberalism brought us the spirit of [consensual] adult relationships, of respect for living with differences; it created a culture. But they then reduced liberalism to an economic recipe book.

Q. Can the advance of the extreme-right be stopped?

A. The key [to doing that] lies in morality. The problem is that we live in a consumerist era, where we think that succeeding in life is buying new things and paying the mortgage. We’re building self-exploited societies. As soon as you finish studying, you get a job. Then, you invent another one, because you need more money. You have time to work, but not to live. The world is very far from the sobriety that guarantees free time to live. In my country, there are three million of us and we import 27 million pairs of shoes. It’s not like we’re centipedes, it’s crazy. Were we born just to work? You’re free to do what you want with your life, which is sometimes just nonsense. Do you understand? Because culture is the daughter of nonsense.

To get to Mujica’s farm, you have to drive along a four-lane highway, followed by a narrow paved road and then, finally, a dirt road. About 700 feet away, on the left, is the Quincho de Varela — a meeting point for party members who belong to the Movement of Popular Participation, the MPP. Further ahead lies a rural schoolhouse, built with money that Mujica donated from his presidential salary.

A wooden gate — hidden among the plants — opens onto a tree-lined path. To the right is a bench made of soda caps where, in 2015, former Spanish King Juan Carlos I sat. “You have the misfortune of being king: they put you in a flower vase,” Mujica told the monarch at the time. To the left, a dark shed — filled with boxes of corn — guards the door of the house.

The room where Mujica spends most of the day is about seven-feet-wide and 14-feet-long. A crammed library separates it from a country-style kitchen, where there’s a large table with four chairs. Topolansky is speaking on the phone, giving someone advice on political matters. The conversation is mixed with the interview.

Until just a few days ago, there was a hospital bed in the same place where Mujica’s chair now stands. “It didn’t fit in the room,” Topolansky chimes in.

Q. You found happiness in living with very little.

A. By living with sobriety, because the more you have, the less happy you are.

Q. But the world seems to be going in the opposite direction…

A. The world is moving towards hyperconsumption, because it’s governed by a law: multiplying people’s consumption, because that’s what ensures accumulation. Buy this, buy that. We’re bombarded. Marketing is a poison. It dominates you. Buy this, buy that. That’s not living.

Q. And what is living?

A. To live is to love. It’s to have the pleasure of wasting time with someone else. When you’re old, living is playing cards with friends, sharing memories. At every age, there’s a scale of feelings. When you’re young, love is volcanic. When you’re old, it’s a sweet habit. But all of that takes time; you have to cultivate it. The relationship with your children takes time. What a child needs most is affection and we don’t have time for that. I’m a stoic, philosophically speaking. My definition could be Seneca’s: “It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.” Or that of the Aymara people. Do you know what a poor individual is for the Aymara? He who has no community: he who is alone.

Q. An image comes to mind when we think about solitude: your years of captivity in a tiny cell, where you were kept in solitary confinement for weeks on end.

A. I learned to walk miles inside myself, pacing back and forth. And I learned the craft of misanthropy, which remains with me to this day. I talked to myself a lot. To keep myself sane, I began to remember things I had read, things I had thought about when I was young. When I was young, I read a lot. Later, I dedicated myself to changing the world and I didn’t read anything. I couldn’t change the world, but what I had read when I was young helped me. Because one thing is to read and another thing is to ruminate on what you’ve read. Today, I walk through the countryside [or ride] the tractor and my head is spinning. I have eyes to see the lapwings, to see the ovenbirds, to see the cycles of nature. Deep down, I’m a farmer. I talk to the person I carry inside me — the one who rescued me when I was imprisoned, when I was alone. I start to remember and remember and remember…

Q. Have we lost the ability to talk to ourselves?

A. [Yes], because of digital civilization, which is advancing further and further. But I didn’t do it because I discovered it: I did it out of necessity. I was alone, I had nothing to distract me. So, I turned to what I had inside me. And I found a treasure: the treasure of my youth.

In 1985, following the end of the military dictatorship in Uruguay, the MPP immediately adapted to the democratic era. And, in Mujica, it found a charismatic leader. At the beginning, he notes, the movement supported candidates from other parties that were part of the Broad Front, such as the Communist Party and the Christian Democrats. “Then, there was a reversal. The comrades got angry, because we were the ones who had brought people together. They decided that one of us had to go to the General Assembly and they elected me,” he notes. Mujica became a federal lawmaker in 1994, which was his first elected position.

