Nicaraguan exiles and the emotional value of objects
This guest article, by a Nicaraguan journalist in exile, is part of the Casa para el Periodismo Libre project, developed by DW Akademie and its partner IPLEX in Costa Rica.
For many Nicaraguans forced to flee their country amid the repression of the Ortega-Murillo regime, each object they manage to take with them across the border represents a tangible connection to the past, an emotional anchor in the face of uprooting and, above all, a promise: to return someday.
San José, Costa Rica. This is the story of an exiled journalist and his collection of keys. He calls himself *Castro, in homage to the surname of an influential high school teacher in Managua who, upon discovering his talent for Spanish and oratory, suggested he study journalism.
Even before leaving, *Castro swore to himself that he would return, that he would open the door to his house, embrace his family and sit on the porch to play with his dog and greet neighbors under the shade of the Indian Laurels that he himself had planted ten years before.
He set off on a windy early morning in February 2022. He carried a change of clean clothes, three pieces of underwear, two pairs of balled-up socks, a blue and white scarf, a hand towel, bathing slippers, deodorant, toothpaste, a toothbrush and a bottle of aspirin. Everything fit, tightly, into a Totto school bag belonging to his teenage daughter.
In an inside pocket, five keys attached to a stainless steel Victorinox key ring. His house keys. His pride. His inheritance. The fruit of years of bank debt and of surviving on a journalist's salary. He knew every nail, every crack, every corner of that house that he had worked on with his own hands.
Each lock told a story: the street lock was opened by a key with traces of red paint; the gate by a key with two parallel notches; the main door by an elongated one with white spots. The other two, smaller, opened the inner gate and the garage lock.
He traveled the more than 200 kilometers from Managua to the border post of Las Manos, adjacent to Honduras, listening to the metallic jingle of the keys at the bottom of his backpack. Already on the other side, exhausted after dodging soldiers and police, he took them out and put them in his jeans pocket. From then on, that sound accompanied him for thousands of kilometers, until he settled in a county east of Los Angeles.
There, for the first time, he hung them on the key ring of his new home. And then he cried. He cried with the heartbreaking certainty that he might never wear them again.
The suitcase and few belongings of a Nicaraguan journalist exiled in Costa Rica Image: La Prensa
Chronicle of everything in the suitcase
In November 2024, during a podcast workshop for exiled journalists which is part of the Casa para el Periodismo Libre project in Costa Rica, someone shared the story of a communicator who, upon fleeing the country, chose to take only one thing with him: a family photo kept inside a Bible. It was the last image, taken of him at Christmas 2021, showing him with his family.
Based on this testimony, other exiles were asked what objects they took with them and what those objects meant. The responses were poignant: keys, stuffed animals, boots, video cameras...each object carried a story of love, pain and memory.
Some names in this article have been changed by express request, to protect the families that remain in Nicaragua and continue to be targets of reprisals.
*Castro recalls the symbolic value of his keys jingling: "It was a promise I repeated to myself every day," he says, holding back tears.
*Lucia, a 14-year-old teenager who fled with her journalist mother, chose three stuffed animals from her childhood. She could not take her guitar, flute, nor her books or watercolors.
"She doesn't play with them anymore," said *Carmen, her mother. "She has them as if on an altar, among posters of her favorite singers. It's her way of remembering that she was happy, even though now she is far from home."
There is also Óscar Navarrete, a photographer for La Prensa, who still has the boots, backpack and hat he wore when he crossed the border. "Each print on my boots is a story of struggle," he says.
*Ana, a doctor and feminist activist, keeps intact the sneakers with which she was expelled by a patrol in Peñas Blancas, on the Costa Rican border. "I went to many marches with them. With them I will return," she says firmly.
The young poet and journalist José Cardoza brought with him a Kodak camera inherited from his grandfather. "I learned to communicate with that camera before I could speak. Today it connects me with the memory of my family," he shared.
And *Raul J. keeps a picture of the last Christmas spent with his grandparents, taken a month before leaving. Both passed away two years later. "It's painful, but essential not to forget," he said in a low voice, trying to contain himself.
