FEBRUARY
22, 2019
Travelling
with Hugo Chavez, I soon understood the threat of Venezuela. At a farming
co-operative in Lara state, people waited patiently and with good humour in the
heat. Jugs of water and melon juice were passed around. A guitar was played; a
woman, Katarina, stood and sang with a husky contralto.
“What
did her words say?” I asked.
“That
we are proud,” was the reply.
The
applause for her merged with the arrival of Chavez. Under one arm he carried a
satchel bursting with books. He wore his big red shirt and greeted people
by name, stopping to listen. What struck me was his capacity to listen.
But
now he read. For almost two hours he read into the microphone from the stack of
books beside him: Orwell, Dickens, Tolstoy, Zola, Hemingway, Chomsky, Neruda: a
page here, a line or two there. People clapped and whistled as he moved from
author to author.
Then
farmers took the microphone and told him what they knew, and what they needed;
one ancient face, carved it seemed from a nearby banyan, made a long, critical
speech on the subject of irrigation; Chavez took notes.
Wine
is grown here, a dark Syrah type grape. “John, John, come up here,” said El
Presidente, having watched me fall asleep in the heat and the depths of Oliver
Twist.
“He
likes red wine,” Chavez told the cheering, whistling audience, and presented me
with a bottle of “vino de la gente”. My few words in bad Spanish brought
whistles and laughter.
Watching
Chavez with la gente made sense of a man who promised, on coming to
power, that his every move would be subject to the will of the people. In
eight years, Chavez won eight elections and referendums: a world record. He was
electorally the most popular head of state in the Western Hemisphere, probably
in the world.
Every
major chavista reform was voted on, notably a new constitution of
which 71 per cent of the people approved each of the 396 articles that
enshrined unheard of freedoms, such as Article 123, which for the first time
recognised the human rights of mixed-race and black people, of whom Chavez was
one.
One
of his tutorials on the road quoted a feminist writer: “Love and solidarity are
the same.” His audiences understood this well and expressed themselves with
dignity, seldom with deference. Ordinary people regarded Chavez and his
government as their first champions: as theirs.
This
was especially true of the indigenous, mestizos and Afro-Venezuelans, who had
been held in historic contempt by Chavez’s immediate predecessors and by those
who today live far from the barrios, in the mansions and penthouses of
East Caracas, who commute to Miami where their banks are and who regard
themselves as “white”. They are the powerful core of what the media calls “the
opposition”.
When
I met this class, in suburbs called Country Club, in homes appointed with low
chandeliers and bad portraits, I recognised them. They could be white South
Africans, the petite bourgeoisie of Constantia and Sandton, pillars
of the cruelties of apartheid.
Cartoonists
in the Venezuelan press, most of which are owned by an oligarchy and oppose the
government, portrayed Chavez as an ape. A radio host referred to “the monkey”.
In the private universities, the verbal currency of the children of the
well-off is often racist abuse of those whose shacks are just visible through
the pollution.
Although
identity politics are all the rage in the pages of liberal newspapers in the
West, race and class are two words almost never uttered in the mendacious
“coverage” of Washington’s latest, most naked attempt to grab the world’s
greatest source of oil and reclaim its “backyard”.
For
all the chavistas’ faults — such as allowing the Venezuelan economy to become
hostage to the fortunes of oil and never seriously challenging big capital and
corruption — they brought social justice and pride to millions of people and
they did it with unprecedented democracy.
“Of
the 92 elections that we’ve monitored,” said former President Jimmy Carter,
whose Carter Centre is a respected monitor of elections around the world, “I
would say the election process in Venezuela is the best in the world.” By way
of contrast, said Carter, the US election system, with its emphasis on campaign
money, “is one of the worst”.
In
extending the franchise to a parallel people’s state of communal authority, based
in the poorest barrios, Chavez described Venezuelan democracy as “our version
of Rousseau’s idea of popular sovereignty”.
In
Barrio La Linea, seated in her tiny kitchen, Beatrice Balazo told me her
children were the first generation of the poor to attend a full day’s school
and be given a hot meal and to learn music, art and dance. “I have seen their
confidence blossom like flowers,” she said.
In
Barrio La Vega, I listened to a nurse, Mariella Machado, a black woman of 45
with a wicked laugh, address an urban land council on subjects ranging from
homelessness to illegal war. That day, they were launching Mision Madres
de Barrio, a programme aimed at poverty among single mothers. Under the
constitution, women have the right to be paid as carers, and can borrow from a
special women’s bank. Now the poorest housewives get the equivalent of $200 a
month.
In
a room lit by a single fluorescent tube, I met Ana Lucia Ferandez, aged 86, and
Mavis Mendez, aged 95. A mere 33-year-old, Sonia Alvarez, had come with her two
children. Once, none of them could read and write; now they were studying
mathematics. For the first time in its history, Venezuela has almost 100 per
cent literacy.
This
is the work of Mision Robinson, which was designed for adults and
teenagers previously denied an education because of poverty. Mision Ribas gives
everyone the opportunity of a secondary education, called a bachillerato.(The
names Robinson and Ribas refer to Venezuelan independence leaders from the 19th
century).
In
her 95 years, Mavis Mendez had seen a parade of governments, mostly vassals of
Washington, preside over the theft of billions of dollars in oil spoils, much
of it flown to Miami. “We didn’t matter in a human sense,” she told me. “We
lived and died without real education and running water, and food we couldn’t
afford. When we fell ill, the weakest died. Now I can read and write my name
and so much more; and whatever the rich and the media say, we have planted the
seeds of true democracy and I have the joy of seeing it happen.”
