A tense encounter at a gas station captured the attention of all of Uruguay. Colonel Eduardo Sánchez, known for his inflexible stances, publicly confronted José Mujica, humiliating him for his old Volkswagen and his austere lifestyle.
—Aren’t you ashamed that a former president is driving that junk?
He spat at her contemptuously.
Mujica’s response not only left the military man speechless, but also triggered a reconciliation process that transcended decades of political hatred in Uruguay.
The sun was beginning to set over the fields of Rincón del Cerro when José Mujica, affectionately known as Pepe by his town, was driving his old blue 1987 Volkswagen Beetle along Route 5.
At 85, the former Uruguayan president maintained the habit of personally visiting small rural producers to listen to their concerns. His small farm on the outskirts of Montevideo, where he lived with his wife Lucía Topolansky and their three adopted dogs, was a symbol of the austerity that had made him the poorest president in the world.
That autumn afternoon, Mujica was returning from visiting the Rodríguez family, small farmers struggling with the drought affecting their soybean crops. The sky threatened rain, and the wind shook the eucalyptus trees that lined the road.
A song by Rubén Olivera was playing on the radio, a song that reminded him of the times of resistance against the dictatorship.
“A man’s true wealth lies in how little he needs,” Pepe thought as he gazed at the horizon.
That philosophy had guided him throughout his life, from his years as a Tupamaro guerrilla to his presidency between 2010 and 2015.
Dressed in his characteristically simple clothes —a worn plaid shirt and work pants—, Mujica stopped at a gas station to refuel.
—Don Pepe, how are you?
Martín, the young manager, greeted him enthusiastically.
—Here we are, fighting against time, which waits for no one.
Mujica responded in his usual hoarse and measured tone.
While he waited, he noticed a sleek black car with tinted windows parked a few meters away. A tall man, around 60 years old, with a rigid posture, got out of the vehicle dressed in full military uniform.
It was Colonel Eduardo Sánchez, a controversial figure in Uruguay for his statements in defense of the positive legacy of the military dictatorship that governed the country between 1973 and 1985.
The colonel’s eyes fell on Mujica. A sneer crossed his face.
For years, Sánchez had publicly criticized the former president, considering him a terrorist who should never have come to power. Fate had brought them face to face at that gas station.
Sánchez walked purposefully towards Mujica, who watched him calmly.
—So the great revolutionary still drives that clunker.
The soldier spat, pointing contemptuously at the old Volkswagen.
—Aren’t you ashamed that a former president is driving that junk? It’s disrespectful to the office he held.
Several customers and station employees stopped, watching the unexpected encounter. Martín, the young employee, approached, concerned, but Mujica waved his hand, indicating that everything was alright.
—Colonel Sanchez, I recognize you.
Mujica responded in a calm voice.
“It seems my car bothers him. Maybe he’s right. It’s as old as I am. But we’re alike. We keep walking.”
The tension was palpable.
A few meters away, a young woman named Carolina Méndez, a 28-year-old rural teacher, recognized both men and began to discreetly record with her cell phone.
—You represent everything that is wrong with this country.
Sánchez continued, raising his voice.
—He promotes mediocrity and acceptance of poverty. What kind of example does he set for young people by living like a homeless person, when he once held the power of an entire country in his hands?
Those present held their breath.
Colonel Sánchez was known for his explosive temper and inflexible opinions. He had been one of the main opponents of the amnesty law that investigated crimes committed during the dictatorship.
Mujica remained silent for a few seconds, like someone carefully choosing their words. A faint smile appeared on his face, marked by time.
—You know, Colonel, I understand your frustration. You and I represent two very different ways of seeing life.
Mujica said, adjusting his glasses.
—But I’ll tell you something I learned during the 13 years I spent in prison. Many of them in a cell, unable to speak to anyone. Life is too short to waste it accumulating things you can’t take with you when you die.
The colonel’s face tensed even more. Several of those present nodded in agreement with Mujica’s words.
Pure cheap demagoguery!
Sánchez exclaimed, becoming increasingly agitated.
