It’s four in the afternoon, and the heat is suffocating. The sky is cloudless, and the sun’s glare is relentless. The GPS indicates the destination is just ahead on the right. A few meters later, tombstones come into view—it’s a cemetery established in 1906. Across the street, the landscape is barren, with only empty lots stretching out. The area feels isolated, nestled in a rural region northwest of Indianapolis, the capital of Indiana. About 200 meters away lies a small community of around 40 mobile homes. In one of them lives 61-year-old Bayardo Orozco, who has called this place home for the past two years.
Bayardo’s mobile home stands out, shaded by a tree whose branches stretch over the roof, offering a touch of relief from the oppressive heat. The silence in the area is profound. Inside, the shared spaces—living room, dining area, and kitchen—are visible as soon as you step through the front door. The walls are bare, with no pictures or decorations. The windows are shut, and the air inside feels heavy and stifling. Outside, the state is under a heat advisory, with temperatures soaring to 95°F (35°C). Bayardo sits on a dining chair, sweat dripping down his forehead, though he seems unbothered. He is alone.
Bayardo arrived in the U.S. in 2018 after a grueling four-month journey with his son. He didn’t leave Nicaragua for economic reasons; he fled because the regime of Daniel Ortega and Rosario Murillo was hunting him down. They intended to arrest him. Like thousands of other Nicaraguans, he had joined the 2018 protests.
Since the 2018 social uprising, an estimated 40,000 Nicaraguans over the age of 60 have fled the country, according to Manuel Orozco, director of the Migration, Remittances, and Development Program at the Inter-American Dialogue. This group makes up 5% of the nearly 800,000 Nicaraguans forced to leave their homeland over the past six years.
Recibe nuestro boletín semanal
Bayardo was one of them. A truck driver by trade, he owned and operated two trucks in northern Nicaragua. His business thrived, thanks to his home base in Las Maderas, a small town 50 kilometers from Managua along the Pan-American Highway. This critical route connected key agricultural hubs like Sébaco, Matagalpa, Jinotega, and Estelí, fueling the region’s commerce.
Bayardo was never a Sandinista. When the 2018 protests erupted, he didn’t hesitate to join. It wasn’t his first time opposing the Ortega government. In May 2008, as a community leader, he participated in a transportation strike. Roads were blocked, food shortages gripped the capital, and markets ran out of supplies. After 11 days of unrest, the government caved to the strikers’ demands.
So, in 2018, at the height of the social uprising, Bayardo and his neighbors in Las Maderas took to the streets once more. Drawing from their experience a decade earlier, they set up barricades to block traffic and trade, protesting the police and paramilitary violence unleashed by the government since April of that year. Bayardo appeared in the media, openly demanding the resignation of Ortega and Murillo, the authoritarian couple ruling Nicaragua with an iron grip.
By September 2018, the regime was targeting local leaders involved in protests and roadblocks. The Sandinista Public Prosecutor’s Office had already arrested over 1,000 people. Repression descended on Las Maderas. The National Police, the regime’s primary instrument of political persecution, issued an arrest warrant for Bayardo. Before it could be carried out, he packed a bag with four changes of clothes and fled north with his son. An hour after they left, a contingent of police officers raided his home.
The Journey North
Bayardo and his son had only $150 in their pockets when they headed north, the region they knew best. They fled without passports, relying on their Nicaraguan ID cards to cross Central America, thanks to the CA-4 treaty, which allows free movement for Central Americans (except in Costa Rica). This was the easiest part of their journey. Things became more complicated in Mexico. They ran out of money and reached La 72, a shelter for migrants in Tabasco.
The shelter helped them obtain a migratory permit to legally traverse Mexico. Meanwhile, their family in Nicaragua sent them money to survive. It took four months before they reached the U.S. southern border. They turned themselves in to Border Patrol, which marked the beginning of their separation during this flight from political persecution.
Bayardo’s son was detained at the Stewart Detention Center in Georgia for nearly a year, but his asylum case was denied by U.S. courts. He was deported to Nicaragua, and that’s when Bayardo felt his world collapse. Bayardo himself was detained for five months before being released.
