Violation of the Right to Stay in Nicaragua: Promoting and Weaponizing Emigration

I arrived in this country two years ago. Three hours before I left, standing on the tarmac of the airport, I had no idea where I was going. I had been imprisoned for two years, and it wasn’t until a police officer asked me to sign a simple form that I realized I was being sent to the United States. The alternative was to go back to prison, so I signed without hesitation.

I was deported from Nicaragua—my own country—along with 221 other political prisoners. While we were flying, the dictator Daniel Ortega ordered a reform to the Constitution, stripping us of our nationality. We landed in Washington stateless, not only denied the right to live in our own country but now facing the challenge of building a new life without citizenship.

The day I was freed was also the day I was reunited with my wife and daughter. Most of my fellow prisoners were not as fortunate, as they left their families behind, starting yet another period of anguish, family separation and police harassment back home. Over the last two years, mothers, fathers, and husbands of the 222 have died in Nicaragua, separated from their banished relatives. My fellow cell mate Mike Healy died last year away from his beloved Nicaragua.

In 2018, Ortega reformed the country’s social security system, sparking massive protests from students, the elderly, and the general population. The government responded with violence, using live ammunition to kill hundreds and wound thousands.

The Catholic Church called for a National Dialogue between civil society and the regime. I participated in these talks, but sadly, the government used the opportunity to consolidate power and escalate violence. Many of those who participated in the dialogue—including bishops—were imprisoned or forced into exile.
Since 2018, as a member of the opposition, I faced constant threats, beatings, and harassment by government supporters and the police. Without any legal reason, I was first banned from traveling outside the country, then from leaving the capital, and eventually from leaving my own house.

In January 2021, under increasingly harsh repression, I announced my candidacy for the presidency of Nicaragua. On the night of June 8, 2021, dozens of police officers stormed my home, arbitrarily arrested me, and took me to prison.

While in prison, I was held incommunicado for three months, denied visits, denied contact with the outside world, and denied legal counsel. My trial took place inside the prison, violating both Nicaraguan law and international standards. My trial was a farce—the witnesses were all police officers, and I had only two minutes to speak to my lawyer before the trial.

On February 23, 2022, the day of my birthday, I was sentenced to 13 years for “crimes against the homeland.” Despite appeals and legal challenges, the Nicaraguan judiciary—controlled by the regime—ignored our efforts. My wife was accused of treason for her work advocating for my release and had to escape through the forest to Costa Rica before she settled in the United States.

I spent almost two years in prison, separated from my loved ones, isolated from the world. But during this time, I learned about resilience and the importance of solidarity.

The most common question I’m asked today is: What is it like to live almost two years behind bars?
Every known international standard for humane treatment was violated. We faced degrading treatment, discrimination—especially against women—and were isolated from the outside world. We were denied reading and writing materials. Our sleep was difficult as we were under 24-hour artificial light. At the same time, we were denied sunlight for weeks on end.

Family visits were infrequent. In total, we spent six months without seeing our families. There were no letters or books allowed. Medical attention was inadequate, and tragically, one prisoner, Retired General Hugo Torres, died under custody due to lack of care.

Sanitary conditions were poor, and the food was insufficient, leading to weight loss and disease. Some prisoners endured extended solitary confinement, while others were placed in punishment cells for months, confined to small, poorly ventilated spaces.

Interrogations were relentless, I counted 400 sessions, sometimes several a day, particularly in the early days after the arrest. There was no privacy, and our dignity was disregarded. Religious ceremonies and the Bible were prohibited.

There was a strict ban on communication between cells. The only exception was speaking in a low voice within our own cells. The conditions were designed to break us, to limit our ability to share thoughts and information, and our ability to pray. We solved this issue of communication by learning sign language, and we became very good at it.

So how do you survive in such conditions without losing your mind? For me, it was a combination of intense physical and spiritual exercises. From Monday to Saturday, I would walk from 6 AM to 5 PM. This involved completing three thousand rounds in my small cell, and seven hundred push-ups per day. We prayed the Rosary twice a day and the St Ignatius Prayer every night with its powerful first sentences:
“Take, Lord, receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, my whole will, all that I have and all that I possess. You gave it all to me, Lord; I give it all back to you.”

Sundays were reserved for cleaning my cell and resting. I also meditated for an hour, while my daughter Isabel would light a candle at a sacred place on school.

This routine kept me focused, keeping worries and negative thoughts at bay. Negative thoughts are very common in prison, even when you are innocent. For example, I started to realize how my fight for democracy and my decisions were affecting the people I loved. A sense of guilt plagued me, as my wife and daughter were suffering for a fight over something I considered important but was extremely costly. I felt selfish for not putting family first.
Prison can either break you or make you stronger. It can awaken the worst in someone—like it did for Ortega, who spent eight years in prison. For me, prison made me realize the true value of life and the consequences of every action. Made me realize the beauty of the sky that I couldn’t see. Made me realize the embrace of a loved one, which I could only experience every six weeks, or sometimes even longer. Prison reaffirmed my commitment to justice—not driven by revenge, but by the need for reparation.

Liberty came on February 9, 2023. We were awakened in the middle of the night, placed on buses, and not told where we were going. After an agonizing drive, we arrived at the airport. There, a plane waited to carry us to the United States. Our misery had ended, and a new life was beginning. That same day, I was reunited with my wife and daughter, nearly two years after being separated.
During the flight and for the following days, we were treated with compassion and generosity by the personnel of government agencies, dozens of NGOs, religious organizations and private citizens from throughout the U.S.