—And what about the millions spent during his administration? And the public funds that were squandered? His austere lifestyle is nothing more than a facade to deceive the ignorant.
A murmur of disapproval rippled through the group of people who had already gathered around.
Carolina continued recording, impressed by the calm that the former president maintained in the face of the attacks.
—Colonel.
Mujica responded without losing his composure.
“My government had successes and failures, like everyone else’s. But I can assure you that every decision I made was with the most vulnerable in mind. That’s how I understand politics and life.”
The rain began to fall gently.
The colonel seemed puzzled by Mujica’s lack of confrontation.
—And what’s that watch he’s wearing?
Sánchez asked, pointing at Pepe’s wrist.
—Is this also part of his charade of humility?
Mujica looked at the old Casio watch on his wrist and smiled.
“This watch was given to me by a fisherman from Punta del Diablo about 10 years ago. He told me it was water-resistant, perfect for when I’m working in the garden. I don’t know how much it cost, but it’s very valuable to me because it reminds me that time is the only truly valuable thing we have.”
Colonel Sánchez, visibly frustrated by Mujica’s composure, took another step towards him, invading his personal space.
—You and your fellow Tupamaros are responsible for the worst times in this country. Terrorists disguised as politicians. How dare you speak of values?
That’s when Martín, the young man from the station, intervened.
—Colonel, I ask for respect. We are in a public space.
—Stay out of it, kid.
Sánchez responded abruptly.
Mujica placed a hand on Martín’s shoulder as a sign of gratitude.
—That’s fine, Martin. The colonel has the right to express himself.
Then, turning to Sánchez, he added:
—Over the years, I’ve learned that hatred is too heavy a burden to carry for a lifetime. I’ve made mistakes, we all have. But this country can only move forward when we learn to listen to each other without resentment.
The rain was falling harder and harder.
Colonel Sánchez seemed speechless at Mujica’s composure. Finally, he muttered something unintelligible and returned to his car, starting it with a squeal of tires that left a trail of water on the asphalt.
Those present approached Mujica to express their support. Carolina, the rural teacher, approached him timidly.
—President Mujica, I recorded what just happened. Your response was admirable. May I share this video?
Mujica looked at her with his tired, but lively eyes.
—Do what you think is best, young lady, but remember that in these discussions there are no winners. We are just Uruguayans trying to find our way.
Carolina nodded, moved.
That night he uploaded the video to his social media with a simple comment:
“A man’s greatness is not measured by his possessions, but by his ability to maintain his dignity in the face of provocation.”
Meanwhile, Mujica returned to his farm in the rain, reflecting on the meeting. His old Volkswagen moved slowly along, a symbol of his philosophy of life. There’s no need to go fast or attract attention to reach your destination.
The video of the confrontation between José Mujica and Colonel Sánchez spread across social media with unprecedented speed. In less than 24 hours, the footage captured by Carolina Méndez had been shared more than 500,000 times and had gone viral beyond Uruguay’s borders.
The main national and international media outlets began to echo the incident, analyzing every word, every gesture of the former president.
At his modest farm in Rincón del Cerro, oblivious to the media frenzy, Mujica got up as usual at dawn. Dressed in his work overalls and rubber boots, he went out to inspect the damage the rain had caused to his vegetable garden.
His wife, Lucía Topolansky, watched him from the kitchen while preparing mate.
—Pepe, did you see what’s happening with that video?
Lucia asked when Mujica returned home with some fresh vegetables.
—Rosario told me something yesterday on the phone.
He answered, referring to his assistant.
—But you know these things don’t keep me up at night.
—This time it’s different.
Lucia insisted.
“They’re calling from everywhere. The video has millions of views.”
Mujica sat down at the wooden kitchen table, accepting the mate offered by his life partner. Manuela, one of his adopted dogs, settled at his feet.
“People are hungry for authenticity, Lucía, but I worry that this will distract from the real problems. Families like the Rodríguezes are still struggling with the drought. Small farmers are still in debt. That’s what’s important.”
The house phone rang insistently. Lucia answered.