The intimate corner of *Lucia: she prioritized in her backpack objects that represent her happy childhood in Nicaragua Image: La Prensa
Nobody leaves because they want to
On October 30, Linda Núñez, sociologist and coordinator of Education and Memory of the Human Rights Collective Nunca Más (Never Again), presented in San José the report Nadie se va porque quiere. Voces desde el exilio (Nobody leaves because they want to. Voices from exile), an investigation by Eduardo González Cueva and María Alicia Álvarez based on the testimonies of 40 people displaced by repression.
The study, supported by the Mesoamerican Women Human Rights Defenders Initiative (Iniciativa Mesoamericana de Defensoras de Derechos Humanos, in Spanish) and American Jewish World Service (AJWS), documents how the Nicaraguan regime's persecution has forced thousands to flee: activists, opponents, journalists, human rights defenders. The crackdown that followed the April 2018 protests was the tipping point.
More than 800,000 people have left the country. Some fled after death threats, others after arbitrary arrests or constant surveillance.
Of those interviewed, 45 per cent managed to barely prepare for their departure. The rest fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The experience of exile, the report points out, fractures life projects, separates families, destroys stability and leaves a wound that never heals.
The stories describe anguish, guilt, anxiety and post-traumatic stress. Many also face xenophobia and discrimination in their host countries, with no access to psychological support.
Even so, 87.5 per cent report that they dream of returning, despite knowing they will return to a different Nicaragua.
"This report documents crimes against humanity," said Núñez. "The Ortega-Murillo regime has destroyed not only individuals, but also their environments." Among the testimonies, one stands out: an exile keeps the key to his house as a symbol of hope. "Only the body passes, but the soul stays on the other side," said Núñez.
A Nicaraguan family hid their passports in a chess box to avoid the army seizing them on their migratory route Image: La Prensa
Sailboat and anchor
The objects that exiles carry are not only memories: they are sailboats that push them forward and anchors that tie them to what they were. This is how Mexican psychologist Perla Guerra explained it to *Castro when he asked her about the emotional meaning of his keys. "An object is a treasure if it gives you hope and comfort. If it causes you suffering, maybe you haven't healed enough," she told him.
Specialists agree that these objects help exiles process migratory mourning, maintain memories and reconstruct identities broken by exile. But they warn that excessive attachment can also hinder adaptation.
*Carmen, mother of *Lucia, received the recommendation to carefully observe how her daughter interacted with her stuffed animals.
"They can be a source of comfort, but if there is an inordinate attachment, you have to create an environment that gives her security without being trapped in the past," she was advised.
In December 2024, Mexican journalist Patricia Mayorga - displaced by violence in Chihuahua - shared her experience at a meeting on migration in San José. She asked attendees to take with them the objects they had carried in their exodus and to tell their stories.
Keys, backpacks, photos, amulets, books...were piled on the table, each with its emotional charge. "These objects," said Mayorga, "help to cope with the transition, but it is also necessary to learn to let go in order to heal."
She herselfhad filled her home in exile with memories of Chihuahua. This transformed her surroundings into a space of gratitude rather than nostalgia.
"I didn't make an altar to cry," she said. Instead, the exercise opened up a necessary debate: to what extent is it healthy to hold onto such objects? How do they influence our ability to heal?
*Castro was also there. He had returned from California to join his family in Costa Rica. He said that, with pain, he decided to send back to Nicaragua the keys he had been carrying since his first day of exile. The police had begun to harass his family and he feared for them. So, he handed over control of the house to relatives.
It was his way of coming full circle. To accept that he might not open that door again, but also to take one more step toward the reconstruction of his life. The metallic sound of the keys, which once accompanied him as a promise, is now just an echo that belongs to another life.
*The real names have been changed for security reasons.
This text is part of the series Contar el Exilio (Narrating the Exile), produced in collaboration with DW Akademie, the Institute for Press and Freedom of Expression (IPLEX) and the Latin American Network of Journalism in Exile (RELPEX). This series, in turn, is part of the Space for Freedom project within the framework of the Hannah Arendt Initiative, funded by Germany's Federal Foreign Office.