Q. The photograph of you arriving at the Legislative Palace on a motorbike is very famous.

A. Back then, everyone was wearing a suit and tie, and I was wearing jeans and riding my motorbike. I remember that, on the first day, I saw that there was a [space under the eaves of the building] and it occurred to me to park it there. It immediately became the motorbike garage. And it still is today. It was the most positive thing I did in the parliament [Laughs]. Incredible, incredible. Also, there was a journalist who made up a story that a soldier had asked me if I was going to leave my bike there for a long time and I replied, “five years, if they let me.” That never happened, but denying it was useless. It became the truth everywhere, because it was a brilliant lie.

Q. In 2009, you won the presidential elections with 54.6% of the votes. What’s it like learning how to be a president?

A. It’s a real trainwreck, because you take office and you discover things that you had no idea about. It’s horrible. I was first the minister of livestock [in 2005, under the administration of Tabaré Vázquez]. And, when we won the elections, I went to speak with the outgoing cabinet ministers. They didn’t give me the slightest bit of help. But as soon as you arrive, you have to discuss the federal budget. It was an accountant — one of those lifelong bureaucrats — who gave us a hand. We would have been nowhere without him.

When Mujica left prison in March 1985 — amid the return to democracy, after 13 years in prison — he knew that he wanted to buy a farm in the countryside, far from the city. “Lucía and I went out on our bicycles to look for a place. We looked everywhere and, one afternoon, we came down that road. The [farmers] were watering [plants]. And I told her, ‘I think we’ll live here.’ She went to talk [to the owners],” he explains.

“When he got out of prison, he went to plant flowers on a piece of land and I started working in a bar,” Topolansky smiles. “That way, we were able to earn some pesos and have a little bit of money coming in.” In January 1986, the couple moved to their countryside home. And they never left, not even when Mujica was president.

Q. Why did you stay on the farm during your term?

A. The state gave me a mansion with four or five floors. Just to have tea, I had to go on an expedition. So, I decided to stay here. I know I’m crazy in today’s time, but I’m not to blame for the world I live in.

Q. During your international visits, were you surprised by the protocols carried out by your peers?

A. I made fun of them, because they made their lives unnecessarily complicated. Because the more stuff you have, the more problems you have. And the more places where they’re going to steal from you.

Q. And what did the other presidents say to you?

A. They respected me a lot, but they thought I was a weirdo. When I went to speak with the King of Norway [in 2011], they were waiting for me with a tie. When I arrived, I said to the delegation: “Turn around, we’re leaving.” And the guy stepped back, put the tie away, and I went to speak with the King. I’m not against ties, but I’m against them imposing them on you. If you want to wear a tie, wear a tie. Or wear a pair of underpants hanging from your neck. Do whatever you want. And then, they roll out a red carpet for you and you have to walk five blocks. There are guys who play the bugle. It’s feudal.

Q. Which world leader captivated you the most?

A. [The Brazilian President] Lula [da Silva], with whom I’m still friends. And strangely, I have to speak well of Barack Obama.

Q. Why “strangely?”

A. Because he was an intelligent guy and he spoke nicely. I was with him three times and we had very interesting conversations. He acknowledged certain things. I told him that he had to help develop Central America, not stop immigration. And he told me: “You’re right, but go convince the Republicans.” That guy, he saw the problems as they were. I remember that I told him “get out of Afghanistan,” because Alexander the Great had to leave Afghanistan and you have to realize who Alexander the Great was. There are some lessons that are historical. They didn’t leave, and when they did leave, they made a fool of themselves. But [Obama] saw it coming. Also, he gave me a very big honor. When I took office, they sent Mrs. [Hillary] Clinton, who was the head of the State Department. They usually send a common ambassador and that’s it. Maybe it caught their attention that I was the guerrilla who was imprisoned and became president. There was a bit of mystique there.

Q. It was unusual for a former leftist guerrilla to maintain good relations with the United States.

A. Yes, but they even asked me for a favor. There was an American prisoner in Cuba who was sick and they were afraid he was going to die. Obama wanted to improve relations with Cuba, but there was that obstacle. I went to talk to Raúl Castro and I raised the issue with him, I told him that it was in their interest to get rid of that prisoner. I remember another meeting in Cartagena, during a presidential dinner [in 2012]. They grabbed me and said: “You have to sit here.” A little table, with four chairs. Well, the president of Colombia [Juan Manuel Santos] came by. And then [Castro] came… and then, who came next? Obama! To talk to me. Well, we talked there for a while. Then, when I went to the United States, he received me in [the Oval Office]… which is a piece of shit. I don’t know why it’s so famous.

Q. In Brazil, your friend, Lula, is in power again. But we also have Milei in Argentina and the crisis in Venezuela continues to escalate. In what direction do you see Latin America heading?