—It’s for you, Pepe, from Channel 10. They want to interview you about what happened.
Mujica shook his head.
—Tell them I appreciate it, but I’m busy planting zucchini.
At the other end of Montevideo, in an elegant residence in the Carrasco neighborhood, Colonel Eduardo Sánchez watched the morning news with fury. His wife Mercedes and his son Fernando, a 35-year-old army captain, silently accompanied him.
—This is all an orchestrated campaign against me.
He exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table.
—They edited the video to make me look like the villain.
-Dad.
Fernando interrupted cautiously.
—Perhaps you should issue a statement, explain your position.
—Explain what? That I told the truth? That that man represents everything that’s wrong with this country?
Mercedes exchanged a worried glance with her son.
Colonel Sánchez had dedicated his life to the army, following family tradition. His father had served during the military dictatorship, and Eduardo’s views had always been unwavering regarding that historical period.
—Eduardo.
Mercedes said softly.
—This scandal could affect your standing in military circles. You know presidential elections are coming up soon.
The colonel remained silent, aware that his wife was right.
For years he had worked to position himself as a candidate to preside over the military circle, the institution that brought together retired officers. That incident could cost him that long-desired recognition.
Meanwhile, at a rural school in the department of Canelones, Carolina Méndez was facing her own media frenzy. The young teacher had received dozens of interview requests and her phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
—Miss Méndez, could you tell us about the video?
A reporter asked as Carolina was leaving her classes.
—I only did what any citizen would do.
He answered timidly.
—I documented a moment that I felt was important.
—Do you have any political affiliation? Did you know Mujica personally?
The reporter insisted.
Carolina shook her head.
—I had never met him in person, and I don’t belong to any political party. I’m just a teacher who admires human values, regardless of where they come from.
The impact of the video had transcended mere anecdote, becoming a national debate about the values that defined Uruguay as a society. Radio programs, television channels, and newspapers passionately discussed Mujica’s austerity, historical reconciliation, and the legacy of the dictatorship.
That afternoon, while Mujica was working in his garden under a warm autumn sun, he received an unexpected visit.
A taxi stopped in front of the farm entrance, and Fernando Sánchez, the colonel’s son, got out. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but his military bearing was unmistakable.
Mujica’s dogs began to bark. Pepe put down the shovel he was using and approached the gate.
-Good afternoon.
Fernando greeted them cautiously.
—I am Fernando Sánchez, son of Colonel Eduardo Sánchez. I was wondering if I could speak with you for a few minutes.
Mujica watched him closely. He could see the nervousness on the young officer’s face.
—Come in, boy.
He finally answered.
—I was just about to prepare some mate. Will you join me?
Fernando nodded and followed Mujica to the modest house. The interior was as austere as the rumors had suggested: simple furniture, a library full of worn books, a few family photographs, and mementos from his presidential trips. Not a trace of luxury or extravagance.
—Please sit down.
Mujica indicated, pointing to a chair next to the kitchen table.
—Lucía isn’t here. She went to a meeting in the Senate.
An awkward silence settled between them as Mujica prepared the mate. Fernando observed every detail of the house, which contrasted sharply with the residence where he had grown up.
—Mr. Mujica.
Fernando started when he received the mate from the former president.
—I came of my own free will. My father doesn’t know I’m here.
—I figured as much.
Pepe replied with a slight smile.
—How can I help you?
Fernando hesitated before continuing.
—I wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday. My father’s behavior was inappropriate.
Mujica made a gesture with his hand, downplaying its importance.
—You don’t have to apologize for your father. Everyone is responsible for their own actions.
—He just doesn’t understand.
Fernando insisted.
—This incident has unleashed a storm. My father is receiving threats. He has been declared persona non grata in several places. They are even calling for his expulsion from the military circle.
Mujica leaned back in his chair, lost in thought.
—Polarization never brings anything good. Look, I spent many years hating the military who tortured me. That hatred almost consumed me. I learned that resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.
Fernando nodded, visibly moved.
