One irony of his rule is that it eventually curtailed freedom of speech much more among his supporters than his detractors.
If Hugo Chávez, who passed away today at 58, had one central skill, it was getting people to develop strong opinions about him. Chances are that you have one yourself. Passionate and charismatic, Chávez slipped comfortably into the role of romantic Latin American revolutionary, championing the poor against an unfeeling local oligarchy and its imperial paymasters. Reactions to this narrative arc are always visceral; ill-suited to nuance.
Lost in the parallel strains of adulation and disgust was an appreciation of the complexity of his rule. In fact, Venezuela under Chávez was a glorious contradiction -- an autocracy with a popular, elected megalomaniac at its center.
To start to appreciate the dynamics of Chávez's power, you have to begin with his speeches: endless, vituperative, folksy, rambling and always, always unscripted, they electrified supporters, infuriated opponents and built over the years into a kind of corpus of law. They became the sources of ultimate power in the country, their authority far outranking -- in practice, if not in theory -- that of laws, regulations, even the constitution. Under Chávez, Venezuela became an Oral Republic, a place where an off-the-cuff remark could land you in jail, end your job, see your property seized, or, alternatively, set an orgy of petrodollar spending loose on your community.
The debate on whether this mode of governance could meaningfully be described as "democratic" has been hashed over again and again ad infinitum, both in Venezuela and abroad. The recitation of arguments on both sides long since went stale: yes, Chávez was beloved -- genuinely beloved -- of millions of poor Venezuelans, and won election after election for a decade and a half. And yes, having won all those elections he proceeded to act like an absolute monarch rather than an elected official, relishing every chance to showcase his contempt for the institutions of constitutional government, and gradually dismantling them in the process.
Both of these strains are true; there's no easy way to resolve the tension between them. Like an old-style dictator, he treated the state as his personal plaything but, unlike one, his power rested not on violence but on genuine popular affection. Venezuela's history since 1999 has been the story of that contradiction playing itself out across the lives of 29 million people.
Chávez's insistence on absolute submission from his supporters paved the way for the rise of an over-the-top cult of personality. As questioning any presidential directive was a sure career-ender for his followers, the upper reaches of his government came to be dominated by yes-men. Further down the food chain, too, extravagant displays of personal loyalty were required from every person in every nook and cranny of Venezuela's massive and fast-growing state apparatus, with state-owned factory workers required to attend rallies and clerical personnel fully expected to donate part of their salaries to the ruling party.
Instead of a police state, Chávez built a propaganda state, one that churned out slogan after slogan stressing the intense, personal, near-mystical bond between him and his followers.
"Chávez is the people." "We are all Chávez." These came to be shouted earnestly, with heartfelt passion by millions who felt empowered by his radical, redemptive rhetoric. We are well beyond run-of-the-mill pandering here and into a bizarre sphere of Freudian primary identification, where each of the president's followers was seduced into a sort of union with the leader.
It's doubtful whether any person could endure constant adulation on such a scale and escape with his grasp on reality unscathed, and Chávez clearly struggled on this score. He dabbled in trutherism and questioned whether NASA had really put a man on the moon. He speculated out loud about whether capitalism may have wiped out civilization on Mars, whether a secret U.S. weapon caused the earthquake in Haiti, and whether a secret might have poisoned Venezuela's independence war hero, Simón Bolívar -- rather than the tuberculosis diagnosed by his physician at the time. So enamored was he of this final bit of lunacy he actually ordered the Libertador's body exhumed for tests. When those tests came back showing no reason to believe Bolívar had been poisoned, Chávez nonetheless insisted that Bolívar had been murdered anyway.
It's easy to chuckle -- but try to imagine what would happen to your own psyche if no one ever questioned you to your face over 14 years. Wouldn't your grasp start to slip?
Finding no resistance, Chávez gave free rein to his creative streak. He changed the country's official name, shifted its time zone by half-an-hour on a whim and added an extra star to the flag. At one point, he ordered the National Coat of Arms changed on his then 9-year-old daughter's suggestion. When an opposition satirist responded by publishing an Open Letter to the First Daughter -- reasoning that if she was now making public policy, people had a right to address her -- Chávez had the paper that printed the letter fined for violating a child's privacy.