Tabaré Vázquez is a name which isn’t going to mean much to the majority who read these words in English. The fact of his passing in the early hours of this morning is unlikely to have registered greatly in a world with more than enough headlines to go round. Something tells me he might have wanted it this way. Indeed, I find myself quietly surprised to find myself moved by his death, this most self-effacing of political leaders. A president that few outside the continent, even the country will have heard of. Who never had the profile of his fellow comrade-in-arms, Pepe Mujica, a darling of the global liberal classes.
Yet, his passing feels like the end of an era in a way that the passing of Mujica or Lula or any of the other figurehead Latin American political figures will not.
Mujica has placed Tabaré Vázquez in his shade. In 1994, when I first arrived in Uruguay, it was Tabaré whose name, speech patterns and demeanour denoted the first stages of the reaffirmation of both the left and the democratic process in the country. The two went hand-in-hand. A large element of the justification of more than a decade of military dictatorship was that the left could not be trusted to run the country, a recurring pivot of authoritarianism. When democracy finally returned, with the realisation that military dictatorships are not an efficient or effective manner of governing, there was still a vast paranoia around the issue of the left. Frente Amplio, the leftist coalition, was condemned by the other political parties as being Soviet stooges, (in spite of the demise of the Soviet Union), supporters of terrorism, with members of the Tupamaros in their ranks (including Mujica). The play on fear proved effective. Frente Amplio developed a power base in the capital, but never looked like winning the country.
In the midst of this, Vázquez emerged as the leader of Frente. The thing about Vázquez was that no-one could see him as a scary behemoth of the left. A doctor by profession, one of the country’s leading cancer specialists, he radiated common decency. He was never the most charismatic of speakers, but he chiselled out a loping cadence, which gave his speeches a wholehearted, optimistic gait. For a country devastated by years of oppressive military rule and economic hardship which afflicted the middle classes almost as much as the working classes, his voice represented a new kind of hope. One which was unpretentious, solid, aware of the work that needed to be done and prepared to do it.
He lost the election in 1994 by a narrow margin. Finally, two elections and ten years later, he won. For the first time, Frente came to power. For the left, this was a moment of immense and understandable joy. However, for the centre and centre right, perhaps just as importantly, it was a moment of quiet acceptance. It was no longer a moment of fear. The contribution of Vázquez to this cannot be overstated. Mujica would never have been voted in if it hadn’t been for the five years of strong, stable government provided by Vázquez. Such was the respect that he was held in, that five years later he was summoned to return as the candidate of Frente, (the president here can only serve one consecutive term), and won again. He seemed older second time around, tired. It’s now clear that his body was failing him. It has been less than a year since the end of his second term and the handover of power to the new president, the right wing Lacalle Pou, which was handled with a dignity which others would do well to emulate.
The reason Vásquez’ passing should be mourned, even by those who have never heard of him, is that it feels as though he represents the last of a dying breed. The politician who is not and never planned to be a showman. The politician who didn’t need politics. Who didn’t go into politics for any reason other than to seek to contribute to her or his society. As a cancer specialist, Vázquez had the means to be independently wealthy. He had a job he loved, a job whose importance cannot be understated. This underpinned his commitment to his sense of duty but also his sense of moderation. The idea that political progress can be realised through the taking of restrained measures, just as much as through the perpetration of grand gestures. Growing up in the UK there was a whole generation of politicians who, for all their patrician arrogance, one could always sense were at least as concerned about the fate of the country and the inhabitants of that country as they were the fate of their party. Their methodology might have been questionable but their instincts seemed to focus on at the very least a vague notion of the common good, which is after all, what politics is about in a democratic society. The common good rather than the good of a nominated sector of society, country above party. Vázquez belonged to that generation of politicians. Men and women who didn’t seek fame, didn’t want to have an airport or a beer or a tote bag or a lipstick named after them. Perhaps this is no longer an epoch for this kind of moderation, but if that is the case, it is the passing of an era which deserves to be mourned. Just as the passing of Tabaré Vázquez should be mourned, no matter how much he personally might smile benignly and mutter something about the importance of los Uruguayos taking care of themselves at this delicate moment in history, that this should be our priority.
Adios Tabaré. You have shaped my world in ways neither of us could ever have imagined possible. God speed.