Upon release, Bayardo faced the daunting challenge of finding work. With no family to turn to, he called every contact he had in the U.S. using a small list he carried. While people congratulated him on making it, they often made excuses not to host him. Eventually, someone told him about Italians in South Carolina who could offer him a place to stay in exchange for work at a restaurant. Desperate, Bayardo accepted, as it was his only option and would bring him closer to his son, who was still detained.
He worked 12-hour shifts from Tuesday to Saturday for three months until one of the Italians recommended him for a paid position at another restaurant. Finally, he began earning a salary.
But Bayardo’s loneliness has taken a significant toll on him. Starting over at his age is far more difficult than it is for someone younger, like his son. Finding a job is a constant struggle, and learning a new language and adjusting to an unfamiliar culture is even harder.
Psychologist Ruth Quirós, from the Colectivo de Derechos Humanos Nicaragua Nunca Más, explains that forced displacement is especially difficult for those over 60. At this stage in life, people should ideally be enjoying the rewards of their lifelong work. Instead, they face the harsh realities of exile, the loss of everything they’ve worked for, and the challenge of rebuilding from scratch, all while coping with chronic health issues. To make matters worse, many older Nicaraguans who have had their citizenship revoked by the Ortega-Murillo regime have also lost their pensions.
Starting Over
Ricardo Pineda, 60, has been a doctor since 1989. When protests broke out in 2018, he watched in shock and outrage as the government shut public hospitals and denied medical care to those injured by repression, most of whom were young. True to his oath to preserve life, Ricardo joined other doctors and medical students in treating victims of attacks carried out by the National Police, snipers, and paramilitaries. They stopped bleeding, managed pain, referred patients to private hospitals, treated wounds, and set up makeshift medical posts in churches and universities.
They also assisted families of political prisoners outside “El Chipote,” Nicaragua’s most feared prison, notorious for its use of torture and inhumane treatment, as reported by human rights organizations. One day, on July 13, 2018, Ricardo was called to help the wounded at the National Autonomous University of Nicaragua (UNAN-Managua), where paramilitaries and police were attacking students. He and another doctor managed to evacuate some of the injured, but they were unable to leave the area. They sought refuge in the Church of Divine Mercy in Managua, alongside students and others. For over 12 hours, they endured relentless gunfire.
After surviving the attack on the church, Ricardo learned through social media that there was now a bounty on his head. For his safety, he fled Nicaragua, heading to Costa Rica, which he chose for its proximity. Ricardo initially hoped to continue fighting against the dictatorship from abroad. However, he found it impossible to practice medicine in Costa Rica due to numerous bureaucratic obstacles in the process of validating his medical credentials.
Despite Costa Rica’s reputation as a haven for migrants, particularly exiled Nicaraguans, its society is highly protective of its local job market, especially concerning the accreditation of foreign degrees. Ricardo was part of a group of 30 exiled Nicaraguan doctors who sought recognition of their medical licenses in Costa Rica. Yet, the University of Costa Rica (UCR) blocked them from taking the medical knowledge exam—a prerequisite for completing other certification processes through the College of Physicians and Surgeons.
“There was a strict order not to facilitate the integration of Nicaraguan doctors. Costa Rican doctors fear a wave of migrant professionals might threaten their job security,” Ricardo recalls.
Faced with this harsh reality, Ricardo moved to El Salvador, where he spent six months selling shoes online. Finally, he relocated to Spain with a work visa.
In Spain, Ricardo was able to validate his medical degree and obtain a professional license after a two-year process. Unlike in Costa Rica, Spain’s system for recognizing his credentials was more straightforward. Today, he works as a doctor in a health center, but the years have taken their toll. The physical stamina he had at the start of his career is no longer the same.
A day before being interviewed, he had finished a 30-hour shift. While Spanish law exempts doctors over 55 from such grueling shifts, Ricardo continues to work long hours. He puts in 40 hours a week, in addition to four on-call shifts per month. Yet, despite his decades of experience, his professional résumé in Spain is equivalent to that of a recent graduate. “What matters here is how long you’ve been working in the Spanish system,” Ricardo explains.
