Those Who Love Never Die

After Gioconda Belli, La Mujer Habitada

It was 1989. I was a United States citizen living in Nicaragua during the Sandinista Revolution, about to marry a Canadian. We were among thousands from across the globe engaged in solidarity. Doctors, engineers and educators had come to lend skills. I facilitated study groups of U.S. church and civic leaders who travelled to Nicaragua to see the reality for themselves and later, worked as a health educator. Canada and many European countries were providing development assistance to help Nicaragua’s social experiment flourish against a backdrop of U.S. aggression. This experiment would dramatically increase literacy, make public education and health care a right, and grant land to those who farmed it. I wanted to be a witness and help communicate back to the States what was really taking place.

The Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) had overthrown the forty-year Somoza dictatorship in 1979 and was leading the country through the transformation. But this was during the Cold War. The U.S. had its sights set on this country of three million, strategically located in the waistline of the Americas with its nascent blend of socialism and capitalism. The late 1980s in Nicaragua was a time of shortages and war as the Reagan administration imposed an economic blockade and backed the counterrevolutionaries, known as the contras. But for me, getting married was an act more frightening than a trip to the war zone. My parents’ marriage had failed.

It seemed likely mine would too. Were Joe and I in love with one another or with the exhilaration of accompanying a national project of social transformation? To prepare for my wedding day, hoping to be at my best, I started taking medication to get rid of giardia, a common parasite causing diarrhea.

One night, a month before we were to marry, I couldn’t sleep, so I slipped into an emerald silk gown—a touch of sensual elegance in a country of gunfire and dust—and followed the luminous path to the lemon tree in the tiny back courtyard. The moon smiled down and I began to dance with her. I spread my arms and spun with the shimmering promise of this new society: the smiles of cooperative members holding up muddy carrots harvested from shared land; the exuberance of young women claiming their place as leaders; the music, poetry and art inspiring courageous hearts. I bowed to peace. I dipped and dived with my love for Joe, my soon-to-be husband.

Slowing, stilling, I held onto a branch of the lemon tree and gazed up. The moon bathed me in her lustre to invite me into her plan. I would write a book drawing from my journals that would echo the experiences of other U.S. citizens living in solidarity with a revolution that our government was set on destroying. This book would raise the consciousness of the American people, who would insist on ending the war. But first, I had to see the president of Nicaragua, Daniel Ortega.

For everyone’s protection, I kept this a secret. I knew what the CIA could do. So, in the morning, I said nothing to Joe; I pulled on my blue jean skirt and buttoned up my cotton top. When the van from CISAS, the health education centre where I worked, came to pick me up, I stepped in astounded by the beauty of my co-workers. How had I never noticed? The light in their hair. Each word profound. Everyone was radiant, as were the mangos dangling in the trees, children toting school bags and women selling plastic bags of plátanos and fruit juice at the streetlights.

During a planning meeting with our team of health educators, I surged with ideas of all we could accomplish. We could end pesticide poisoning and children dying of diarrhea. My ideas flew faster than their words. I was thinking that I needed a computer to write my book when in walked a woman who had arranged to sell my boss a used computer for $2,000 USD. “It’s the latest, a portable computer, they call it.” This futuristic wonder was the size and shape of a sewing machine case. I had to have it.

I burst in, “I’ll pay two grand and a quarter.” As my boss was uncertain that something as dubious as a portable computer would ever be worth buying, she stepped aside. We closed the deal. No matter that I was earning only fifty dollars a month, and the two thousand, all the savings I had, was in an Ohio bank account. I knew I could find the extra quarter.

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That afternoon, President Ortega would be speaking at a rally. Perfect! A chance to tell him my plan. Into the revolutionary plaza I flowed, in a sea of red and black Sandinista flags carried by union members, base Christian community members, workers and people from barrios across Managua. I was mesmerized by the giant portrait of Agosto Sandino, icon of the revolution; in the 1930s, he led a guerilla army to chase the U.S. Marines out of the country. His eyes traced my every move as he peered out beneath his broad brimmed vaquero hat. He knew what I planned to do.

