I could also say he was a revolutionary. He cared for the farmer and the peasant, the movement and the revolution. Their country now boasts the fairest income distribution in the region, trailing 0.39 on the index. They boast the world’s largest oil fields. Their GDP grew 5% last year. They’ve got two million learning the Bolivarian way of life. Many have food, shelter, housing, health and many other benefits. He helped his allies, and his allies helped him. But then…I don’t know.
As I type, I am starting to think my brain splits in half. One side says “Yes”, another one says “No”. It looks simple, but it isn’t. For starters, I don’t live there, and my sheltered, American life can only see what a gilded screen –or words- can see. I can’t comment on the life down there: how expensive, how crowded, how cruel and confused…I feel no legal right to say on these things. Most of what comes in a gilded screen is never actually accurate, and the slightest hint of emotion can ruin a perfectly unbiased story. That is never good. And I…I know what’s happening, but I still feel lopsided, like I don’t really know.
Some hail him as a messiah; others have him as a pariah.
Some look at him with greatness; others scoff at disdain.
Some are crying their eyes out; others want to dance in his grave.
This is troublesome, making an opinion that will not flame, nor troll for the two or three people that actually care about this blog. Nothing ever makes sense: how can I write about something in which I’m constantly saturated with information while I don’t know how to respond to it? For any type of serious journalism, indecision surely defeats the purpose.
And it defeats the purpose of what my dad usually says.
Now, the world faces a big question mark. Will the next guy follow his footsteps, or will he bring radical reform? What will his direction be: north or south? Then again, there’s nothing more we can do: we’re only allowed to sit out and wait.
Meanwhile, I’m praying, hard… Because they need it más que nunca.