If nobody told you that José Alberto “Pepe” Mujica was Uruguay’s head of state, you would have probably guessed he was a farmer. Old, poor, grey, and round, he has no interest in maintaining a presidential image, choosing instead to focus on presidential character. Profoundly humble, deeply in love with his people, and unenchanted by money, Pepe lives solely for his country. After just a short while of listening to his experiences and ideas, we realize that he isn’t a leader who commands power, but one who inspires thought. 

Mujica, lovingly referred to as Pepe, is the former president of Uruguay who won the presidential election in 2009 and held the office from 2010 – 2015. In El Pepe, a Supreme Life, we listen to an interview with the former president during his last day in office as he takes us through the streets, the culture, the politics, and the historical account of his country through the story of his life. But this story isn’t filled with elections and fundraisers and high profile names. Pepe’s life is more akin to a novel. As he takes you through the events that unfolded, you find passion, romance, bank robberies, gunfights, prison, and poetry. 

Operating as a guerilla fighter and leader within a resistance movement against a former dictatorship, he was captured and held in solitary confinement for 12 years along with his comrades in the resistance. More remarkable than this tribulation is Pepe’s reflection on what happened. He says about his time in prison, “I think that man learns much more from pain and suffering than from victories and easy things.” Speaking about his modest lifestyle and view on humanity, he says, “… it was born in that time of solitude in prison. I would not be who I am today. I would be more futile, more frivolous, shallower, more success-driven, more short-sighted, more aggressive, probably more seduced by success… More of all of that which I am not today – I would be if I hadn’t lived those ten plus years of deep solitude.” 

Perhaps more than his story, this documentary is directed to aidings us in understanding the thinking of a man who is known as the “world’s humblest head of state.” We aren’t simply revisiting a historical account, but rather diving into the life lessons learned by a man who was in the heart of the turmoil during the reign of dictatorships in Uruguay. It’s not the story of a head of state, but rather the story of a man who happened to become the head of state. This documentary is easily as much about humanity and philosophy as it is about history. 

I was first introduced to Pepe in a film called A Twelve Year Night. It featured three resistance fighters who were captured and then held as political prisoners, each in isolation for 12 years. Literate, well educated, and capable of critical thinking, these resistance fighters were different from typical criminals. They’re crimes weren’t motivated by greed or a desire for destruction, but rather by idealism. They believed in a socialist Uruguay because of humanity’s gregarious nature. I found it ironic that solitary confinement would be the punishment for a socialist – one whose philosophy is by definition one that places the community above the individual. The film was a cinematic recreation of their experiences in prison: a story about how three individuals survived the inhumane conditions of solitary confinement, a punishment designed to break the spirit.

By the end of the film, we see them released back to their loved ones and in the credits, we’re given a little preview of who each of our protagonists were. One of them was Jose Mujica. I would later see him in articles about his willingness to wait in line at the hospital, how he didn’t always wear suits or even shoes when he went out, and his commitment to donating 90 percent of his presidential salary to the public projects for the destitute. Mujica expressed a certain love and commitment to the poor by working to give them an opportunity to live humanely despite their inability to afford seemingly basic things such as windows or plumbing. 

From time to time, his wife and companions, who were also imprisoned in solitary confinement for years, speak about their share of the turmoil. None of these people are less than beautiful in their articulation of events and the effect it had on their thinking. We quickly identify that these people aren’t motivated by power, they barely have any. Their precious beliefs in a socialist Uruguay seem to rise from a desire to see the people repel capitalism, and the evils they believe come with it. Sitting next to his wife, Pepe discusses the difference between material, economic improvement and moral improvement – that the two are not the same. He even discusses the US banking system and explains, “It is the highest rank of human delinquency, which does not involve blood, on principle than can be aspired to. It’s the glory of capitalism to work and make money with other people’s money. Not even other people’s work, with their money.” He makes a disgusted face as he explains this, “It’s capitalism in its purest form.”

The documentary is styled to be a visual memoir portrayed through the lens of Pepe. Sitting in the garden of his house, Pepe tells us of his life and as he speaks, we leave the garden scene and find ourselves watching clips of historical footage. Taking us back to the people and events that were happening, the footage is sometimes in black and white, sometimes in color, and  in pictures and moving images. As the topics of the story shifts from historical events to modern issues in Uruguay, we hear the former president shift to talking about his desire to prepare the people for the future. Suddenly, we’re watching everything with a modern-day camera. We see him tending to his land, teaching the poor how to plant flowers, arguing with the public, and telling jokes. Latin music sets the tone of excitement, passion, and even romance – we get to watch him take his equally politically active, and possibly dangerous, wife on a date on the night of his last day in office. 