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DW
17 hours ago
- DW
Nicaraguan exiles and the emotional value of objects
This guest article, by a Nicaraguan journalist in exile, is part of the Casa para el Periodismo Libre project, developed by DW Akademie and its partner IPLEX in Costa Rica. For many Nicaraguans forced to flee their country amid the repression of the Ortega-Murillo regime, each object they manage to take with them across the border represents a tangible connection to the past, an emotional anchor in the face of uprooting and, above all, a promise: to return someday. San José, Costa Rica. This is the story of an exiled journalist and his collection of keys. He calls himself *Castro, in homage to the surname of an influential high school teacher in Managua who, upon discovering his talent for Spanish and oratory, suggested he study journalism. Even before leaving, *Castro swore to himself that he would return, that he would open the door to his house, embrace his family and sit on the porch to play with his dog and greet neighbors under the shade of the Indian Laurels that he himself had planted ten years before. He set off on a windy early morning in February 2022. He carried a change of clean clothes, three pieces of underwear, two pairs of balled-up socks, a blue and white scarf, a hand towel, bathing slippers, deodorant, toothpaste, a toothbrush and a bottle of aspirin. Everything fit, tightly, into a Totto school bag belonging to his teenage daughter. In an inside pocket, five keys attached to a stainless steel Victorinox key ring. His house keys. His pride. His inheritance. The fruit of years of bank debt and of surviving on a journalist's salary. He knew every nail, every crack, every corner of that house that he had worked on with his own hands. Each lock told a story: the street lock was opened by a key with traces of red paint; the gate by a key with two parallel notches; the main door by an elongated one with white spots. The other two, smaller, opened the inner gate and the garage lock. He traveled the more than 200 kilometers from Managua to the border post of Las Manos, adjacent to Honduras, listening to the metallic jingle of the keys at the bottom of his backpack. Already on the other side, exhausted after dodging soldiers and police, he took them out and put them in his jeans pocket. From then on, that sound accompanied him for thousands of kilometers, until he settled in a county east of Los Angeles. There, for the first time, he hung them on the key ring of his new home. And then he cried. He cried with the heartbreaking certainty that he might never wear them again. The suitcase and few belongings of a Nicaraguan journalist exiled in Costa Rica Image: La Prensa Chronicle of everything in the suitcase In November 2024, during a podcast workshop for exiled journalists which is part of the Casa para el Periodismo Libre project in Costa Rica, someone shared the story of a communicator who, upon fleeing the country, chose to take only one thing with him: a family photo kept inside a Bible. It was the last image, taken of him at Christmas 2021, showing him with his family. Based on this testimony, other exiles were asked what objects they took with them and what those objects meant. The responses were poignant: keys, stuffed animals, boots, video object carried a story of love, pain and memory. Some names in this article have been changed by express request, to protect the families that remain in Nicaragua and continue to be targets of reprisals. *Castro recalls the symbolic value of his keys jingling: "It was a promise I repeated to myself every day," he says, holding back tears. *Lucia, a 14-year-old teenager who fled with her journalist mother, chose three stuffed animals from her childhood. She could not take her guitar, flute, nor her books or watercolors. "She doesn't play with them anymore," said *Carmen, her mother. "She has them as if on an altar, among posters of her favorite singers. It's her way of remembering that she was happy, even though now she is far from home." There is also Óscar Navarrete, a photographer for La Prensa, who still has the boots, backpack and hat he wore when he crossed the border. "Each print on my boots is a story of struggle," he says. *Ana, a doctor and feminist activist, keeps intact the sneakers with which she was expelled by a patrol in Peñas Blancas, on the Costa Rican border. "I went to many marches with them. With them I will return," she says firmly. The young poet and journalist José Cardoza brought with him a Kodak camera inherited from his grandfather. "I learned to communicate with that camera before I could speak. Today it connects me with the memory of my family," he shared. And *Raul J. keeps a picture of the last Christmas spent with his grandparents, taken a month before leaving. Both passed away two years later. "It's painful, but essential not to forget," he said in a low voice, trying to contain himself. The intimate