Contras. Civil war in Nicaragua is estimated to have killed 60,000 people at a cost of 178 billion dollars.
1984 Daniel Ortega (FSLN candidate) is elected President of Nicaragua. Ronald Reagan imposes an embargo on Nicaragua.
1985 “Iran Contra Affair” is exposed publicly.
1986 Daniel Ortega goes to Soviet Union seeking funds.
1987 Hurricane Hugo devastates Nicaragua.
1990 Violeta Chamorro, widow of Pedro Joaquín Chamorro, is elected President of Nicaragua.
1991 Coalition government (National Opposition Union) cuts social programs (health, education, etc.) and land reform.
1997 Armando Alemán is elected Presidents of Nicaragua representing the Constitutionalist Nationalist Party.
2007 Daniel Ortega is again elected President. Sandinistas control government once more.
2012 April 30: Tomás Borge, last surviving founder of FSLN, dies.
Tuesday, August 26, 1980
Sarah Rutledge experienced no strong feelings in the lobby of the Nicaraguan Ministry of Justice in Managua, neither repulsion at its drabness, nor anxiety in anticipation of what might happen, just impatience. She didn’t like sitting and waiting for the Chief Minister to see her and thought of leaving. The minutes seemed even longer because they were empty, because she was empty, ready to give up and give in. At least her wait didn’t stretch into hours. Within a half an hour a secretary called her into the office of Aldolfo Castillo López.
There were few signs of privilege and power in Castillo’s office—an old battered metal desk, three wooden armchairs and four straight chairs and one comfortable padded swivel chair for the minister, not even a carpet on the floor nor curtains over the windows. At the side of the room a table was piled high with maps and blueprints. On the minister’s desk were stacks of papers and a stapler. A very large, exquisite pre-Columbian jade carving served as a paperweight on top of a high pile of rumpled pages. It was insecurely balanced and could have fallen off and broken, even though it was probably worth hundreds of dollars.
“Buenos días (Good morning), Señorita Rutledge Lloyd. Please have a seat.” Castillo López shook Sarah’s hand and stared at her. His hands were cold against her palm as she thought the metal of the pistol on his hip would feel if she were to touch it. Her heart also felt cold inside her chest.
“Gracias (Thank you).” Sarah sat in one of the straight wooden chairs without an armrest.
“What do you want me to do for you?”
“I want to get a final decision about the disposition of my property.”
“Do you plan to stay in Nicaragua permanently and live on the finca (farm), or do you intend to sell it and leave the country?”
Weariness overcame Sarah. She could no longer pretend and deceive Castillo, perhaps because she could no longer pretend and deceive herself with tentative possibilities and illusions of happy resolutions. She had already collapsed and given up within herself, and there seemed no reason to maintain any outward resistance to the government’s program of confiscating foreigners’ property, no matter how much they might protest.
“When I came back to Nicaragua, I did not think I would stay permanently. After the revolution and the death of my father it has been difficult to operate the finca and the factory; but since I have been back, almost three months now, I have found it hard to think of leaving for good, forever. This is my home. I am a citizen of the United States, but I have always thought of Nicaragua as my real home. Quinta Louisa has been the home of my family for almost a century. I have not been able to decide whether to sell it and give it up or to stay. Right now I think I will leave, but I just do not know.”
Against her will Sarah was forced to dab away tears from her cheeks. Castillo’s face softened, almost as if it might show a human expression. She thought that telling the truth moved him more than her tears. His lancing stare had penetrated to the center of her ambivalent sentiments.
“If it is difficult for you to decide, you can imagine that it is also difficult, much more difficult, for the government to decide what is right in these matters. In times of great change not all matters are easily adjudicated fairly and justly.”
“What do you think my chances are for keeping Quinta Louisa at this point?”
“I cannot speculate. It will be decided on the basis of what this ministry and other officials think your true rights are. Some people want to curry the good favor of the United States government and make that a part of the issue. I do not personally think the issues of property settlement should be influenced by the international climate. I believe each case should be decided on its own merits.”
“Even if I decide to leave Nicaragua, surely I have the right to receive something in compensation for Quinta Louisa.”
The cold mask returned to Castillo’s face, and he made no reply. Sarah understood that rights and values were defined differently in the two worlds in which they lived, one socialist and the other capitalist.
Tyranny and Colonialism: 1964–72
Who Belongs Here?
Sarah was nine and a half years old, almost nine and three quarters, as she calculated her age for anyone with the patience to listen to her, when she ran down the hall of Quinta Louisa on the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, wearing the homemade crown with two quetzal plumes attached to its sides. It was constructed from cutout cardboard and gilded with gold paint whose long drips had dried into permanent globs under the feathers, and Sarah believed it endowed her with magical powers.
“Have much care, Sarita,” Don Martín called from the patio door. “Have much care not to break the feathers.”
“I am going to wear the crown to the . . . party at the church . . . for the three kings.” Sarah couldn’t remember how to say Epiphany in Spanish, even though it was almost the same as in English, Epifanía.”
“You may not take the crown away from the forests. The quetzal belongs in the forests.”
Sarah knew that she would lose the battle if she appealed to her mother and father to overrule Don Martín. Even if he hadn’t seen her, permission to wear the quetzal crown to the church would have been a long shot at best.
“Then you must tell me the story again.”
“You know the words exactly. It is not necessary for me to repeat them.”
“I want to hear you say them.”
“Well, come outside to the patio.”
“No. You come in here.”
Martín laid his machete on the edge of the stone patio and sat down beside it and waited. Sarah carefully took off the crown and placed it on the table behind the English Sheridan sofa that had been shipped from England by her great-grandmother—she knew that Don Martín wouldn’t allow her to wear it outside—then opened the screened door. Sarah had grown almost as tall as Don Martín, but his body and arms and legs were strong and firm under his ginger colored skin. His face was smooth and round, but in the sandals he’d