It’s remarkable to watch a man lead a nation from the streets amongst the everyday people and not from an office behind tall, intimidating fences. He says, “In order to lead the masses, you must live like the masses.” We describe the leaders of nations with many kinds of words, but never have I been compelled to describe one as being beautiful. It isn’t an obvious beauty, but José Alberto “Pepe” Mujica is exactly that: a beautiful man.

When I was a teenager, I used to have nightmares that I didn’t enjoy sharing. Not sharing, however, was also painful. I had already written some poetry in the classroom and during my free time and I had found a sense of relief that came with diving into the heart of a deeply felt moment. I was also able to say anything I wanted without needing to say everything. So I turned my nightmares into poems since they weren’t good for much else. 

I was first introduced to poetry when I was 13 years old in an English class and still living in Cairo, Egypt. The assignment was to write a poem about a piece of music and I chose a rock song, one that I will not disclose out of embarrassment. I had examined poetry before in other english classes, but this was the first time I had contemplated what I was writing. In doing so, I had found a form of literature that was actually a joy to read and partake in. 

Let’s set the scene. There is winter snow in Cairo’s dusty and overpacked streets. I’m in a taxi and there is a person with an unclear face and a handgun shooting at the congested, immobile traffic. Afraid and helpless to escape, I drop my head below the taxi’s dashboard and rest it between my thighs with my hands on my head. The gunman abruptly begins approaching the taxi I am hiding in. He’s already shot at the vehicles ahead of us. I’m sitting shotgun and although I never look up at him, I know that he is right beside me and his weapon is raised to the window on my right. I know because I can feel the desire to destroy life emanating from the other side of the glass. It shatters and I wake up. The main theme of a series of nightmares I had been having that year was mortality – my own and that of others.  

I was living in Cairo at the time, going to American international schools to get my highschool diploma so that I could return to the US when I was old enough for college. It was a trying experience for me that filled my life with tremendous stress. It came from the struggle to fit in as an expat from America. Despite being half Egyptian, I had never learned arabic or anything about the culture. I was raised in a house on Staten Island in New York until one day we moved just one short month after my tenth birthday. My entire family was also stressed, which of course also compounded my stress. In poetry, I found an outlet. I could be heartfelt and honest in my writing, yet always make it cryptic enough that people wouldn’t figure out that I was writing about myself and my feelings. Sharing stress with stressed out individuals who can barely cope themselves is hardly a safe or smart way to find comfort. So to my friends and family, my work came across as just little stories told in rhythm and rhyme. 

Eventually, the nightmares faded and became less frequent, but I continued to write. Poetry had somehow evolved for me. Instead of just writing for therapy, I had begun exploring ideas and encounters that I found wonderful. I started looking carefully at my environment and when I found something particularly moving, I would pay close attention to the details of the experience. I wrote about what the pace of living in a big city was like and how that pace shifted from daytime to nighttime. I wrote about what it looked like when people got lost in dance and music. When I got into high school, I wrote about the pretty girls. 

I remember one girl in my senior year who would intentionally frazzle her brown, wavy hair. It almost looked like she had woken up and gone to school without brushing it. It wasn’t off putting, though. To me, it was excitingly different from the other girls. I described the feeling of seeing it in a haiku as being akin to the exhilaration of riding the curves and unexpected turns on a roller coaster. I lost that haiku, but I still remember her hair. 

Fast forward to today, my nightmares are pretty much gone. I’m back in New York and about to graduate from college in May, God-willing. Unfortunately, the time and freedom to write poetry also faded. Adult life had sadly taken that away and put responsibility and a profession in its place. It has been a year since I’ve written a verse, but I miss it. And like an old, but comfortable friend that you don’t see often, I’m hoping that I’ll be able to pick up right where we left off when I have my reunion with the medium. I had just started to try out spoken word poetry and I was allowing myself to be vulnerable as I shared it. I liked the idea of crafting words about feelings that were meant to jump off the page. I think that once I’m done with my Bachelors, I’ll make time for it, again.