In Memory of José “Pepe” Mujica: A Comrade Among Comrades
When the world learned of José “Pepe” Mujica’s passing, it did not just lose a former president of Uruguay. It lost a living example of what public service truly means. Mujica was not a perfect man. But in a world riddled with self-serving leaders and political theatre, his life was a quiet revolution—a reminder that humility, simplicity, and solidarity with the masses are not just virtues of the past, but imperatives for the present.
For those unfamiliar, Mujica was once a guerrilla fighter, a political prisoner who spent more than a decade in jail—much of it in solitary confinement. Yet he emerged from that darkness not with bitterness, but with a deeper conviction to serve. As president from 2010 to 2015, he refused the grandeur that came with office. He donated 90% of his salary to social causes, drove a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle, and lived on a modest flower farm with his wife. He wasn’t acting. He was like that.
Ramon Magsaysay, the late Filipino president, once said: “Those who have less in life should have more in law.” Magsaysay became a symbol of integrity in public service in post-war Asia. But if we are to speak plainly and bravely, Mujica might be the fuller realization of that ideal. Where Magsaysay was a statesman, Mujica was a comrade—among comrades. He did not just talk about the poor; he lived among them, listened to them, and acted on their behalf. He did not ride convoys. He walked through muddy streets. He did not speak of austerity; he practiced it with devotion.
Critics often tried to label him—socialist, leftist, even communist. But Mujica never governed for ideology’s sake. If so, then he is, by all means. People have grown used to leaders who separate the economy from society—who offer shiny promises and deliver empty reforms just to secure another term. Mujica’s leadership wasn’t that. Call him leftward—but only if that leftward meant forward. If it meant social justice, dignity for the many, and solidarity as policy, then that speaks louder than any slander hurled against him. Labels fall flat in the face of lived principle.
His policies on healthcare, education, civil rights, and redistribution were not radical—they were humane. His goal was not to shift Uruguay leftward, but to move it toward fairness and dignity. In that direction, he reminded the world that servant leadership is not a relic of the past, but a moral necessity.
In mourning Mujica, we must not merely praise the man—we must carry forward the challenge he leaves behind. Will our leaders choose humility over hubris? Will they measure success not by GDP or prestige, but by dignity and compassion? Will they, like Mujica, recognize that public office is not an entitlement but a burden—a burden meant to be carried in the service of others?
Mujica often said, “I’m not poor. Poor are those who need too much.” It is a line that exposes the moral poverty of those who hoard power and privilege. And it calls us—citizens, leaders, institutions—to a deeper reckoning with what governance is really for.
Pepe Mujica is gone. But his legacy is not. It lives in every young person who dreams of a gentler politics. In every worker who believes in justice. In every act of kindness done not for applause but out of principle. He showed us it’s possible to lead without ruling, to serve without taking, and to love the people not just in theory, but in truth.
The world will remember Mujica as a president. But history should remember him as something rarer: a comrade who never forgot his place among the people.
Rest in power, Pepe. Abrazo Fuerte, Venceremos!