“My father has always been a man of strong convictions. He grew up hearing stories about how the Tupamaros sowed terror. For him, you were always the enemy.”
—And for us, they were.
Mujica admitted.
—But Uruguay needs to heal those wounds. Almost 50 years have passed since the coup. The new generations deserve a reconciled country.
—My wife is pregnant.
Fernando commented after a moment of silence.
—He will be our first child. Sometimes I wonder what kind of country we are leaving him, what stories we are going to tell him.
Mujica smiled.
—Fatherhood is a great responsibility. It forces one to think about the future beyond one’s own existence.
—Yesterday, when I saw the video.
Fernando continued.
—I felt ashamed, but it also made me reflect on many things. All my life I’ve only heard one side of the story.
—All stories have multiple versions.
Mujica responded.
—The truth is never simple. I too have had to re-examine my certainties many times.
Fernando took the last sip of mate and gave it back to Mujica.
“There’s something else I need to tell you. A few months ago, my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The doctors have given him six months to live. No one outside the family knows.”
The revelation hit Mujica like a ton of bricks. Suddenly, the confrontation at the gas station took on a new dimension.
-Very sorry.
He said sincerely.
—Physical pain sometimes transforms into other types of pain.
—My father is terrified, although he would never admit it.
Fernando continued.
“He’s spent his whole life preparing for war, but he doesn’t know how to deal with this. I think his reaction yesterday was partly due to his frustration, his fear.”
Mujica remained silent, digesting the information. Evening was beginning to fall over the farm, painting the sky in shades of orange.
—What can I do for you?
He finally asked.
Fernando seemed surprised by the question.
—I didn’t come to ask you for anything, Mr. Mujica. I just wanted you to know the truth.
—Sometimes the truth is the best starting point.
Pepe answered.
—Tell me, is your father receiving adequate treatment?
—Yes, thank you. Military insurance covers everything, but the prognosis isn’t good.
Mujica slowly got up from the chair.
—Come on. I want to show you something.
Fernando followed the former president to the back of the house. There, among fruit trees and wildflowers, was a small wooden bench in front of what appeared to be a commemorative plaque.
—Do you know what this is?
Mujica asked.
Fernando shook his head.
“I buried my dog Maneco here. A few years ago. He was a three-legged dog I adopted when I got out of prison. He was with me for 16 years. When he died, I understood something important: all living beings share the same final destiny. Rich and poor, soldiers and guerrillas, we will all end up as part of the same earth.”
Fernando looked at the simple plaque that read:
“Maneco, faithful companion. Death makes us equal.”
Mujica continued:
—It reminds us that our differences are temporary and often absurd. That’s why I try to live each day as if it were a gift, without accumulating grudges or possessions.
The sun was beginning to set. Fernando looked at his watch, knowing he had to return soon.
—Mr. Mujica, is there anything I could ask of you? Would you make a public appeal to stop the attacks against my father? Not for him, but for my mother, who is suffering greatly because of all this.
Mujica nodded slowly.
—I will do it. Not because his father deserves it, but because Uruguay needs less hatred and more understanding.
They both returned to the entrance of the farm. Before saying goodbye, Fernando extended his hand.
—Thank you for receiving me, Mr. Mujica. I understand better now why, despite our ideological differences, so many people respect you.
Mujica shook hands with the young officer.
—Tell your father that if he needs anything, he knows where to find me. The doors of this farm are open to everyone.
Fernando nodded and returned to the taxi that was waiting for him.
As the vehicle drove away, Mujica gazed at the horizon, where the first stars were beginning to appear.
—Life is wiser than all of us put together.
He muttered to himself as he walked back to his garden.
That night, sitting with Lucía on the porch of his house, Mujica shared the story of Fernando’s visit.
—What are you going to do?
Lucia asked after listening to him attentively.
“I’ll speak to the press tomorrow. I’ll ask for respect for Colonel Sánchez and his family. After that, I’ll go back to my pumpkins, which is where I belong.”
Lucia smiled and rested her head on her partner’s shoulder.
—After so many years, you still surprise me, Pepe.
