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Hugo Chávez and Petro Populism

Guerrero started supporting Chávez in 1992, on that fateful day when the 
then-unknown 37-year-old colonel launched a failed coup of his own. When defeat 
appeared imminent, Chávez surrendered. To avoid a bloodbath he went on 
television and asked his compatriots who were still holding two cities to put 
down their weapons. 

During that short live broadcast Chávez did two things that electrified the 
Venezuelan imagination. First, he took personal responsibility for the botched 
coup. This seemed to many viewers like a significant break from the standard 
political tradition of lying and blaming others for failure. Then, in 
explaining the defeat, Chávez said, "For now, the objectives that we have set 
for ourselves have not been achieved." 

During the next two years, while Chávez was in prison studying, that key 
phrase--"for now," or por ahora in Spanish--became a rallying cry, a slogan of 
defiance painted on walls, a talisman of hope in an otherwise squalid and 
corrupt political landscape. 

Guerrero's sentiments, down to the details about the coup and the por ahora 
speech, were echoed again and again in dozens of interviews throughout some of 
Caracas's poorest slums. The majority of people here--ranging from formerly 
apolitical housewives to hard-core veterans of the urban guerrilla movements of 
the 1970s--revere President Chávez. They view him as a political saint, a 
savior, the embodiment of a new national ideal. 

But through Guerrero's open front door we can see the Modernist towers of 
offices, banks, hotels and luxury apartments in the other Caracas, a city that 
has grown fat on the vast oil fortunes flowing from Venezuela's subsoil. 

It is this contrast between rich and poor--a contrast so visually obvious as to 
make the landscape of Caracas feel almost didactic--that animates Venezuelan 
politics. And in the other Caracas, the one with the country clubs, the 
citizens hate Chávez with an ardor as strong as the devotion one finds for him 
in the barrios. Just as the urban poor and campesinos love Chávez because of 
his swarthy, indigenous looks, tight curly hair and his rough, down-to-earth 
talk, so too are the wealthier classes driven apoplectic with rage by the fact 
that their president looks likes a construction worker or cab driver. 

For six years Chávez and his supporters have battled this opposition, an enemy 
that Chávez has nicknamed los escuálidos, or "the weaklings." But the 
opposition has not always been so weak. It includes the privately owned mass 
media, which have been virulently and propagandistically hostile to the 
government, devoting days at a time to commercial-free attacks on it as 
"totalitarian" and "Castro communist." There was the armed coup, then the oil 
strike, which cost the economy an estimated $7.5 billion and led to severe 
shortages of gas, food and beer. As one consultant in the Planning Ministry 
said in all seriousness: "I thought the day we ran out of beer would be the day 
the country fell into anarchy and civil war." 

There was also a prolonged public protest by a group of respected former 
generals who urged active soldiers to rebel. Then there was a series of violent 
protests by rightist street fighters calling themselves the Guarimbas, who set 
up burning barricades during early 2004. 

Despite all this, Chávez and his political allies have won seven national 
ballots, including the approval of a new Constitution, an overhaul of the 
notoriously corrupt judiciary, two national legislative elections, two 
presidential elections and one attempted presidential recall. 

Through it all, occasional armed clashes between hard-core Chavistas and 
opposition militants have left about twenty people on both sides dead or 
seriously wounded. And the Chávez government has enacted a media law that 
punishes slander with jail time and prohibits broadcast of the 
twenty-four-hour-a-day video loops that were an opposition favorite, drawing 
sharp criticism from press-freedom advocates. But there has been no major 
government campaign of repression, not even against the architects of the coup, 
many of whom are at liberty and still in Venezuela.

The barrio 23 de Enero (January 23) is to the Venezuelan left what Compton is 
to hip-hop: the home of its hard core. The barrio's eponym is the date of a 
popular uprising that took place in 1958 against dictator Marcos Pérez Jiménez. 
Tucked into a Caracas valley and flowing over a few hillsides, 23 de Enero is a 
mix of 1950s-era cement tower blocks and the usual cinder-block homes wedged 
along winding staircases and walkways. 

The ten- and fifteen-story tower blocks are adorned in an improbable and 
tatterdemalion layer of colorful laundry hanging from external drying racks or 
barred windows. Behind the clothes and the bars one can see lush potted plants, 
caged and squawking birds or household items stacked up in the tiny, 
overcrowded apartments. On the back sides of the towers, mounds of trash sit in 
and around dumpsters that are placed below long, dilapidated external garbage 
chutes that usually have big sections of pipe missing. 