A group of Sandinista soldiers began a snake dance through the crowd. I, a Quaker pacifist, joined on. One great swing for peace. Imagine, fifteen young men in army fatigues with a light-haired, smiling gringa taking up the tail, my cotton dress wafting with every turn, as Ortega spoke to the crowd about defending the revolution. I knew his words were intended for me. Soon, we would talk in private.

The next day was exquisite. Opening the refrigerator, its aromas of piña and frijoles intoxicated me. Turning on the radio, the intonations of guitars and a marimba astonished me. Stroking my shirt, the texture of interlacing threads enthralled me. Opening books, I thought of phrases before reading them. All was shimmering. Birds of many colours—magenta, purple, azure—were weaving an expansive nest in my hair. Flying in and out. Not caged but free. Like me.

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But I had work to do before the CIA killed me. This was the most beautiful epiphany of all. We were surrounded by Central Americans ready to risk their lives; indeed, thousands had already sacrificed their lives for the dream of a just society. I had doubted I could do the same, but at last I was fearless, ready to risk it all for a greater good. I would not be detoured.

My mission: deliver my journals to Daniel Ortega. Show him how the book I would write could end the war. I had just finished reading La Mujer Habitada (The Inhabited Woman) by Gioconda Belli, a Nicaraguan feminist poet. She narrates the story of a woman from a wealthy Nicaraguan family who, enchanted by an Indigenous woman warrior from the time of the Spanish conquest, joins the insurrection against Somoza while daring to experience love and intimacy to its fullest. My story, like that of other internationalistas in Nicaragua, was also a story of crossing from privilege to walk with a people.

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Our small bookshelf housed publications authored by friends and past lovers. Now was my turn. As a feminist, I believed that liberation takes many forms—in the personal and the public, in the creative and the analytical, in the spiritual and the political—and that addressing gender inequality and the legacy of colonialism matters as much as class struggle. Gioconda’s book, with its poetic sensuality and affirmation of women’s worth, reawakened this wider vision of liberation. My journals could speak to this.

In preparation for my rendezvous with Comandante Ortega, I placed in an olive-coloured shoulder bag:

• four of my journals,

• a piece of antique lace from a dear friend, its intricate designs proclaiming what I knew to be true of love and creativity, and

• a plastic Canada goose pin symbolizing the flight of solidarity from Canada to Nicaragua and back.

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This bag, I carried with me everywhere. I was ready to meet with Daniel Ortega. He would appear when the time was right.

Three days into my mission, Joe and my co-workers were certain something was off. Joe instructed me to stay home, rest. To keep safe, I slipped into my emerald silk gown and built altars of Guatemalan tapestries, candles, and artwork from our travels in Latin America. Altars everywhere in our tiny house: on the bed and the kitchen table, in the corner of the living room and the back patio. I danced from altar to altar to prepare my heart for our wedding and envelop our home with a love so profound, even the CIA could not penetrate it.

That was when the wall hangings spoke. Among them, Our Lady of Guadalupe, an Indigenous apparition of the Virgin Mary who inspires the poor of Latin America; Sandino, a folk hero whose rebel army resisted the U.S. Marine occupation of Nicaragua in the 1930s; Archbishop Romero, gunned down while celebrating mass for standing with the poor of El Salvador. Each were reciting words to ignite the heart-soul of their people. Overwhelmed, I removed them from the walls, placed them in the spare room and closed the door. To keep safe, I ate tangerines, dropping their peels on the floor.

Joe came home to this scene and surmised I could no longer be left alone. He cancelled trips to monitor development projects and recruited friends to take turns to chaperone. After a nearly sleepless night, I rolled over to discover God in the corner, beside the wardrobe. To my dismay, she spoke with a male voice.

