Ortega’s Most Wanted

Forty years ago, President Daniel Ortega and his wife Vice President Rosario Murillo hid together in safe houses in Costa Rica’s capital while waiting for the imminent fall of Anastasio Somoza. Today, thousands of their exiled compatriots hide in the same streets, awaiting the fall of the presidential couple.

We went to San José to interview and photograph Nicaraguan exiles from every walk of life: students, politicians, journalists, human rights activists, civic leaders. Some made media headlines worldwide when they left Nicaragua. Most are anonymous citizens. All have one thing in common: if they returned home, they say they would be arrested, tortured, or killed. They are some of Ortega’s most wanted.

If they returned home, they say they would be arrested, tortured, or killed.

Nicaraguan exiles are grateful to their southern neighbors. But most are hardly surviving in a foreign environment where they feel Ortega’s presence around every corner. “This is not a safe exile for me”, says Nemesio Mejia, a renowned farm leader who only sees his wife and children twice a month to elude danger. A defected member of the Nicaraguan riot police lives in seclusion on the outskirts of the capital: “I feel like a rat”. It took seven weeks for Rafael Solis, one of Ortega’s former closest allies, to find the right place and time to be photographed — “I am not afraid, but I take precautions”, Solis claims.

Alvaro Leyva, the exiled president of the Nicaraguan Association for Human Rights, wrote a letter to Costa Rica’s President Alvaro Quesada on March 15, 2019, asking for help after documenting multiple cases of harassment and persecution of refugees by people “who are presumably part of intelligence units of the Nicaraguan Government […] and have been sent to Costa Rica to operate as paramilitary.” Victor Barrantes, Costa Rica’s Vice Minister of Government and Police, asserts that “the government has no concrete evidence that would suggest that Nicaraguan paramilitary or counter-intelligence groups are operating in our country. However, we continue investigating, as we do receive complaints.”

Nicaraguans continue crossing the southern border, but their journey in exile is not as well documented as the continued repression back home. In this project, based on over 50 interviews in a four-month period in San José and Managua, we hear their voices and see their faces, as they recount their wounds and hopes in the midst of uncertainty.

“I was raped by five policemen.”

 Ericka Sanchez, 32, at a restaurant in San José. Ericka was the leader of a barricade in her native Masaya. She was captured in the early morning of June 2^nd 2018 and taken to El Chipote. “They forced me to take photos in front of a lot of weapons, saying that I was a terrorist. They hit me when I protested. After being undressed and blindfolded, I was raped by five policemen. Then they threw me into a cell that was pitch black. It smelled like death. The next day they forced me to read a false statement on camera incriminating 15 of my neighbors.” A day later, human rights defenders helped release some prisoners, including Ericka. She returned to her barricade, where she provided food and weapons, until Masaya was taken by government forces on July 17^th. “My group was the last. We resisted until midday. While running to hide, I was shot in my buttocks. We killed the person who did it.” Two days later, she crossed the border and was transported to San José in an ambulance. “I live in fear. The paramilitary are here looking for me.”

 “Nicaraguan exiles have major psychological problems.”

 Ricardo Pineda, 55, was a doctor at a private clinic in Managua before becoming a nationally renowned figure for his leadership in providing medical assistance to student protestors. “I suddenly saw many hospitals closing their doors to injured students. That made the protests very personal to me.” Ricardo was one of the doctors at the Church of Divina Misericordia the night of July 13^th. “I recorded a video inside the church, and within minutes it spread all over Nicaragua. I began receiving death threats via text, including a graphic that said: ‘We’re giving 50,000 cordobas to whomever kills the doctor’. As we left the church, I started heading to the Costa Rican border.” Ricardo is not allowed to practice in San José, but still volunteers to help newly-arrived Nicaraguans. “Some people come here badly wounded, many raped. The government uses rape as a weapon of war. Nicaraguan exiles have major psychological problems, like PTSD. Meanwhile, Nicaragua provides housing, food and resources for its paramilitary here.”

“I don’t want to die in exile.”