—It’s nothing extraordinary.
He answered.
—I just try to live according to what I preach. Consistency is the only luxury I can afford.
The next morning, Montevideo awoke to clear skies. In the newsrooms of Uruguay’s main media outlets, editors were preparing to cover what would be the day’s big story.
José Mujica had called an impromptu press conference at his country house. The announcement, made via a brief statement, did not specify the topic, but everyone assumed he would address the incident with Colonel Sánchez.
At 10 o’clock sharp, dozens of national and international journalists gathered in front of the modest house in Rincón del Cerro. Mujica, true to form, greeted them in the front garden, dressed in a plaid shirt and work pants.
There was no podium or sophisticated microphones, just a wooden chair where the former president sat with his three dogs faithfully by his side.
—I appreciate you coming.
Mujica began in his characteristically calm voice.
—I’m going to be brief because I have some things that need attention and they won’t wait for anyone, not even a former president.
A light laugh rippled through those present, breaking the initial tension.
—I’ve seen the reaction to the video where I confronted Colonel Eduardo Sánchez. I understand that these things generate debate, and debate is healthy in a democracy. But I want to ask you something important: let’s stop fueling hatred and division.
The journalists frantically took notes as the cameras focused on Mujica’s weathered face.
—Uruguay is a small country, where we are all connected in some way. We have lived through dark times, we have made mistakes, and we have learned hard lessons. I myself have come a long way from my days as a guerrilla fighter to the presidency. That journey taught me that dialogue is always better than confrontation.
Mujica paused to take a sip of water. Lucía discreetly approached to hand it to him.
—I ask that you respect Colonel Sánchez and his family. Let this incident not turn into a witch hunt. He has the right to his opinions, just like all of us. If we want to build a better Uruguay, we must learn to listen to each other, especially when we disagree.
A murmur of surprise swept through those present. No one expected Mujica to defend the man who had publicly insulted him.
—President.
A journalist interrupted.
—Are you forgiving Colonel Sanchez?
Mujica smiled.
“It’s not about forgiving or not forgiving. It’s about understanding that we are all human, with our strengths and weaknesses. I too have said things I regret. The difference is that my mistakes weren’t caught on video.”
—Have you had any contact with the colonel since the incident?
Another reporter asked.
—Not directly.
Mujica responded, taking care not to reveal Fernando’s visit.
—But I want you to know that if you ever want to talk, my door is open. Sometimes a simple conversation can break down walls that seemed insurmountable.
The press conference continued for a few minutes. Mujica patiently answered the questions, emphasizing the need to overcome the historical divisions that still fractured Uruguayan society.
Finally, as the journalists were putting away their equipment, Carolina Méndez, the rural teacher who had recorded the video, timidly approached Mujica.
—President, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Carolina, the one from the video.
Mujica looked at her warmly.
—Of course I remember, miss. How are you handling all this attention?
—It has been overwhelming.
She confessed.
—Some call me a hero. Others accuse me of manipulating the situation. I just wanted to document a moment that seemed important to me.
—The truth always makes someone uncomfortable.
Mujica responded.
—Don’t worry about what they say. You did what you thought was right, and that’s what matters.
Carolina nodded, visibly moved.
—There’s something I wanted to tell you. I’m a teacher in a rural school in Canelones. Many of my students come from humble families, with parents who work from dawn till dusk to provide them with the basics. Their example, their philosophy of life, is a powerful lesson for them.
Mujica listened attentively.
—After what happened.
Carolina continued.
—I prepared a special lesson on civic values. I showed them clips from the video and asked them what they would do in his place. Do you know what they answered? That they would try to understand why that man was so angry, that maybe he had a problem or was sad.
A smile spread across Mujica’s face.
—Children often possess a wisdom that adults lose over the years. Empathy is something we should cultivate throughout our lives.
—I would like to invite you to visit our school sometime.
Carolina cheered up.
—It would be an unforgettable experience for the children.
-I’d love to.
Mujica answered without hesitation.
—Tell me when and I’ll be there. Children are the future, and we must be generous with our time and attention towards them.
