4/12/86, Saturday

4/12/86, Saturday

Last night at Lobo Jack I talked to a lot of people. Many of us have reached a point in this journey where we understand that it’s time to move past learning the truth, it’s time to start acting on it. I feel more in tune with humanity down here. Talking to the internationalists, hearing about their work, makes me appreciate the courage of those who take action. I realize that I spend a lot of time in my head, exploring ideas instead of doing anything. Ideas should be utilized, they shouldn't rot in your head like uneaten fruit on a vine. I have to stop being stupid, thinking that planting tomatoes on an agricultural cooperative is going to make any great change in those people’s lives; it probably only made a difference in mine.

I've been offered a teaching job in the mountains just north of Esteli. It’s dangerous territory. The closer you get to Honduras, the closer you get to the fighting, but the children have been in desperate need of teachers for a while. I’m considering it. I could be happy here. I've fallen in love with this country and these people, despite the poverty and the hardship.

Photo of Nicaraguan people via Chaya Shepard

I still remember my first night, scooping paper out of the toilet with my hand for fear of screwing up the whole neighborhood’s plumbing. Hearing the roosters crow even at night, being exposed to third world living conditions for the first time in my life, finding out that it wasn't uncommon for people to live in boarded up shacks with little or no plumbing; in fact, it was the norm. I remember the first week, getting used to the unannounced water shutoffs, seeing people riding horses on the streets right next to cars, getting used to not having a refrigerator or washing machine, learning to use a scrub board, learning to take bucket baths, learning to tuck the mosquito netting so the little suckers couldn't sneak in under the net; learning what it means to be Nicaraguan. God, I love this place.

I love my own country too, and I miss home and my loved ones and my band. I could also make a difference there; it’s just not as easy to see what needs to be done. There are children who need a bilingual teacher like me in Los Angeles but I can’t abandon Nicaragua. I don’t know what to do.

4/11/86, Friday

4/11/86, Friday

We had two charlas in Managua today, the first one at the American embassy was a waste of time since the embassy spokesperson just repeated U.S. President Reagan’s position of alleged human rights violations by the Sandinistas. I felt like every word he uttered was measured and delivered like bullet points off a memo. The second charla was with journalist Mark Cook at the Latin American Historical Institute and was much more informative, interesting and relaxed. He struck me as a reliable source of information.

Following an overview of the country’s history, Mark surprised us with the news that Reagan is still trying to secure 100 million dollars in aid for the contras. This, despite the fact that Congress has forbidden this type of assistance. I don’t know how Reagan plans to get around the Congressional ban but if he manages to do it, it could be devastating for the Sandinista government.

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Fun Size History

The Iran-Contra Affair

Around the same time that I was writing this entry, some interesting things were happening in the United States. President Reagan had authorized the CIA to begin financing, arming and training the Contras (or counterrevolutionaries), most of whom were the remnants of Somoza’s National Guard. During this time, a majority of Americans were opposed to funding the overthrow of the Nicaraguan government. In 1982, Congress passed the Boland Amendment to prevent the U.S. from providing any military assistance to forces attempting to overthrow the Sandinistas, thus blocking Reagan’s funding for the Contras.

The Reagan administration sought to circumvent the restrictions. A clandestine plan was devised whereby arms would be sold via Israel to Iran, which at the time was subject to an arms embargo following their own Islamic revolution and overthrow of the pro-West Reza Shah Pahlavi. The illegal arms sale was presumably meant to facilitate the release of American hostages held by the Iranian Ayatollah Khomeini (although Ronald Reagan vehemently denied that there had ever been any arms for hostages deal.) With the help of NSA Lt. Col. Oliver North, a large portion of proceeds from the arms sales were diverted to fund the Contras. A Lebanese newspaper broke the story and The Iran-Contra Affair became a scandal for the Reagan administration. Ronald Reagan appointed the Tower Commission to look into the matter, but the investigation was impeded by withholding and deliberate destruction of evidence.
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After Mark’s presentation, we broke off into small brainstorming groups. We face the daunting task of figuring out how a handful of freelance journalists and volunteers can provide an alternate narrative that will counteract Reagan’s propaganda machine. The journalists can quickly write an article and communicate with their readers. I don’t have that type of forum and I find it difficult to imagine how I’m going to turn this experience into something that can change people’s minds.