A. Unfortunately, the panorama is complicated. We barely get together and [Latin America] doesn’t exist in the world. We had an opportunity with Lula [during his first two terms] — he’s a world figure and he has a certain prestige — but we didn’t use Lula. And, when it comes to international politics, we don’t even serve coffee. We have to get together to defend ourselves, but domestic agendas take up all our time. With the Covid-19 pandemic, we didn’t even have a meeting between presidents: we didn’t even call each other on the phone. And we had to deal with protecting people’s lives. We couldn’t have been more stupid.

Q. Let’s think about former Ecuadorian president Rafael Correa, former Argentine president Cristina Kirchner, former Bolivian president Evo Morales and Lula. Why have these leaders not found heirs?

A. I get tired of saying that the best leader is the one who — when they disappear — sets a bar that surpasses them. Because life goes on and the struggle goes on: it doesn’t end with us. The leader must sow the seeds and give opportunities to their replacement. I know that I’m still a very important figure, but I opened up the field. Now, about what will happen in the future, I don’t know. I’ll try to make sure that my colleagues don’t feel coerced, that they command and manage the political organization. Up until now, I’ve been successful when it comes to that. My political party won the most votes in the [first round] of the elections.

Q. Some time ago, you said that politics needed to incorporate love. Did it ever have any?

A. In the past, politics made great gestures of commitment. That no longer exists. Last time I proposed to the incumbent president [Luis Lacalle Pou] that he should give up part of his salary and force the bureaucracy to put something — 4% or 5% — towards housing the poorest [Uruguayans], I was called all kinds of things. I gave more than half-a-million dollars to the Juntos Plan [a public housing project]. If you’re fighting for equality, you have to have the decency to take something out of your own pocket and share it with those who’re in a worse situation.

Q. How would you define politics?

A. Politics isn’t a business; it’s a passion. You either have it, or you don’t. Those who’re looking for economic gain should devote themselves to commerce, to industry. Let them earn money, pay their taxes and do well. But don’t mix politics with that, because it’s not about making money. That’s what’s killing us.

In his book — José Mujica: The Calm Revolution — Mauricio Rabuffetti describes the former president’s years in prison as times of great suffering. “He was tortured brutally and systematically, physically and psychologically,” Rabuffetti writes. “He suffered from beatings and humiliations. He was on half-rations of food and water. He had intestinal and kidney illnesses. He spent long periods of time in which he was forbidden from having contact with other human beings. He lost his teeth. His body reached the limits of what was bearable. His psyche, too.”

Mujica, however, never sought to take revenge on his jailers, even when he was in power. This was a decision that resulted in bitter arguments between him and the human rights organizations that advocate on behalf of victims of the military dictatorship.

Q. Why did you decide to turn the page?

A. I didn’t turn the page. I just didn’t waste my time getting even, which is different. You don’t live on memories — there are things that can’t be changed. They are what they are. In life, there are wounds that have no cure and you have to learn to go on living. I know that there are people who won’t support me, but I’ve chosen a more intelligent and less sentimental position. That’s why I didn’t use power to go after the military. Justice worked and what justice decided was right. There are people who may have wanted more, but we’re not going to change the past. I’m worried about what’s to come. We have to try to ensure that yesterday doesn’t put an obstacle in our path towards the future. I know that this way of thinking comes from a rational mind that fights with emotions…

Q. Are we talking about healing wounds?

A. There are wounds that don’t heal and you have to learn to live with them.

Q. Do you have many open wounds?

Q. Of course I have open wounds! I have unforgettable things. But I’m not going to get even. I was locked up for seven years in a room smaller than this one. Without a book, without anything to read. They took me out once a month, twice a month, to walk around a courtyard for half-an-hour. Seven years like that. Then, I was there for five more years and they let me read science, physics and chemistry [books]. I was on the verge of going crazy. If I’m going to try to get even... God forbid.

Q. Do you still have anything pending?

A. Ah! The human mind dreams about much more than it can achieve. Oh, brother! That’s how it is. We achieve something, but then, we still have a lot of things left to do.

Q. What do you say to young people?

A. That life is beautiful, but you have to find a reason to live. Not necessarily my reason, but you have to have a cause. It can be music, science, anything. Living to pay bills? That’s not living. Because living means dreaming, believing in a higher power, in something creative. That things will go well for us, that they’ll go badly, or just so-so.

Q. There seems to be a contradiction here. In this scenario of detachment that you describe, you’re one of the most listened to-people.

A. Listened-to, but not followed. “He’s a crazy, great guy, but I don’t follow his lead.”

Q. Why do you think people listen to you then?

A. Because in their subconscious, they know I’m right, but they can’t [live like this]. They’re prisoners of the consumer society in which we live. There are people who think to themselves and say, “the old man is right.”

Q. What do you ask of life today?

A. That I be cured of the crap [cancer] that I have. And that I can continue barking a little [longer], throwing out some ideas.

Translated by Avik Jain Chatlani.

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