In
2002, during a Washington-backed coup, Mavis’s sons and daughters and
grandchildren and great-grandchildren joined hundreds of thousands who swept
down from the barrios on the hillsides and demanded the army remained loyal to
Chavez.
“The
people rescued me,” Chavez told me. “They did it with the media against me,
preventing even the basic facts of what happened. For popular democracy in
heroic action, I suggest you look no further.”
Since
Chavez’s death in 2013, his successor Nicolas Maduro has shed his derisory
label in the Western press as a “former bus driver” and become Saddam Hussein
incarnate. His media abuse is ridiculous. On his watch, the slide in the
price of oil has caused hyper inflation and played havoc with prices in a
society that imports almost all its food; yet, as the journalist and film-maker
Pablo Navarrete reported this week, Venezuela is not the catastrophe it has
been painted. “There is food everywhere,” he wrote. “I have filmed lots of
videos of food in markets [all over Caracas] … it’s Friday night and the
restaurants are full.”
In
2018, Maduro was re-elected President. A section of the opposition boycotted
the election, a tactic tried against Chavez. The boycott failed: 9,389,056
people voted; sixteen parties participated and six candidates stood for the
presidency. Maduro won 6,248,864 votes, or 67.84 per cent.
On
election day, I spoke to one of the 150 foreign election observers. “It was
entirely fair,” he said. “There was no fraud; none of the lurid media claims
stood up. Zero. Amazing really.”
Like
a page from Alice’s tea party, the Trump administration has presented Juan
Guaido, a pop-up creation of the CIA-front National Endowment for Democracy, as
the “legitimate President of Venezuela”. Unheard of by 81 per cent of the Venezuelan
people, according to The Nation, Guaido has been elected by no one.
Maduro
is “illegitimate”, says Trump (who won the US presidency with three million
fewer votes than his opponent), a “dictator”, says demonstrably unhinged vice
president Mike Pence and an oil trophy-in-waiting, says “national security”
adviser John Bolton (who when I interviewed him in 2003 said, “Hey, are you a
communist, maybe even Labour?”).
As
his “special envoy to Venezuela” (coup master), Trump has appointed a convicted
felon, Elliot Abrams, whose intrigues in the service of Presidents Reagan and
George W. Bush helped produce the Iran-Contra scandal in the 1980s and plunge
central America into years of blood-soaked misery.
Putting
Lewis Carroll aside, these “crazies” belong in newsreels from the 1930s.
And yet their lies about Venezuela have been taken up with enthusiasm by those
paid to keep the record straight.
On
Channel 4 News, Jon Snow bellowed at the Labour MP Chris Williamson, “Look, you
and Mr. Corbyn are in a very nasty corner [on Venezuela]!” When Williamson
tried to explain why threatening a sovereign country was wrong, Snow cut him
off. “You’ve had a good go!”
In
2006, Channel 4 News effectively accused Chavez of plotting to make nuclear
weapons with Iran: a fantasy. The then Washington correspondent, Jonathan
Rugman, allowed a war criminal, Donald Rumsfeld, to liken Chavez to Hitler,
unchallenged.
Researchers
at the University of the West of England studied the BBC’s reporting of
Venezuela over a ten-year period. They looked at 304 reports and found that
only three of these referred to any of the positive policies of the government.
For the BBC, Venezuela’s democratic record, human rights legislation, food
programmes, healthcare initiatives and poverty reduction did not happen.
The greatest literacy programme in human history did not happen, just as the
millions who march in support of Maduro and in memory of Chavez, do not exist.
When
asked why she filmed only an opposition march, the BBC reporter Orla Guerin
tweeted that it was “too difficult” to be on two marches in one day.
A
war has been declared on Venezuela, of which the truth is “too difficult” to
report.
It
is too difficult to report the collapse of oil prices since 2014 as largely the
result of criminal machinations by Wall Street. It is too difficult to report
the blocking of Venezuela’s access to the US-dominated international financial
system as sabotage. It is too difficult to report Washington’s “sanctions”
against Venezuela, which have caused the loss of at least $6billion in
Venezuela’s revenue since 2017, including $2billion worth of imported
medicines, as illegal, or the Bank of England’s refusal to return Venezuela’s
gold reserves as an act of piracy.
The
former United Nations Rapporteur, Alfred de Zayas, has likened this to a
“medieval siege” designed “to bring countries to their knees”. It is a criminal
assault, he says. It is similar to that faced by Salvador Allende in 1970 when
President Richard Nixon and his equivalent of John Bolton, Henry Kissinger, set
out to “make the economy [of Chile] scream”. The long dark night of Pinochet
followed.
The Guardian correspondent,
Tom Phillips, has tweeted a picture of a cap on which the words in Spanish mean
in local slang: “Make Venezuela fucking cool again.” The reporter as clown may
be the final stage of much of mainstream journalism’s degeneration.
Should
the CIA stooge Guaido and his white supremacists grab power, it will be the
68th overthrow of a sovereign government by the United States, most of them
democracies. A fire sale of Venezuela’s utilities and mineral wealth will
surely follow, along with the theft of the country’s oil, as outlined by John
Bolton.
Under
the last Washington-controlled government in Caracas, poverty reached historic
proportions. There was no healthcare for those could not pay. There was no
universal education; Mavis Mendez, and millions like her, could not read or
write. How cool is that, Tom?
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