At night, we went out dancing at a place called Lobo Jack. It was very Americanized, lots of internationalists drinking a lot. I talked to Mark about the possibility of doing something with Comandante Gladys Baez. It would be great to have her visit the United States, meet women, and talk about her experiences in the revolution. I don’t know if I have what it takes to organize speaking dates for her. I still have a bad taste in my mouth after trying to organize that benefit for the Mexican earthquake victims. That one was so poorly attended, I felt embarrassed to hand the check to the Red Cross representative at the end of the night. What if we raise money to take Gladys out to California and people don’t show up? It was just an idea but I’ll have to think about whether it’s something I can deliver.

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Fuck This!

Accepting defeat before even attempting something is a lazy way out. It saves work but robs us of the opportunity to succeed and to challenge our perceived limitations or to fail miserably and thus learn from the experience.

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Mark and I bonded quickly over music, he is a Buzzcocks fan and very easy to talk to, so I told him about my difficulty finding meaningful solidarity work.

“I heard about the bricks,” he said.

“Does everybody know?” I was so embarrassed.

Ignoring my question, he suggested that I might be more helpful doing something I’m good at and that I enjoy. What a good idea, why didn't I think of that? I’ll talk to the school about going back to the art collective to volunteer there when I’m not doing literacy.

4/9/86, Wednesday

Archbishop Oscar Romero

4/9/86, Wednesday

Today I went to the Salvadoran agricultural cooperative along with three other students from the NICA school. I thought I was gonna faint! It was hot, heavy work. I was planting rows of tomatoes and hoeing little irrigation ditches. I tied a bandana around my head to keep my hair back and it was soaked with sweat within minutes. I got blisters on my hands and fingers from clutching the handle of the hoe. Every now and then, some disgusting bug would poke its head up and I’d clobber it with the hoe. The first time I saw the ugly insects I started to scream but I quickly felt embarrassed by my sissy, city-girl behavior as my co-workers communicated their annoyance with a quick glance. After that, I simply hit the bugs with the edge of my hoe, attempting to slice them in half. I felt mean doing it but they freaked me out.

Our Salvadoran co-workers are refugees from the war in El Salvador. Some of them were part of the FMLN, Farabundo Marti Liberacion Nacional, others were denounced by orejas, informants who accuse people of conspiring to overthrow the government. Those accusations are as good as a death sentence. The FMLN is an armed guerrilla organization trying to do for El Salvador what the FSLN has done here. Our compañeros had to flee their country to avoid death and/or torture but they’re still committed to raising awareness of their cause. Talking to them while we worked helped me take my mind off my aching body. As we listened to their stories of political repression and corruption, our minds were distracted from the physical strain. Some of these compañeros have lost family members to the struggle and all of them have lost loved ones. They talk about Bishop Romero’s assassination and the subsequent massacre of mourners at his funeral by the police. I can tell that the pain is still fresh, it’s generational. Their parents and grandparents have fought against Las Catorce, the fourteen families that made up the oligarchy for as long as they can remember, so even though the heat was terrible and every inch of me ached, I felt like I could push through the work. It seemed worth the pain to help them out, to show solidarity in my own very small way.

In the evening the driver dropped us off at the school again, just in time for a charla with the Mothers of Heroes and Martyrs of the Revolution. It was heartbreaking hearing the mothers tell and probably relive the pain of their loved one’s death and in some cases, their torture. Several of the stories involved gory dismemberment and my stomach turned as I thought of cutting insects in half with my hoe that day. The thought that someone could do that to a person made me sick. They took turns telling their stories until every eye at the charla was teary. 

NICARAGUA. Esteli. 1986. A mother sits in front of her son whose legs were blown off by a Contra landmine. The victim's wife sits on the other side of the bed. Photo by Larry Towell

At the end, one of the mothers told us that she wanted us to know what our tax dollars are doing here in Nicaragua and that although it was hard for them to talk about the terrible tragedies that had happened to their families, the purpose was for us to understand the cruelty and inhumanity being inflicted on them as a result of our government’s financial and military support of the Contras. They urged us to help them change the situation. I felt so bad. How is it that they don’t hate us?

I want to help but how can I change it?

Archbishop Oscar Romero gained great popularity in El Salvador in the seventies when he began speaking out against poverty, social injustice and the assassination of political dissidents. His Sunday sermons were broadcast on the radio and had a far reaching effect as they provided a rallying point for disenfranchised Salvadorans. In 1980 Romero was fatally shot while celebrating mass. His funeral was attended by over 250,000 people. The ceremony was disrupted by smoke bombs and gun shots directed at the mourners. The attack left dozens dead and hundreds wounded. It was believed that the Salvadoran government was behind the attack.

Shortly after this the country plunged into civil war.