Adding to the burden, Ricardo will need to contribute to Spain’s social security system for a minimum of 15 years to qualify for even a partial pension. This means he will likely need to work into his 70s to earn what he had already secured in Nicaragua.
For Ricardo, the hardest part of being a migrant is the loneliness. At 60, he finds that illnesses like colds and flu now hit him harder than before. His body feels like it’s betraying him. In Spain, he has even developed respiratory allergies, something he never experienced in Nicaragua.
Repression Against Older Adults
Since 2018, the Ortega regime has targeted older adults with particular cruelty. The pension reform of that year, which reduced benefits for retirees, sparked nationwide protests. Images of pro-Ortega mobs assaulting elderly protesters circulated throughout Nicaragua. These events marked the beginning of a brutal crackdown on anyone perceived as opposing the government.
The regime has officially stripped 451 Nicaraguans of their citizenship, confiscating their assets, declaring them fugitives, and, in the case of older adults, revoking their pensions. However, thousands more Nicaraguans have been left stateless in practice, unable to obtain essential documents for validating their credentials in other countries.
Ortega’s government also enforces re-entry bans on nationals who have left the country. In August 2024, 90-year-old Nicaraguan scientist Jaime Incer Barquero and his 80-year-old wife were denied entry to their homeland.
Among the 357 political prisoners exiled by the regime, over 60 were older adults, all accused of “treason.” Many endured inhumane conditions in Nicaraguan prisons, including torture and chronic illnesses left untreated. In February 2022, retired general Hugo Torres, 73, died in regime custody.
Resisting Another Dictatorship
Many of these older adults were once young revolutionaries who helped overthrow the Somoza dictatorship during the Sandinista Revolution. Now, decades later, they find themselves fighting against yet another dictatorship—this time led by Ortega.
“I can’t understand how we live in this loop. From not tolerating a dictatorship to slowly being subjected to another—worse one—and not shaking it off in time. I think we saw it coming, we saw the cruelty of war looming. To avoid war, they gradually tightened the screws, because it was clear the conflict would be painful and bloody. Especially older people who had lived through the first war of the 70s wanted to avoid it,” Ricardo reflects.
Patricia Orozco, 67, is one of those stripped of her nationality in February 2023. The news caught her off guard. “I thought that by having already left the country, the dictatorship would just leave me alone. I think that was very naive of me,” she says.
In June 2021, Ortega’s dictatorship began a crackdown on independent journalists. Patricia was summoned by the Attorney General’s Office. After that meeting, her children begged her to leave the country. “You know they’re going to arrest you. You know you have diabetes and there’s no guarantee they’ll provide you with your medication, your insulin. You have to leave,” they warned her. At that point, she was already retired and receiving her pension from the Nicaraguan Social Security Institute (INSS).
After that call, she made the decision to leave. A lawyer friend confirmed that her name was on a list of people who wouldn’t be allowed to leave the country. “I said to myself, they’re not going to catch me, and so I decided to leave,” she recalls.
For the second time in her life, she had to go into hiding. The first time was to fight against Somoza’s dictatorship. At just 17 years old, she joined the armed struggle, and now she had to protect herself to resist another dictatorship. She managed to cross the border and eventually reached El Salvador, where she contracted Covid-19.
Isolated in a room, cut off from all human contact, Patricia managed to survive the disease. Her biggest concern was being unable to control her diabetes, but a Nicaraguan doctor warned her that going to a hospital would put her at even greater risk. She used oxygen and stayed in touch with the doctor, who called her three times a day. He guided her in monitoring her blood sugar levels and blood pressure.
For four months, she lived in a friend’s home. Although she survived Covid-19, she decided she couldn’t stay in El Salvador because President Nayib Bukele had launched a political campaign against independent journalism. She traveled to Colombia, where she stayed for two months, before crossing the Atlantic to Spain. On the day she boarded the plane, she knew there was no going back. “I was convinced I couldn’t return, that I hadn’t left by choice, that I was in this situation because of the damned dictatorship,” she says.