corner of *Lucia: she prioritized in her backpack objects that represent her happy childhood in Nicaragua Image: La Prensa Nobody leaves because they want to On October 30, Linda Núñez, sociologist and coordinator of Education and Memory of the Human Rights Collective Nunca Más (Never Again), presented in San José the report Nadie se va porque quiere. Voces desde el exilio (Nobody leaves because they want to. Voices from exile), an investigation by Eduardo González Cueva and María Alicia Álvarez based on the testimonies of 40 people displaced by repression. The study, supported by the Mesoamerican Women Human Rights Defenders Initiative (Iniciativa Mesoamericana de Defensoras de Derechos Humanos, in Spanish) and American Jewish World Service (AJWS), documents how the Nicaraguan regime's persecution has forced thousands to flee: activists, opponents, journalists, human rights defenders. The crackdown that followed the April 2018 protests was the tipping point. More than 800,000 people have left the country. Some fled after death threats, others after arbitrary arrests or constant surveillance. Of those interviewed, 45 per cent managed to barely prepare for their departure. The rest fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The experience of exile, the report points out, fractures life projects, separates families, destroys stability and leaves a wound that never heals. The stories describe anguish, guilt, anxiety and post-traumatic stress. Many also face xenophobia and discrimination in their host countries, with no access to psychological support. Even so, 87.5 per cent report that they dream of returning, despite knowing they will return to a different Nicaragua. "This report documents crimes against humanity," said Núñez. "The Ortega-Murillo regime has destroyed not only individuals, but also their environments." Among the testimonies, one stands out: an exile keeps the key to his house as a symbol of hope. "Only the body passes, but the soul stays on the other side," said Núñez. A Nicaraguan family hid their passports in a chess box to avoid the army seizing them on their migratory route Image: La Prensa Sailboat and anchor The objects that exiles carry are not only memories: they are sailboats that push them forward and anchors that tie them to what they were. This is how Mexican psychologist Perla Guerra explained it to *Castro when he asked her about the emotional meaning of his keys. "An object is a treasure if it gives you hope and comfort. If it causes you suffering, maybe you haven't healed enough," she told him. Specialists agree that these objects help exiles process migratory mourning, maintain memories and reconstruct identities broken by exile. But they warn that excessive attachment can also hinder adaptation. *Carmen, mother of *Lucia, received the recommendation to carefully observe how her daughter interacted with her stuffed animals. "They can be a source of comfort, but if there is an inordinate attachment, you have to create an environment that gives her security without being trapped in the past," she was advised. In December 2024, Mexican journalist Patricia Mayorga - displaced by violence in Chihuahua - shared her experience at a meeting on migration in San José. She asked attendees to take with them the objects they had carried in their exodus and to tell their stories. Keys, backpacks, photos, amulets, piled on the table, each with its emotional charge. "These objects," said Mayorga, "help to cope with the transition, but it is also necessary to learn to let go in order to heal." She herselfhad filled her home in exile with memories of Chihuahua. This transformed her surroundings into a space of gratitude rather than nostalgia. "I didn't make an altar to cry," she said. Instead, the exercise opened up a necessary debate: to what extent is it healthy to hold onto such objects? How do they influence our ability to heal? *Castro was also there. He had returned from California to join his family in Costa Rica. He said that, with pain, he decided to send back to Nicaragua the keys he had been carrying since his first day of exile. The police had begun to harass his family and he feared for them. So, he handed over control of the house to relatives. It was his way of coming full circle. To accept that he might not open that door again, but also to take one more step toward the reconstruction of his life. The metallic sound of the keys, which once accompanied him as a promise, is now just an echo that belongs to another life. *The real names have been changed for security reasons. This text is part of the series Contar el Exilio (Narrating the Exile), produced in collaboration with DW Akademie, the Institute for Press and Freedom of Expression (IPLEX) and the Latin American Network of Journalism in Exile (RELPEX). This series, in turn, is part of the Space for Freedom project within the framework of the Hannah Arendt Initiative, funded by Germany's Federal Foreign Office.