Migration as a political weapon
I truly appreciate the opportunity to speak with you today about my personal experience and the issue of migration from a slightly different perspective—one that I also explored in my article: migration and Catholic teaching in the context of a repressive regime.

Nicaragua is a clear example of the politically motivated use of migration by an autocratic regime. It violates Catholic teaching on the right to stay, migrate, and return — and it violates international law. First, Ortega exploits migration to reduce political pressure on the regime and to secure resources necessary for keeping the economy afloat. Second, the regime has turned Nicaragua into a major transit hub for third-country nationals seeking to enter the United States. Ortega has weaponized migration in the context of his hostility toward the United States and European countries.

Seven years after the crackdown on protests, an emigration crisis overwhelmed Nicaragua. Between 2019 and 2024, nearly 800,000 people—about 13% of the population—left the country, mostly heading to the United States, Costa Rica, and Spain.

The Ortega regime has barred the relatives of politically active leaders from re-entering Nicaragua, violating the fundamental right of nationals to return to their own country. Even those who are not politically active have been prohibited from returning, effectively forcing them into exile and statelessness.

While violating the rights of Nicaraguan nationals by refusing to issue passports to some living in exile, Ortega has significantly increased issuing passports to others, facilitating their departure from the country.

The Nicaraguan regime has stripped more than 500 opposition members of their nationality at a time when the United Nations was leading a global campaign to reduce statelessness. This action, which violates international treaties, has disrupted the lives of thousands and led to the violation of fundamental rights, including the right to identity and the right to access social services.

The Nicaraguan regime has also confiscated the properties of political leaders, including my own, and those of business leaders and organizations, NGOs, educational institutions, and the Catholic Church.

The crackdown on the entire opposition leadership in June 2021, just before the presidential campaign, triggered an unprecedented exodus, as hopes for a peaceful resolution to the crisis faded. Encounters between U.S. Border Patrol officials and Nicaraguans surged from around 2,000 in 2021 to 164,000 in 2022.

The Ortega regime, which has driven this exodus, is motivated by both political and economic considerations. Politically, with Ortega’s declining popularity, migration serves as a means to rid the country of opponents and reduce anti-government sentiment. Additionally, the regime encourages migration to the United States, allowing new emigrants to leave so they can send money back home. This strategy has helped keep the economy afloat, with remittances rising from 15% of GDP in 2021 to 26% in 2023.

The Ortega regime has also exploited another form of migration for political and economic gain: migrants from third countries heading to the United States. By the end of 2021, Ortega had opened the border and adopted an open policy to promote Nicaragua globally as a destination for migrants from around the world, allowing them to enter the country and continue their journeys north.

It is estimated that between 2022 and 2023, approximately 628,000 people from various nationalities arrived in Managua and continued their journeys north. Initially, flights from Port-au-Prince and Havana brought thousands to Nicaragua. These were followed by flights from more distant locations, including Morocco, Senegal, Libya, Pakistan, and India.

The Ortega regime is using Nicaragua as a platform to send migrants to the United States for political purposes. A staunch enemy of the U.S., Ortega is exploiting people’s need to migrate as a means to strike a blow and sow discord within the United States, essentially «weaponizing» migration—a familiar tactic used by autocracies. Ortega’s actions mirror the strategy employed by the dictator of Belarus, who used his country as a platform to send migrants – in a kind of hybrid warfare – to destabilize Lithuania, Poland, and the European Union.

Dictators do not care about their own people, let alone people from other countries. Their disregard for human dignity leads them to use migrants as mere tools to extract resources and as political weapons. They fail to respect the dignity of those seeking opportunities elsewhere and inflict suffering on their own citizens.

As I mentioned earlier, Nicaragua has experienced an unprecedented and massive exodus of people fleeing both lack of opportunities and repression. Many of these individuals entered the United States through the humanitarian parole program, which was revoked just last week. Hundreds of thousands of Nicaraguans now face immense uncertainty about their future. For many, deportation means prison and torture. I sincerely hope that the life-threatening nature of our situation is carefully considered by the authorities of the countries receiving them.

The case of Nicaragua is unique in another regard: hundreds of priests and nuns have been deported or denied re-entry into the country. Over two hundred religious figures from various denominations have been expelled, including the Sisters of Mercy, Franciscans, and Dominicans. In 2023, the legal charter of the Jesuit order was dissolved, and the UCA university was confiscated. This situation has led to the exile of many priests and other leaders and members of the Catholic Church, who live as refugees and asylum seekers around the world, severely hindering their ability to assist others in Nicaragua and abroad.

Conclusion
Since biblical times, people have suffered persecution and exile. Modern-day tyrants, like Ortega, continue to persecute, expel, and even kill those they see as enemies. The Bible has always been a source of inspiration and hope for those in prison and exile. In fact, it was banned during my imprisonment because it is full of stories of the suffering and resilience of the people of Israel.

Just as in ancient times, today’s victims of tyranny seek refuge elsewhere, trying to rebuild their lives, contribute to society, and find a future where they can live in peace.

The story of my life is a testament to the reality that the right to stay in one’s homeland is too often violated by those in power. Human dignity and fundamental rights are desecrated every second in many parts of the world, including my country. It is important to realize that every migrant, every refugee, has a story, and that generalizations cannot be made. The social teachings of the Catholic Church regarding migration becomes extremely relevant at this moment, because it holds the principles that while people have the right to stay, they also have the right to migrate when conditions become unbearable. States have the moral duty to protect human dignity and ensure that families are not torn apart. At the same time, States have the duty to regulate migration and ensure safety. Vulnerable people must be allowed to flourish in their new lands when their dreams are shattered at home.