Joel Suárez is a long-time social activist and theologian who is part of the Martin Luther King Memorial Center in Cuba. This ecumenical organization promotes social participation and solidarity. In this interview, Suárez offers an intimate and thought-provoking perspective on Venezuelan former President Hugo Chávez’s spiritual trajectory. In Part I, Suárez talked about Chávez’s first encounter with Fidel Castro and drew interesting connections between Liberation Theology and Chávez’s way of doing politics. Here, in Part II, we continue the conversation on Chávez’s unique leadership style.
You recalled earlier a phone conversation you had with Chávez before a mass rally in the context of the 2006 World Social Forum in Caracas. I remember that meeting in the Poliedro, which was extraordinary, with thousands attending. Can you tell our readers about it?
That day was extraordinary indeed. The event began with a “mística” with the Benedictine friar Marcelo Barros organized by Brazil’s Landless Workers Movement, but what was most moving was that it was the first time “The Internationale” was sung at a public act with Chávez… Many of us teared up singing it. Our community was coming together!
Politics is harsh and sometimes leaves wounds – disruptions, tensions, frustrations. These arise within organizations and among militants. Chávez was always conscious of this, so his speeches often began with a very long, detailed, and even boring list of salutations to acknowledge everyone present. He wanted everyone to know that they too were being taken into account.
In my view, Chávez’s practice of opening with long salutations, in addition to healing wounds, had a pastoral basis. For him, no one was more important than any other person who was present, regardless of whether they were a president, an intellectual, or an activist.
In any case, after all the long greetings and salutations, Chávez’s speech in the context of the World Social Forum was deliberate, careful, engaging, and meaningful.
That was one key moment in Chávez’s trajectory, but let’s rewind four years to another moment that you consider very important. It was when Fidel Castro sent an key message to Chávez during the coup d’état on April 11, 2002. Could you talk about that moment?
The story has been told before, but it’s worth recalling. When Fidel saw what was happening in Caracas, he realized that Chávez had an ethically grounded and politically essential disposition to give his life, to sacrifice it.
That is why, as the coup unfolded, Fidel told him, “cuídate” [take care of yourself].
Some say that Fidel also told him: “Don’t be like Allende!”
That’s right. In doing so, Fidel wasn’t undervaluing the ultimate sacrifice; rather, he was thinking about its purpose. The principle of hope that had materialized in the revolutionary struggle required that Chávez be alive.
Fidel was able to hold Chávez back, although the Venezuelan president’s disposition to make the ultimate sacrifice as a gift for life would re-emerge later.
That would be at the end of his life. Can you talk about Chávez’s “calvary,” his last years when he frequently visited Cuba to treat his cancer?
When Chávez was in the hospital in La Habana [2012], he asked that my dad [Reverend Raúl Suárez] send him books about Liberation Theology and other texts relating to these themes.
It should be pointed out, however, that for Chávez, even if he identified as a Christian and a believer, his spirituality was an open one. He drew from many sources.
I do not want to be sacrilegious – I want to respect believers who may not share my particular vision of Chávez as a man of Christian faith – but I see his faith as anthropological. It was a faith in life itself.
Chávez was going to live his Golgotha, his calvary, and he knew he could face the cross. When this became clear he flew back [to Venezuela] to confess to his community, to his comrades, to his pueblo. That was a moment that we – those committed to the revolution – experienced collectively.
Indeed, there are historical moments that become foci of collective consciousness. The episode you refer to on December 8, 2012, when Chavez announced on national television that he might die, was certainly one of them.
On December 8, many of us also experienced the mystery of God. For me, the great mystery in Jesus Christ’s crucifixion is when the Son cries out: Father, why have you abandoned me? Chávez must have also felt abandoned by God. We find the sanctity of Chávez – not his divinity – in that pain.
[Brazilian theologian] Leonardo Boff once said something about Christ’s crucifixion that resonates with Chávez: theologically, it’s difficult to understand why God the Father abandons his Son, but God’s absence reminds us of our fragility and our inextricable connection to humanity.
For me, as a man of faith, Christ and Chávez have different places. Chávez was a brother in God, but Jesus is the older brother.
Chávez’s humanity was evident in his love for and his connection with the pueblo. This is captured in the iconic photo of him standing in the rain during the 2012 presidential campaign: because it wasn’t just any rain; the rain pouring down on him was the rain that blesses, cleanses, and washes away the tears of the pueblo.
Losing Chávez wasn’t easy, and I believe we’ve been slow to respond to the spiritual wake-up call that he embodied. We’ve been somewhat lethargic – not exactly delayed, but sluggish – at a time when conservatism and evangelical fundamentalism are advancing. We have been ineffective in reclaiming this spiritual and political synthesis that Chávez embodied.
As dwellers of this continent, the God of all names occupies a place in our lives and hearts. Alongside that, a passion burns in many people for justice and a commitment to the Revolution that seeks to make justice a reality. Chávez combined both.
We have centered our conversation on Chávez’s spirituality, but there are other, more playful aspects of his way of doing politics.
Chávez’s approach to spirituality was a unique synthesis. It was often playful, but always enlightening. I say this based on the diverse readings he did – both early and late in life – and his command of the biblical text. All this merged his deep understanding of Venezuelan and continental history, and his passion for Bolívar. Chávez embodied a popular, grassroots-based Latin American and Caribbean liberation theology.
But Chávez’s theology merged his innovative political vision as a leader with a discourse that brought diverse themes. These ranged from baseball tactics – Who’s got the ball? Who’s up to bat? What kind of hit will they make? – to the Alma Llanera [possibly Chávez’s favorite song], all of it combined with his rejoicing in the world of the common man and his buzzing desire to enjoy life.
Chávez’s character was something that he often backgrounded in his role as a leader, orator, public figure, and head of state. He often stood in his post with “proper” composure, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself, like the time at the UN General Assembly when he said “It smells like sulfur here,” after Bush had spoken. Chávez’s spontaneity and candor won us all over.
But Chávez was not just about baseball and singing on stage. Like Fidel, he embodied an intellectual tradition that can be traced back to thinkers like Simón Rodríguez [Bolívar’s teacher] and José Martí, whose understanding of education was revolutionary and ahead of their time. I’d say Rodríguez and Martí anticipated much of what [Brazilian educator] Paulo Freire developed in Latin America during the 1960s and 70s.
Both Fidel and Chávez addressed the real, concrete problems people face. They would take the time to analyze a problem thoroughly – its causes, consequences, and underlying priorities – before proposing solutions. For both, the central element to any solution was the subject: the masses, the pueblo.
Revolutionary transformation – the process of addressing every problem with a broader vision – cannot be conceived without popular participation and protagonism. Mobilizing the people, actively involving them, making them the protagonists of change – this was fundamental to the vision that Fidel and Chávez shared… but in Chávez, play and joy were also integral to the whole affair.
This combination resonated deeply with our pueblos. Chávez was a fusion of reflection, spirituality, and celebration, which served as both a form of resistance and a principle of hope.
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