Dr. Estrada (first name omitted), 60, in the garage bedroom he shares with four other exiled Nicaraguans in San José. When the protests began, Dr. Estrada left his job to serve as a medic in a makeshift clinic in the main square of his native Monimbo, Masaya, an emblematic locale since the Sandinista Revolution. “We used restaurant tables, a tent, and some stretchers. In 88 days, we treated about 2000 people. We hardly slept. But it felt good to serve my town.” On the 17^th of July, 2018, government forces regained control of Monimbo, and Dr. Estrada walked for six days towards the Cost Rican border. “I received money to maintain the barricades, and now the government is accusing me of funding terrorism.” Unable to find a job in San José, Dr. Estrada lives off donations.  “I am living a slow but sure death if I continue here. I don’t want to die in exile without seeing my family again. The world needs to do something, quickly. Ortega is destroying us.”

“They are looking for me everywhere.”

Dulce Porras, 67, demonstrating the position she held for six hours inside a closet at Apostol Santiago church when pro-government forces attacked her hometown of Jinotepe on the 8^th of July, 2018. “Six of us had to crouch, one next to the other, behind the robes of the priest. The church shook with gunfire.  If hell exists, then I passed through hell that day.” Dulce comes from a family of politicians and is a founding member of the Sandinista Renovation Movement party (MRS). When the protests unraveled on the 18th of April, students went to Dulce for support. “I have been falsely accused of terrorism, organized crime, torture, looting, and funding the protests through MRS party funds. They are looking for me everywhere.” Dulce crossed the border into Costa Rica with her son two days after the July 8th attack. “It is difficult living in exile. I left my heart on the other side of the border.” She continues to receive death threats.

“Ortega has tried to silence us, but we’re reporting from here.”

Leticia Gaitán, 29, preparing for recording a news segment at the provisional studio she has set up in San José with colleagues from 100% Noticias, the independent news channel that was closed down by the Nicaraguan government on December 21^st 2018. Leticia, one of the most visible faces in the channel, covered the protests starting in April and, on multiple occasions, was assaulted and had equipment confiscated or broken while reporting. While traveling to cover protests in Ticuantepe in June, her station van was intercepted. “They ransacked our vehicle and stole everything. The entire time they held an AK-47 to my head and whispered lewd sexual comments in my ear.” The intimidation continued until the day in December when police stormed her office. Today, the building of 100% Noticias is still guarded by armed police; Miguel Mora, owner, and Lucia Pineda, news director, were recently released after months in prison, accused of “terrorism”. “Ortega has tried to silence us, but we continue reporting from here.”

“Violence will not solve this crisis.”

Rafael Solis, 65, at a coffee shop in San José, Costa Rica, where he sought refuge after resigning as Supreme Court magistrate and Sandinista party affiliate in early January. Considered one of Ortega’s closest allies for decades, his public renunciation letter described Nicaragua as a “dictatorship” and a “state of terror”.  Solis championed the controversial legal modifications to allow Ortega to run for re-election in 2011. “I made a mistake”, says Solis. “Nicaragua needs a profound judicial reform, or even a new constitution. And we need a truth commission to investigate everything that happened since April.” Solis is hopeful about the opportunities for dialogue. “Violence will not solve this crisis. We need dialogue, and it’s not easy. But Ortega has to free all political prisoners. We need to be patient.” This is the first time Solis has been photographed in a public space in Costa Rica. “I take precautions here, but I am not afraid. I am a strong person. I risked my life against Somoza’s dictatorship as young man. I have faith.”

“We are interrupting Costa Rica’s democracy.”

Nemesio Mejia, 43, is one of the leaders of Nicaragua’s largest farmers’ movement. A farmer from Chontales, he has been at the head of 97 marches since 2013 during which he advocated against the controversial Nicaragua Canal. “Many farmers have been killed in the past six years. What happened in April 2018 is not new to us — Ortega’s regime has consistently tried to silence us. He has sold our land to the Chinese.” Nemesio was responsible for the national coordination of the farmers’ barricades. “We faced a lot of crises because we had different views on how to approach the protests. We don’t agree with violence.” On July 14^th, with his town under heavy attack, Nemesio fled. “We lost many people that day. I don’t know if they’re alive, dead, or in jail.” Nemesio’s wife and children joined him in Costa Rica, but he only sees them twice a month. “This is not a safe exile for me. I know they’re trying to kill me. In a way, we are interrupting Costa Rica’s democracy, because Nicaragua is sending paramilitaries after us. Part of the Nicaraguan conflict is now here.”