God said, “You are Jesus.”

“No, not me.”

God said, “You are one of many who are Jesus. You know what you have to do.”

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The Nicaraguan Revolution was inspired by a theology of liberation rippling through Latin America, which recognizes Jesus as a liberator who calls us to stand with the marginalized. Maybe even risk death. And so it was for me. To keep safe from the CIA, all things would have to be done in threes like the Christian trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Number of glasses on the table. Number of steps taken. Number of items on the clothesline. Everything in threes.

The day after my revelation, María Elena, who came to do the weekly cleaning, had been asked to chaperone. While she was scrubbing clothes in the back-patio sink, a vendor in the street called out, “Reposapiés. Hecha a mano. Precio barato!” (Footstools. Made by hand. Low prices!). A woman with a long raven-coloured braid was carting woven footstools past our front porch. No doubt an Indigenous woman from the village of Monimbo, honoured for their rebellion against Somoza. What could be better! I needed furniture for the solidarity neighbourhood I was planning to build. Perfect!

I asked María Elena to make lemonade and I invited the woman in. I bought all of her footstools, paying generously so as to contribute to a fairer distribution of the world’s wealth. Then I paid more for furniture she agreed to bring the next day. “Con mucho gusto, señora.”

After I asked permission to unbraid and re-braid her hair, three thick, silky strands overlapped in my hands. Another trinity, like the three of us—an Indigenous woman, a ladina and a gringa. Maria Elena served the lemonade, our holy communion.

Left alone for a short time before Joe’s return home that evening, I came to the realization that, in spite of my previous commitment to not have children, I would have children with Joe. Two, in fact. To give him the news, I wrote signs with the names of the friends and family who would be sure to help our marriage succeed and posted them on our traditional Nicaraguan rockers. Proof! We would not fail. Then on the footstools that I’d bought, I placed signs with names. On the tall ones, Big Joe and Big Suzana, and on the short ones, Little Joe and Little Suzana. When Joe came home, I embraced him at the door wearing my emerald silk gown, with tears in my eyes as I joyfully showed him the posted signs. Yes, yes, we would have children!

He seemed distressed.

That night, I realized that if I was a Jesus, then we were in the Garden of Gethsemane on the night he asked his disciples to stay awake and pray with him. Many Nicaraguans had stayed awake defending their homes, their fields, their villages, their health clinics and schools from contra attacks. This was Joe’s turn to keep watch with me.

I couldn’t tell him of God’s appearance in our bedroom, as that would put him in danger. But if he slept, the CIA—modern-day Roman guards of the empire—would come to arrest me. I was certain of it. Worried and exhausted, he would drift off to sleep until I nudged or tickled him to wake up. In the morning, worn to a frazzle, Joe stumbled to the filing cabinet, reached in the drawer and became furious for the first time. His co-worker would soon be coming by to pick up the cash that Joe was supposed to deliver to a development project before he became too afraid to leave me alone.

“What have you done now?!” Joe chastised. “Where is the project money?”

I assured him, “I wanted to pay a fair price.”

Surely, he could understand that. He was so angry I considered telling him about the houses we would purchase to build a solidarity neighbourhood, and the furniture needed to fill them. But since our house was bugged, I simply said, “I’m sorry, I had to.” All the while, birds of many colours swooped in and out of my hair nest. I had to get to the president.

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I phoned a friend with connections high up in the Sandinista party. To keep her safe, I spoke in code. “I read Gioconda Belli’s book. La Mujer Habitada.” As a woman from a privileged background who sought to act in solidarity with the revolution, I too was inhabited.

My friend arranged an appointment. I was exuberant: finally, I would meet with President Ortega. At last, I could deliver my olive-coloured bag ferrying my journals, the piece of antique lace and the Canada goose pin.