>From the top of each tower flies a red-and-blue flag: the colors of the 
>Coordinador Simón Bolívar, a powerful community organization that has its 
>roots in the urban guerrilla movements of the 1970s and '80s. Described with 
>the catchphrase Tupamaros, these urban partisans were really a collection of 
>groups and factions rather than a single force, as the name would suggest. 

Even today, many comrades in the barrios are still armed. A fellow journalist 
was pulled over by masked gunmen at a Tupamaro checkpoint in 23 de Enero during 
the tense days around the August 2004 referendum. The homies were making sure 
no escuálido thugs snuck into the 'hood to do a drive-by. They also wanted my 
friend to donate his videocamera to the revolution, putting a gun to his head 
to help him make his decision. But when adult supervision finally showed up, 
the muchachos running the traffic stop were persuaded to give back the camera. 

At the Coordinador's little headquarters I meet this other type of Chavista: 
not a sentimental housewife like Guerrero, but a hard-core ex-guerrilla. Juan 
Contreras is balding, a bit paunchy and has rather unassuming boyish features, 
but he got his political education the hard way and at a young age: in the form 
of demonstrations, police beatings and shootouts with the paramilitary forces 
of the state. He is now one of the key organizers in the Coordinador. 

The walls outside the office are covered in revolutionary murals: One honors a 
youth killed in a demonstration against Henry Kissinger in the 1970s, another 
is for the Zapatistas, a third displays the classic Alberto Korda portrait of 
Che Guevara. Most of the art predates Chávez, and none portrays his image. 

 "Chávez did not produce the movements--we produced him," explains Contreras. 
"He has helped us tremendously, but what is going on here cannot be ascribed 
only to Chávez." 

According to Contreras and a few of his comrades, the Coordinador got its start 
after the failed Chávez coup in 1992. In the wake of that defeat, the 
government began jailing leftists. Contreras fled to Cuba for a month with 
twenty-nine other activists from 23 de Enero; upon their return, almost all of 
them were arrested, and Contreras went into hiding. About a year and a half 
after the attempted coup, the activists regrouped and decided that armed 
struggle was definitely over and done with. They created the Coordinador and 
devoted themselves to aboveground work. 

Today the Coordinador pursues a three-pronged strategy that involves reclaiming 
public space from drug gangs, recovering local cultural traditions and 
promoting organized sports. Already the barrio has produced several players for 
Major League Baseball, including Ugueth Urbina, Juan Carlos Ovalles and Juan 
Carlos Pulido. Later a young guy named Kristhian Linares stops by to pay his 
respects to Contreras. Only 18 years old, Linares has just signed with the 
Florida Marlins. He starts spring training as soon as his papers are in order. 

After building these forms of social solidarity, the Coordinador then launched 
another project, setting up committees to deal with health, land titles, 
elections and the like. Some of this work interfaces with government-funded 
missions, some doesn't. But the paramount issue here is security. The slums of 
Caracas are extremely violent. Every week, around eighty people are murdered in 
this city of 5 million. 

"We use culture and sports and organization to take over public spaces," 
explains Contreras. What if the drug gangs refuse to move? "Well, many of them 
are connected by family to the larger community, so we use that pressure. There 
is the armed tradition here, and they respect that. And there is a tradition of 
lynching in this barrio. In the past the community has killed some criminals. 
Not recently, but it has happened. So most of the gangs take us seriously and 
stay away from the central areas." 

Later, as we scale a ridge packed with little homes, he explains that farther 
into the barrio are some agricultural projects but that I'll have to come back 
to visit them because the outlying areas become dangerous in the afternoon. 
Clearly, cultural reclamation plus threat of lynching does not completely 
displace crime. 

It also seems that the opposition, or elements in it, have on occasion used 
criminals against Chavistas. An activist from nearby 23 de Enero, a woman who 
once lived in California, tells the story of a gangster who was paid to make 
death threats against the local Cuban doctors. The doctors got so freaked out 
they split. But the woman, a trained social worker, found the young thug, a 
local guy, and explained to him that he would certainly be tracked down and 
killed by angry Chavistas if he persisted with his threats. The gangster 
reconsidered and decided to stay out of politics. The Cuban doctors returned. 


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