Meanwhile, at the military hospital in Montevideo, Colonel Eduardo Sánchez was receiving another chemotherapy session. His wife, Mercedes, was by his side, holding his hand as the fluid slowly entered his veins.
The television in the room silently displayed Mujica’s press conference.
—Delete that.
The colonel ordered in a weak voice.
—Eduardo, I think you should listen to what he’s saying.
Mercedes answered gently.
—I don’t need that man’s pity.
Mercedes sighed, but didn’t insist.
The last few days had been extremely difficult: the threats, the insults on social media, even some old friends who had stopped calling. The incident had exposed Eduardo to public scrutiny in a way he had never experienced before.
The bedroom door opened and Fernando entered with a serious expression.
—How are you feeling, Dad?
—Like someone who is being poisoned in order to cure him.
The colonel replied bitterly.
—What are people saying in military circles?
Fernando exchanged a glance with his mother before answering.
—The board will meet tomorrow to discuss your case. Some are calling for your expulsion, others are defending your right to express your opinions.
The colonel closed his eyes.
Throughout his life, the military circle had been his second home, the place where his word was respected and valued. The possibility of being expelled was a devastating blow to his pride.
—Dad, there’s something you should know.
Fernando continued.
—Mujica just held a press conference asking for respect for you and your family. He said that everyone has the right to their opinions and that there shouldn’t be a witch hunt.
The colonel opened his eyes, visibly surprised.
—What exactly did he say?
He asked in a weak voice.
Fernando took out his phone and played a clip from the press conference. Mujica’s hoarse voice echoed in the hospital room.
—I ask that you respect Colonel Sánchez and his family. Let’s not turn this incident into a witch hunt. He has the right to his opinions, just like all of us.
A heavy silence settled in the room.
The colonel’s face, already pale from illness, now seemed confused, as if he were trying to reconcile the image he had built of Mujica with the man he had just listened to.
—Why would I do that?
He finally murmured.
—After how I treated him.
Mercedes took her husband’s hand.
—Because perhaps he is the man Eduardo always claimed to be: someone who prioritizes reconciliation over resentment.
The colonel did not respond. His gaze was lost on the white ceiling of the room as the chemotherapy continued to flow through his veins.
—There’s something else.
Fernando added after a pause.
—Yesterday I went to see Mujica.
—What did you do?
The colonel exclaimed, trying to sit up in bed.
—I needed to talk to him, and someone had to defend our family.
—How dare you go without consulting me? What did you say to him?
The colonel’s voice trembled with indignation.
—I told him about your illness, Dad.
Fernando answered firmly.
—Not to elicit pity, but to help her understand the full context.
Eduardo Sánchez paled even more. The idea that his ideological enemy knew of his vulnerability was unbearable to him.
—And what did he do? Did he mock my weakness? Was he glad that I’m finally going to pay for my crimes?
He asked bitterly.
Fernando shook his head.
—Quite the opposite. He seemed genuinely concerned. He asked if we had access to good doctors, if we needed anything. He even offered his help.
The colonel was speechless. That selfless gesture contradicted everything he had believed for decades about the Tupamaros in general and about Mujica in particular.
—I don’t want your pity.
He finally murmured.
—It’s not a pity, Dad.
Fernando answered.
—It’s humanity, the same humanity that you taught me a good soldier should have.
The nurse came in to check the chemotherapy drip, momentarily interrupting the conversation. When they were alone again, the colonel seemed calmer.
—What is your house like?
He asked unexpectedly.
Fernando barely smiled.
—Exactly as they show it on the news. Small, simple, full of books. She has a vegetable garden where she grows vegetables and flowers. Her dogs roam free. And she truly lives like this by choice.
—With all the money he must have accumulated.
“Dad, I saw his eyes when he talked about life, about death, about what really matters. He wasn’t acting. That man truly believes what he says.”
The colonel remained silent, processing the information. After a few minutes, he looked at his son.
—When this session is over, I want you to take me home. I have a letter to write.
