San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua. When I was little, I never dreamed of traveling to big, faraway cities. Even when relatives told me what life was like in other countries, I was perfectly happy just escaping the stifling heat of the capital to spend an afternoon in my uncle’s pool.
Of course, I didn’t understand why those people had emigrated, nor could I grasp the hardships, sorrows, and struggles they endured just to find a moment of peace in their new lives.
Back then, we used to gather with family and friends to spend time together, laugh, and dance. We would go purisimiar — walking around the neighborhood singing at altars dedicated to the Virgin Mary — with other local young people.
Our eyes would light up when we held a little bag of 5-peso Roman candles, because we knew that for the 20 seconds each candle lasted, we would be grinning while drawing shapes in the air with them.
There are certain dates that hurt more when you’re far from home, but really, the nostalgia is always there, tucked into the small moments.
My friend Miranda said something, one day in conversation, that deeply resonated with me: in the end, we miss the homeland, not as a territorial concept, but for the meaning we attach to that word.
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If we look up the word patria (homeland) in the dictionary of the Royal Spanish Academy, it reads: “The land of one’s birth or adoption, organized as a nation, to which one feels bound by legal, historical, and emotional ties.” So, based on that definition, we can miss anything — any person, place, or memory —that ties us to our country of origin.
I, for instance, miss visiting my grandmother and watching her sew clothes and uniforms for hours, then finishing the afternoon sitting together on the rocking chair out on the sidewalk.
I miss buying freshly handmade tortillas and eating them with the cheese that was brought to us from Mulukukú, on the Caribbean coast.
I even miss hating that my neighbor blasted Mass at 4:00 a.m. like it was a concert for the whole neighborhood. These memories, which I remember with love and sadness, are my homeland.
What’s truly hard about being far away is seeing the events that happen and not being there, missing those important, joyful, sad, or pivotal moments in the lives of those we love.
It makes you wonder if staying would have been the better choice, or if you blame yourself for the decisions that led you to leave.
My younger brother graduated, my nieces and nephews grew up, my 12-year-old dog died, and I couldn’t say goodbye to her in the way I would have wanted. Relatives passed away without a farewell; others were born without a welcome.
The digital world lets us know about one another, but it’s far from letting us feel one another, the warm closeness that could ease the cold of distance.
I see my former classmates and friends, people who were part of my everyday life during the four years of med school, now graduating and joyfully celebrating all those years of effort and sacrifice.
I felt their joy through the photos, but also sorrow, because I didn’t finish my degree and wasn’t there with them, shoulder to shoulder, celebrating that achievement together.
But as I reflect on all this, I ask myself: why should I feel guilty for choosing to live? Yes, I miss my family, going to my favourite spots, my pets, my career, my former life. But what can we do when it’s simply not possible to live in our own country? When they force us to leave, one way or another?
I’m not only speaking of the sociopolitical context — I mean everything. A country with a broken education system, high unemployment, a constantly devaluing currency, systemic and systematic violence, high rates of femicide, hate crimes against the LGBTQ+ community, rulers who force you to choose between starving to death or being murdered. It’s a multitude of factors pushing us to seek new horizons, hoping for a better life.
For us, those who had to leave our country, almost everything was taken from us. All we managed to preserve were our lives, just to start over. And even that is no guarantee.
Outside the country, we face new struggles: racism, xenophobia, precarious work, institutional violence (like being humiliated by public officials every time you renew your documents), taking any job just to have a roof over your head and food on the table — that is, if you even have a table and don’t live in a 2×2-meter space.
The value of what was taken from us, and continues to be taken, cannot be measured. We were robbed of the present and the future: adults lost the chance to see their children grow up in peace; children lost the chance to grow up surrounded by love and guidance; young people lost the right to dream.
Some are still losing their freedom, others their lives. But what unites Nicaraguans, both inside and outside the country, is that we were robbed of the opportunity to live in peace.
When I was a child, I never dreamed of traveling to big cities. Today, at 27, I’m about to mark seven years living outside of Nicaragua. I’ve lived in five countries over the course of three years.
With all the pain and sadness of what I left behind, I now stand with love and hope for what lies ahead — because we deserve to love and be loved, to celebrate every victory (no matter how small), to smile and rejoice, to dance, sing, drink, eat, to cry when we need to.
But most of all, we deserve to reclaim from our oppressors the opportunity they stole from us: the opportunity to live.
To everyone living outside of their home country reading this, I send you a big hug. I hope you find peace and love, that life leads you to better paths, and that you embrace your decision, because choosing to live will always be the right choice.