DW
21 hours ago
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Podcasting for Afghan refugees in Pakistan
Deeba Jan Akbari Kakar has a business degree and loves to work. But forced displacement and traditional family values have limited her. A DW Akademie podcasting program has given her purpose and a challenge. In the years before she married, Deeba Jan Akbari Kakar worked a lot and loved her job. After earning a degree in business administration in her native Afghanistan, a private bank there hired her, and she found great satisfaction in demonstrating her organizational and managerial skills. But this wouldn't last. War and the regressive Taliban government led her, her husband and their three children to first flee to Pakistan, where they resided for about a decade before returning to Afghanistan. But threats there to their economic and personal security forced them out again, this time to Uzbekistan, where they spent five years as they applied to migrate to Germany. Those plans, however, also led nowhere, all of which leaves Kakar today, at age 35, with visible disappointment. She is today back in Pakistan, where she lives with her family among other displaced persons. Migration upheaval Worldwide, there are more than 120 million people displaced, according to the UNHCR , the United Nations Refugee Agency, which formally recognizes this population – and specifically the 43.4 million classified as refugees – on June 20, World Refugee Day. This displacement is due to conflict, persecution and violence. The UNHCR estimates that close to three million Afghan refugees are in Pakistan. And they have been particularly vulnerable since 2023, when the Pakistani government then started deporting Afghan nationals, refugees and asylum seekers under its "Foreigners' Repatriation Plan." "This was all really tough," she said, as she recounted broken promises and constant setbacks. Layered over that, too, is her regret at not being able to work in her chosen profession, partly because of the upheaval, partly because her husband's family discourages her from holding a job. Deeba Jan Akbari Kakar has found purpose in podcasting news she gathers as a community reporter in Pakistan. An Afghan refugee herself, she reports on everyday challenges such as opening a bank account, fund transfers to family in Afghanistan, and the uncertainty and stress of being in constant transition. Image: Tabish Naeemi/DW "I really love working," she said with infectious enthusiasm that sweeps away any rancor at her difficulties. Instead, Kakar's demeanor reflects acceptance and even gratitude. "In working, I learn new things about myself, what I'm capable of doing, and how I can put new skills to work – skills that I sometimes don't even know I have." Community reporters learn valuable skills With a positive attitude like that, it seemed fateful that Kakar last year would find herself participating in a program supported by DW Akademie where Pakistani media organizations train Afghan refugees like herself, aiming to both promote reliable and helpful news sharing in displaced persons camps and settlements – community reporting – and to transfer media skills like fact-checking and podcasting that could lead to paid work. Kakar now works in a school cafeteria, where she earns about 10,000 rupees per month (about $30). To send one child to school, she continued, it costs about 30,000 rupees – an impossible sum, in particular, too, since she has three children all younger than nine years of age. But while she may privately ruminate on her situation, she – and others – have found that putting her experiences to the good is a win-win. "She has strong teamwork skills, creative thinking and a deep empathy for her community," said Fakhira Najib, the Managing Director of The Communicators Limited , a DW Akademie partner in Pakistan which offers the podcast training. "She consistently brings fresh ideas to the table, especially when it comes to highlighting the issues faced by displaced communities. Her ability to connect with people and translate their experiences into powerful stories makes her an invaluable contributor." For now, learning podcasting provides an outlet for working within her circumstances, helping other refugees like herself and contributing in a possible way. The focus is on 'news you can use' for those living in marginalized communities and areas. The challenges with this are plenty: a fluid society where following up with sources and how stories evolve can prove impossible, lived trauma from fleeing war and a lack of infrastructure to produce stories via media like podcasting or broadcasting. But none of this has stopped Kakar, who, when she felt her professional options slipping away in Afghanistan, started writing down stories – with pen and paper – there, and then found she could secretly freelance for a magazine. "I started talking with women who, like me, had received an education but were not allowed to work," she explained, adding that in one instance, a woman's husband showed up unexpectedly and chased Kakar out of the house. "These women were scared, understandably, so I gave them pseudonyms. I wrote about troubled marriages, and about them not being able to send their children to were very emotional interviews. For both of us." 'In working,' says Deeba Jan Akbari Kakar, 'I learn new things about myself, what I'm capable of doing, and how I can put new skills to work – skills that I sometimes don't even know I have.' Image: Tabish Naeemi/DW The Farewell Land During the workshops, held last year in July and December and centered on podcasting tools and skills, Kakar swapped her pencil and pad for microphones, headphones and recording equipment, which she found superior to not missing any information and helpful in being able to double-check what subjects told her. She has also pursued stories that examine what refugees like her find so taxing in their lives: visa problems, opening and access to bank accounts, fund transfers to family in Afghanistan, and the day-to-day uncertainty and stress of being in constant transition. "We're all trapped in a way," she said. "I have not seen my own mother in 10 years." This is, in essence, the basis of a podcast Kakar developed during the DW Akademie training. Called "The Farewell Land," she explores refugees and their hope of one day being able to return safely to their homeland. "It's a play on words, a way of saying that this is not goodbye," she said. "This is not the end, we will rise up, and we will find a way." As part of the Displacement and Dialogue Asiaproject, podcast training and content production are funded by the German Federal Ministry for Economic Cooperation and Development (BMZ). The project, thanks to the cooperation with our partners, is the first to integrate Afghans into the Pakistani media landscape. DW Akademie supports partners in Pakistan to train Afghan refugees to become community reporters. Participants learn skills and are mentored in producing content for digital platforms or radio.