Three days later, José Mujica fulfilled his promise to visit the rural school where Carolina Méndez worked. He arrived driving his old Volkswagen, accompanied only by Lucía.
There was no security or protocol. Just an 85-year-old man willing to share his experiences with children who barely knew the recent history of their country.
The school was decorated for the occasion. The children, dressed in their finest clothes, waited nervously and excitedly in the courtyard. Carolina had prepared them for days, explaining who Mujica was, his history as a guerrilla fighter, his years in prison, his time as president, and, above all, his philosophy of life.
—He’s here!
“Wow!” shouted one of the children as the unmistakable blue Volkswagen Beetle pulled up in front of the school.
Mujica slowly stepped out of the car, greeted by a spontaneous ovation from the children. Carolina approached to welcome him.
—Mr. President, you don’t know how much this means to them, to me, to the entire community.
—The honor is all mine.
Mujica answered honestly.
—There is nothing more important than sharing with the new generations.
For the next two hours, Mujica talked with the children in the schoolyard. He sat in a simple chair, surrounded by the children, who settled on the ground in front of him.
He told them about his childhood, his immigrant parents, and how he learned to value the land and hard work. He adapted his language to tell them about his years of activism, his mistakes, and his time in prison.
—Is it true that they kept him in a well?
A child of about 10 years old asked.
—Yes, that’s true.
Mujica answered frankly.
—For almost three years I lived in a hole so small I could barely move.
—And didn’t he hate soldiers?
The boy insisted.
Mujica smiled slightly.
—At first, yes, very much so. Hatred was my companion for a long time. But then I understood that this hatred hurt me more than it hurt them, that it robbed me of the possibility of being happy.
—My grandfather says you were a terrorist.
Another child commented innocently.
An awkward silence fell over the group. Carolina paled, but Mujica responded calmly.
“Your grandfather is entitled to his opinion. I was a guerrilla fighter who fought against what I considered unjust. I used methods I wouldn’t use today. We all make mistakes, we all learn. The important thing is that we never stop questioning ourselves and trying to be better people.”
The conversation flowed to more everyday topics. The children asked him about his dogs, his vegetable garden, his likes and dislikes. Mujica answered patiently, laughing at the children’s jokes, treating each one with the same respect he would show an adult.
At the end of the meeting, the children gave him drawings and letters they had prepared. Mujica received them with emotion, promising to read them all carefully.
—Before I leave.
Mujica said.
—I want to leave you with an important message. Life isn’t about having a lot of things. It’s about having time to do what we love with the people we love. Always remember that happiness isn’t about buying more, but about needing less.
As Mujica was saying goodbye, a black SUV pulled up next to his Volkswagen. Fernando Sánchez got out of the vehicle dressed in civilian clothes.
—Mr. Mujica.
He called him as the former president was heading towards his car.
Pepe stopped, surprised by the presence of the young officer.
—My father asked me to deliver this to him. Personally.
Fernando said, handing her an envelope.
Mujica took it with curiosity.
-How are you doing?
—The treatments are tough, but he’s fighting.
Fernando answered.
—I would appreciate it if you read the letter in private.
Mujica nodded.
—Of course. Give him my respects.
Back at his farm, sitting on the porch as evening fell, Mujica finally opened the envelope. The letter, written in firm but slightly trembling handwriting, read:
“Mr. Mujica:
I write these lines not to seek your forgiveness, but to express something I never thought possible: my respect.
Throughout my military career, I was taught to see you and the Tupamaros as the embodiment of evil. That conviction guided my actions and words for decades. The incident at the gas station was nothing more than the public manifestation of a private hatred I have nurtured for years.
However, his response to my aggression, and even more so his public defense of my right to express myself, have forced me to question myself.
At 60 years old, facing a terminal illness, I find myself rethinking many of my convictions.
Perhaps we both fought from opposing trenches for what we believed was best for Uruguay. Perhaps we both erred in our methods, but were right in our intentions.
I maintain my criticisms of your administration and many of your policies. We continue to have diametrically opposed views on what this country needs, but I recognize in you something I didn’t expect to find: a personal integrity that transcends politics.