The dictatorship confiscated Patricia’s home—a property she had owned for over 30 years. They also took away her pension. “They erased me from the map,” she asserts.
The first three months in Spain were the hardest, especially finding insulin. Two retired doctors and another from a different region helped her secure the medication. “That solidarity is something I’ll never forget because, without it, I wouldn’t have survived,” she recalls. In Spain, migrants cannot obtain a health card until they’ve been in the country for 90 days, which meant Patricia couldn’t access insulin during that time.
Both Ricardo and Patricia sacrificed their youth to fight one dictatorship, only to find themselves condemned to live out their old age under another, in exile. “I think we should never have been just anti-Somoza; we should have been pro-democracy—anti-dictatorship in general. It wasn’t about being anti-Somoza just because of who he was. There’s no big difference between Ortega-Murillo and Somoza,” Ricardo points out.
The Pain of Migration
“It’s been painful to migrate because, since the last day I saw my family, I haven’t seen them again,” says Bayardo, staring out a window in Indianapolis, as if trying to relive that final hug with his mother. He pauses, holding back tears, then continues, “She’s still there, the little old lady, and I’m praying to the Lord to keep her safe so maybe I can return soon,” he says hopefully.
Psychologist Ruth Quirós from the Colectivo de Derechos Humanos Nicaragua Nunca Más describes exile as a traumatic event. “Migration is painful because it means separating yourself from everything you love and building a completely different life. For older adults, it’s something they likely never imagined,” she explains.
Patricia’s voice falters, and tears fall as she talks about the pain of leaving Nicaragua. “Exile sounds easy, but it’s difficult because it’s a forced departure. I never in my life chose to leave Nicaragua. I’ve found a lot of solidarity here, but it’s hard to adapt to a new culture, a new way of thinking, even new words,” she says.
One symptom of migratory grief is recurring intrusive images, Quirós explains. “There are many images that keep coming back, even in dreams—painful memories but also nostalgic ones. Many of these people dream of returning home.”
In his dreams, Ricardo finds himself back in Nicaragua. His mind believes he’s still there. “All my dreams are about Nicaragua; I don’t dream of Spain—I dream that I’m back there,” he says.
Fear of Dying Far From Home
Through her work with persecuted Nicaraguans, Quirós has heard many older adults express a fear of dying in exile. “There’s this fear: ‘I’m going to die far from home.’ They wonder, ‘What will happen to me? Will I live to see a free Nicaragua?’” she says.
Ricardo has little hope of returning: “I see myself like the Jews wandering the desert. They didn’t reach the promised land until the older generation had passed away. I think we’re still in the desert. Until a new generation arises—one less needy, less corrupt, capable of working for the nation’s good—we’ll remain stuck. In the meantime, it’s more of the same.”
The situation is equally grim for older adults still in Nicaragua. Political persecution continues, medical care is inaccessible, and over 5,000 civil society organizations—including nursing homes, retiree associations, and veterans’ groups—have been shut down.
Reinvention as Resistance
Bayardo once thought South Carolina was close to his son, but after his son was deported to Nicaragua, he decided to move to Indiana. Finding work was difficult, but after two months, he completed a course on handling asbestos—a hazardous material used in construction. With certification in hand, Bayardo found work remodeling homes. He also worked in landscaping and fence installation, though his last full-time job was six months ago.
Now, he does occasional one-day jobs. As he says, “I’m just idle.” He suffers from swelling in his feet, which he treats with medication purchased through a private insurance plan he pays for on the Marketplace. He hasn’t had a medical checkup in years but takes medicine for cholesterol and uric acid.
In January 2022, he reunited with one of his daughters, who also fled Nicaragua after receiving threats. They now live together, though she works in construction and is rarely home.
Bayardo goes to the kitchen, retrieves a pound of fresh cheese he made himself, and proudly remarks how “it’s turning out delicious.” He plans to start a business selling Nicaraguan cheese. Despite the hardships, he’s finding ways to earn a living. “I didn’t have money in Nicaragua, but I always had a knack for making it,” he says. The smell of the cheese takes him back to his hometown, and his eyes light up as he remembers his family.