Int'l Business Times
a day ago
- Int'l Business Times
US Immigration Agents Barred From LA Dodgers' Stadium: Team
The Los Angeles Dodgers said Thursday the club barred federal immigration agents from the team's stadium parking lot as a fresh wave of raids continued across America's second-biggest city. The Dodgers, who have been criticized for their failure to comment publicly on the US government's immigration crackdown in Los Angeles, said in a statement the team denied access to US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents who "requested permission to access the parking lots." "They were denied entry to the grounds by the organization," the statement said, adding that the team's game later Thursday would go ahead as scheduled. Images and video shared on social media showed a line of unmarked trucks and masked agents at one Dodger Stadium entrance while protesters nearby chanted "ICE out of LA." The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) later clarified that the agents at the venue were from US Customs and Border Protection (CBP), not ICE. "This had nothing to do with the Dodgers. CBP vehicles were in the stadium parking lot very briefly, unrelated to any operation or enforcement," a DHS statement said. The incident comes against a backdrop of heightened tensions in Los Angeles, which has become ground zero of President Donald Trump's immigration crackdown across the United States. The city has seen scattered violence but mostly peaceful protests in recent weeks, ignited by an escalation in federal immigration sweeps that have targeted migrant workers in garment factories, car washes and other workplaces. Local media reported further raids across the city on Thursday targeting Home Depot stores, a home improvement retailer where day laborers often gather in parking lots seeking work. In addition to the mobilization of ICE agents, Trump has ordered the deployment of thousands of National Guard troops and hundreds of Marines into the city in response to the protests -- a move opposed by city leaders and California Governor Gavin Newsom, who is a Democrat. The incident at Dodger Stadium on Thursday comes as the reigning World Series champions have faced criticism for their response to the immigration crackdown. The team has a heavily Latino fan base, with some claiming a sense of betrayal over the franchise's failure to speak out against the ongoing raids. As of early Thursday, the Dodgers have made no formal statement in regard to the immigration raids across the city. The team's failure to condemn the immigration offensive came under scrutiny last weekend, when Latin American pop singer Nezza defied Dodgers officials and sang the US national anthem in Spanish before the team's home game. Speaking outside Dodger Stadium on Thursday after federal agents had left the venue, one 27-year-old fan among a small group of protesters told AFP she felt let down by the team. "They've been very quiet since these ICE raids started, and I think it's very hypocritical of them not to say anything when the majority of their fan base is the Latino population here in Los Angeles," Paola, who asked only to be identified by her first name, told AFP. "It 100 percent feels like betrayal. I was born and raised here, I've supported them my whole life -- for them not to come out and support us during these times is messed up." Los Angeles Times sports columnist Dylan Hernandez has slammed the team's response to the immigration crackdown. "The Dodgers boast that more than 40 percent of their fan base is Latino, but they can't even be bothered to offer the shaken community any words of comfort," Hernandez wrote. "How ungrateful. How disrespectful. How cowardly." While the Dodgers have remained silent, the team's popular outfielder Enrique Hernandez lashed out against the raids in a statement on Instagram. "I am saddened and infuriated by what's happening in our country and our city," wrote Hernandez, who is from Puerto Rico. "This is my second home. And I cannot stand to see our community being violated, profiled, abused and ripped apart. ALL people deserve to be treated with respect, dignity and human rights." Los Angeles police stand guard as protesters gather in front of one of the parking lot entrances at Dodgers Stadium, where federal immigration agents were denied entry AFP