Clasping my bag of treasures and Gioconda Belli’s book, Joe and I entered a small office with two empty chairs facing a woman and man seated before a closed door. My friend had deciphered my code, alright. Find a psychiatrist. With only three in the country, this was not easy. But an American citizen gone crazy in a country under attack by the U.S. needed tending to. The male psychiatrist and female psychologist introduced themselves.

I sat down, certain Ortega would arrive at any moment.

“How old are you?” the psychologist asked.

“I am as old as the volcanos that line the Pacific coast of the Americas.”

“I know the volcanoes along the Pacific coast,” empathetically echoed the psychologist.

“I am a volcano,” I further divulged.

“Where are you from?”

“I am from the hills of northern Nicaragua where streams flow freely through the valley.”

“Who is your mother?”

“Doña Paula, a midwife, who lives in the village of El Barro.”

I could have given factual answers, but I wanted to share a deeper meaning—all is interconnected. To let them know that I knew the president was about to arrive, I quizzed the psychiatrist, “You’re related to Daniel Ortega, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, a very distant cousin.” Said by a man in a tiny country where everyone is someone’s cousin.

“I knew it!” Any second, the president would step through that door behind him.

“Do you have any idea why these things are happening to you?” I figured it would be safe to talk since the office must already be surrounded by Sandinista security, given the president’s imminent arrival.

“I had a friend who thought she could end the war by opening a museum dedicated to Sandino, but she took some medicine, wasn’t well, so she returned to the States. Maybe the CIA drugged her and now they drug me.”

From these scattered thoughts, the psychiatrist uncovered that my medication to fight giardia contained quinacrine, a chemical also present in some anti-malaria medication, which on rare occasions causes a psychotic reaction.

He wrote a prescription for an anti-psychotic drug, suggesting that the quickest place to fill it was the manicomio (mental hospital). Driving directly there, Joe parked under a bourgeoning sacuanjoche tree and told me to wait in the jeep as the guard opened the gate for him to walk in. A man pulled his car up beside our jeep and sat there. Not sure whether he was there to protect me or kill me, I was relieved when several aged patients, dressed in grey-blue uniforms, shuffled up to the chain link fence and peered through at me. One signaled for me to come in. I nodded, certain theywere there to protect me. We understood each other. In many ways, I would always be at that fence with them.

To keep us safe, I opened to the last page of La Mujer Habitada. Triumphantly, I read the closing poem to the mental patients, to the sacuanjoche and to all of history.

No one will possess this body of lakes and volcanoes,

this mixture of races, this history of spears;

these people, lovers of corn, of fiestas in the moonlight;

people of songs and weavings of all colours…

…Soon we will see the day bursting with happiness

Ships of the conquistadors will go away forever

They will be ours, the gold and the feathers,

the cocoa and the mango

the essence of the sacuanjoches

Those who love, never die.

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Less than one year later, February 26, 1990, the Sandinistas suffered an unfathomable electoral defeat. Mothers could no longer bear to watch their sons sent off to an unwinnable war. The Berlin Wall had fallen, ushering in an era of unhinged capitalism. In 2007, Daniel Ortega was re-elected, and up until today, leads a corrupt government that betrays the principles of the revolution. Sandinista leaders who keep the vision have been imprisoned or exiled, while others carry on at risk. Gains made have unravelled. We will never know what Nicaragua’s revolution could have brought to the world if it had been given the opportunity to flourish.

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Once back at our house, I accepted the medication, believing it was to calm my nerves in preparation for the impending arrival of the president. Feeling the weight of all that had happened, I plopped my olive- coloured bag in a pot of ferns on the patio where the president would find it. As Joe ushered me to bed, I was comforted by the sound of car doors slamming, positive it was the Sandinista security surrounding the house. President Ortega would arrive momentarily. Deep was the pillow. As Joe lay down beside me, I was confident we would make it through these days and a lifetime together. We would be each other’s strength when the other couldn’t be. I loved him immensely.