My son told me about his visit to her house, about her vegetable garden, her dogs, her simple life. He told me how she welcomed him without resentment, how she offered her help unconditionally. Those gestures have made me reflect more than any political speech.
I don’t know how much time I have left. The doctors are talking about months, maybe weeks. Before I go, I wanted him to know that, although I don’t share his views, I’ve learned to respect the man behind them.
If my health permits, I would like to accept that mate my son says you offered. Not to discuss politics, but to talk like two Uruguayans who, despite everything, share more than what separates them.
With respect,
Colonel Eduardo Sánchez.”
Mujica read the letter twice, moved by the honesty conveyed in those words. Lucía sat beside him, noticing the emotion on her companion’s face.
-Bad news?
Asked.
-On the contrary.
Mujica responded, handing him the letter.
—This is the best news I could have received.
While Lucía read, Mujica watched the sunset over his farm. The colors of the sky were reflected in the leaves of the trees he himself had planted years before, trees under whose shade he would probably never rest.
—Life is wise.
He murmured.
—Sometimes we need to confront our own mortality to understand what really matters.
—Are you going to answer him?
Lucia asked.
—Better than that.
Mujica responded.
—I’ll go see him at the hospital tomorrow. I’ll bring mate and time, which is the most valuable thing I can offer.
The next day, in a room at the military hospital, two former enemies shared mate and memories. They didn’t talk about politics or ideologies, but about childhoods, parents, children, hopes, and fears.
They spoke as what they truly were, beyond their uniforms and their stories: two Uruguayan men facing the end of their days, reconciling not only with each other, but with their own history.
A week later, Colonel Eduardo Sánchez passed away surrounded by his family.
Among the few people who attended his funeral, besides military personnel and family members, was José Mujica, who remained discreetly in the last row, respecting the family’s grief, but present as he had promised.
When the ceremony ended, Fernando approached Mujica.
—My father spent his last days in peace.
He said, his voice breaking with emotion.
—Our conversations meant a lot to him. He asked me to tell him that, although late, he had understood his message about happiness and simplicity.
Mujica nodded, moved.
—His father was a man of convictions, different from mine, but firm and honest. Uruguay needs more people who defend what they believe in, even when they are wrong.
—Do you know what he told me before he died?
Fernando continued.
—Death is the great equalizer. In the end, we are all part of the same earth. It sounded a lot like you.
Mujica barely smiled.
—These are words I have said many times, but each person must discover them for themselves.
The video of the confrontation at the gas station continued to circulate on social media, but now accompanied by images of Mujica asking for respect for Colonel Sánchez and by accounts of his presence at the funeral.
What began as an episode of confrontation transformed into a symbol of national reconciliation, an example of how ideological differences can give way to shared humanity.
Carolina Méndez, the rural teacher who had recorded the original video, created with her students an educational project called “Bridges, not walls”, inspired by the story of Mujica and Sánchez.
The project, which taught children to listen to and respect different opinions, quickly spread to other schools across the country.
At his farm in Rincón del Cerro, Mujica continued his simple life, cultivating his garden, taking care of his dogs, and receiving young people who sought advice or simply wanted to hear his stories.
Every afternoon, while drinking mate on his porch, he reflected on how a moment of tension had been transformed into an opportunity to demonstrate his philosophy of life with actions, not just words.
—Life takes you down unexpected paths.
He told Lucia one afternoon.
—Who would have thought that my last important political act would be to reconcile with a colonel who hated me?
—It was not a political act.
Lucia answered.
—It was a human act. And perhaps that is your greatest lesson for all of us.
Mujica nodded, looking towards the horizon, where the sun was beginning to set, painting the Uruguayan sky with the same colors as its flag.
-In the end.
He murmured.
—The only thing that matters is that we have been able to love something more than ourselves.
And at that moment, as if confirming his words, his three dogs approached demanding affection, reminding him that happiness was always in the simplest things, in the smallest gestures, in the ability to build bridges where others only saw abysses.
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