“My child was dead inside me for a week.”

María Alejandra Castillo, 20, with her mother (left), boyfriend and other family members in downtown San José. On July 13^th, 2018, she was three-weeks pregnant when police attacked the campus of UNAN, where she served as logistics manager for all 89 days of protests. “We cooked, showered and slept on campus. At night we played cards and sang songs.” For two months, María hid in three secret safe houses until her capture in late September. She was taken to El Chipote, dressed in blue prison clothes, and presented to the press by the police. “It was a total charade. I suddenly was all over the media as a dangerous delinquent.”  In prison, María slept on the floor and was beaten regularly. She was denied medical attention until October 18^th, when an ultrasound revealed that her child had died. “My child was dead inside me for a week.”  She was released but continued being harassed by government forces. Soon after, María arrived in Costa Rica with her mother, exactly three weeks after her 20^th birthday.

“I pretended to faint because I knew they would kill me.”

Jonas Cruz, 18, at the apartment he shares with five other exiled Nicaraguan students in San José.  During the first week of protests in April, Jonas, who studied civil engineering, witnessed the deaths of 14 fellow students. “I suddenly saw myself in the middle of a war. I had never seen someone die before. I wasn’t ready.” In early May, he joined the trenches at the UNAN, where he stayed for 77 days. “It was beautiful to see the whole city unite and support one another.” Jonas was arrested and taken to El Chipote prison on the 24^th of July. “They threw me into a one-by-one meter cell. I was tortured every day by four masked policemen. They used electric shocks and a baseball bat. I never received food or water. I lost consciousness several times during the interrogations. On the fifth day, I pretended to faint because I knew my torturers would kill me. Luckily, they sent me to a hospital. I had four fractured ribs.” Jonas escaped the hospital and took refuge in a safe house until he crossed the border, still wearing a bandage around his ribs. “I am free here, but it’s very hard to survive in Costa Rica.”

 “We won’t have peace without justice.”

Dr. Alvaro Leiva, 55, assisting two newly-arrived Nicaraguan journalists at the office of the Nicaraguan Association for Human Rights in San José. “I have been documenting the human rights violations committed by my government since the 1990’s.  During the first week of protests in April 2018, I submitted an official report to the Public Ministry of Nicaragua, pointing to specific officials responsible for the deaths of 42 young people. We also know the government purposefully obscured its public morgue records during the protests.” Two months later, Dr. Leiva received a call from a friend informing him the government had filed papers declaring him a terrorist and ordering his capture. “He told me: ‘Alvaro, you need to run’.”  He fled to Costa Rica with his team of human rights defenders.  “I picked up dead bodies from both sides. I don’t defend parties, I defend humans.  But it’s hard to remain impartial. We won’t have peace without justice.”

“Terror has not stopped.”

Vilma Nuñez, 81, is an internationally renowned activist and the president of the Nicaraguan Center for Human Rights (CENIDH), one of the NGOs whose legal registration was canceled by the National Assembly in December 2018. “The police entered our office at night and took everything we had. After that, many of our colleagues left the country horrified. But I decided to stay in Managua.” Vilma says that CENIDH is rebuilding. “Terror has not stopped. People are still imprisoned, tortured and disappeared here. Our prisons are torture centers. Government officials, judges, police, paramilitary, spies –they all continue acting with impunity. Our fear is not pathological: it’s real fear. The government is crushing our ability to fight. All the while, our exiles in Costa Rica are facing a humanitarian crisis.” Vilma’s life has changed since April. “I was a political prisoner under Somoza, and I was tortured. But this is much worse. I am a bit lonelier now. My friends are afraid of being seen in my company. Spies take pictures of me wherever I go. But I am not going to hide.”

Life continues in Nicaragua, though remnants of the violence and signs of continued political unrest are visible.

A woman sweeps inside the sanctuary of Divina Misericordia church in Managua, where the bullet-ridden windows have not been replaced.

Our team tried numerous times to secure an interview and photo session with President Daniel Ortega. While we received three prompt responses from his wife, Vice President Rosario Murillo, stating that they were “grateful” and would “notify us soon”, communication ceased upon our team’s arrival in Managua. A month later, Vice President Murillo asked us to send her our questions by email.

The presidential couple remains unresponsive today.