The next morning, I woke with a torturous thirst. Opening my eyes, I was surprised to spy the olive- coloured bag lying beside the laundry basket. I assured myself that the Sandinista security must have made copies of the journals while I slept and returned the bag to make everything look normal. Joe walked in smiling with the Canada goose pin attached to the lapel of his robe, as if to convey, “I now know what you have done for the revolution. Well done compañera.” I could tell he now knew everything, but better not to say. The CIA may still have had the house bugged and besides, the Frente (FSLN) preferred we guard these things in our hearts. He gave me another pill and went to prepare breakfast.

Moseying to the front door, I was astounded by the morning sunlight reflecting harmony across wet pavement. U.S. citizens had realized their leaders had lied. The Reagan administration had ceased its aggression. The contra had laid down their arms to join their brothers in the fields. Campesina women could now walk to the village without fear. Central Americans would no longer need to swim the Rio Grande in search a better life. Prosperity was here. All children now had food to eat, and the right to a healthy life, everywhere in the world. Conquistador ships had left. Gold, mango, and cacao were being returned to the people and the earth from which they were stolen. All would love completely. And in that way, live forever. Those who love, never die.

The newspaper vendor was yelling, “Barricada, Nuevo Diario, La Prensa” while the Don Chemita was pushing his fruit cart, singing out, “Vas a llevar? Papaya, mango, naranja.” My neighbour, sweeping across the street, looked up, spotted me in the doorway and smiled. She knew. They all knew. We were in this together. Pure golden joy poured over everything. But we were to act as though nothing special had occurred. Hold it in our hearts. I sat down with Joe for breakfast.

Within hours, as the medication took hold, I slid from this warm pool of collective love into a chilling swamp. My tongue grew thick, speech slurred and as I walked, I could no longer coordinate my arms and legs. After fearlessly confronting the will of the most powerful country on earth—my own country—I was terrified to find myself so out of control of my own body. No matter how deeply I breathed, I could not draw in enough air. It was only Joe’s tenderness, served with cups of chamomile tea that whispered I might survive.

Down, down, down I went, from feeling invincible, radiant, astounded by the brilliance of every moment, prepared to hand my life over for the common good. Down, down, down.

Joe had to ask himself if he was prepared to marry me, given that I might always lean into the other side of what people consider reality. He never expressed any doubt. Perhaps his was the most courageous act of all. He answered, unequivocally, yes.

Over the next few weeks, the psychologist helped me see how repressed parts of my subconscious had emerged in my psychosis. Living in Nicaragua during the revolution was a tremendous privilege for those of us bearing witness to a societal transformation. But too, it was deeply painful for internationalistas, and especially those of us from the U.S., witnessing destruction paid for with our tax dollars. All the fact-finding delegations we hosted, along with speaking tours and protests in the States, had been unable to stop U.S. intervention in all of Central America.

As a white woman from the superpower waging war on this country, it was not my place to be an actor in the revolution but to support Nicaraguans as the protagonists. Somewhere in that, important parts of myself had taken a back seat. There was the challenge of being a feminist in a macho culture; women had advanced during the revolution, but the Sandinista leadership insisted women must wait until the war was over to address gender-based violence, reproductive rights and develop an autonomous feminist agenda. I vowed to take these insights into the commitment that Joe and I were to embark upon.

Finalizing plans for the wedding, I wanted to honour my adventure into psychosis. Many of those invited, Nicaraguans and refugees from El Salvador and Guatemala, knew too well what it is to risk their lives. So, Joe and I agreed. I would carry up the aisle my journals draped with the piece of antique lace and speak to what the revolution has taught us about love in giving of ourselves for a greater good. It was this love that we would profess before those gathered.The day before the wedding, I had my final visit with the psychologist. The shafts of light pouring in through her office window formed an aura of limitless possibility. I wept to be crossing over, leaving behind such dazzling beauty and the invincible belief that overnight, I could put the world right.