The early morning rain chilled the feet of 76-year-old Juan Bautista García. It was September 6, and the cool air Guatemala City had kept him awake on his first night in exile.
Just the day before, García had been released and banished from Nicaragua to Guatemala, part of a group of 135 people imprisoned for standing up to the Ortega-Murillo regime. He says he is the second oldest in the group of exiles. He spent approximately 17 months in a maximum-security prison, sleeping on a small bunk, shirtless, to cope with the heat of Managua. “I never complained, never asked for medication because I didn’t need it,” García says, standing outside a hotel in Guatemala City.
He was with his son the entire time, Juan Isidro García. Together, they endured the heat and filth of the cell— mosquitoes, cockroaches, the worm-infested or spoiled food they were served; the hard bunks, back pain; and the monotony of doing— or not doing—anything, just passing time behind bars. Every day was the same: poor sleep, bad food, or as García says, “life in hell.”
The Oak’s first night out of prison
García’s face is wrinkled, he’s missing a couple of bottom front teeth, and his short hair is completely white. However, he still looks strong and speaks coherently. He says that in the La Modelo Penitentiary in Managua, the guards used to ask if he wanted to be transferred to the chronic illness ward, but he always resisted. “Only once did they give me a couple of pills because the back pain was unbearable,” he says.
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For his stubbornness or gallantry, depending on how you see it, the guards at La Modelo nicknamed him “The Oak.”
The Oak’s first night in exile promised rest. Especially after seeing the hotel room where he would sleep: a king-size bed with five pillows, all covered in white sheets as bright as he had never seen in his life. In front of him, a 40-inch TV screen; and the bathroom, scented like strawberries, with several towels, also white, neatly in place.
The Oak lay down, and exhaustion overcame him in a few minutes. Hours later, the rain woke him up due to the pain in the bones of his feet. In the morning, the radio reported that the storm had knocked down trees, blocking traffic on the roads and causing some accidents. At the same time, The Oak’s foot pain was so intense he could only get out of bed with his son’s help.
A 12-hour operation
At 8 PM on September 4, all the women were lying on their bunks. Some were saying their final prayer of the night, as they did every night, asking for their release. The silence was broken by the shouts of the head of the prison system with clear orders: put on your uniform and pack your toothbrushes and soap. “That’s all you can take,” she emphasized.
They were all taken from their cells to another room in the same prison. There, they recognized and counted 27 of the 32 political prisoners held in that facility. Hours later, they were transferred to the Ministry of the Interior (Mint), according to some prisoners, while others say they couldn’t identify the location due to the confusion of the moment. “They just checked our names,” says Nelly López, who was banished after spending almost 17 months in prison.
They were put back on the bus, and an official—whether from the U.S. or Guatemala, they weren’t sure—explained that an agreement had been reached with the Ortega-Murillo regime to banish them. Each was asked if they accepted, and most said yes. The other option was to return to prison.
At 3 AM, they arrived at the Managua airport. It was only then that they saw the male political prisoners.
Their journey had begun a few hours earlier than the women’s, between 5 and 6 PM that same day.
The guards at La Modelo ordered them to shower immediately. They were only given five minutes to get ready. “Being given that order, at that time, was a sign of freedom,” says 38-year-old José Ángel Cerrato, who had been imprisoned since April 6, 2023, for posting a video of a religious event in his town, Nindirí, on Facebook.
They were given clothes to change out of their blue prison uniforms. The prison chiefs repeatedly told them not to ask any questions, just to obey. They boarded a large bus, where some, whispering, said, “We’re free, we’re free.” Inside the prison, they were taken to an office where they were examined, supposedly to confirm that “everyone was healthy,” according to the doctor.
After the examinations, they were returned to their cells, where they saw prisoners from other parts of the country they had never seen before—Matagalpa, León, and others. “They gathered us all and took us to the same office where we had been examined,” says Cerrato. “That’s when a U.S. Embassy diplomat arrived and explained the negotiations for our banishment.”
They checked everyone’s names inside the prison. The buses had curtains on the windows so the prisoners couldn’t see where they were being taken. They also turned off the lights inside the bus. “When we left the prison, I felt like I was leaving hell,” says Cerrato, who knew this because he lifted the curtains to recognize that they had left the prison and were already on the road to the airport. It was 3 AM on September 5.
When they got off the buses, the police handed over the political prisoners to U.S. officials and organizations that had assisted. From that moment, the police no longer approached them.
Before takeoff, the released prisoners sang the national anthem, shouted “Long live free Nicaragua!” and then there was silence, confusion, banishment.
The gray suits
Along the sidewalks of the hotel district of Guatemala City, men and women walk in gray suits: a zip-up hoodie over a white shirt and cotton pants with a light blue stripe down the center, and black Croc-style shoes.
The women mostly look thinner and paler than when they entered prison. The men do, too. Most are clean-shaven, some look nervous, distant, and tense. They walk together, talking among themselves. At this point, they are surrounded by journalists, activists, and officials from various organizations who want to speak with them.
Confusion also hangs in the air. Some don’t even know what their immediate future holds: the organizations supporting them have told them they have only 15 days to stay at the hotels where they are currently staying, while Guatemala’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs has informed them they have 90 days to regularize their immigration status in the country, as they decide whether to opt for the U.S. Government’s Safe Mobility program or other options as their final destination.
“I want to go to the United States,” says José Ángel Cerrato, adding, “I want to start a new life, work hard to support my family in Nicaragua, because the situation is very difficult.”
The Ortega regime banished him, like the other 134, with only the clothes they are wearing and a passport that reflects another facet of their suffering: different issue dates (some from October 2023 and others from July 2024), with photos of them in their blue prison uniforms and their faces from their time in jail.
In Guatemala, Cerrato shows the only belongings he has to face exile: a cell phone provided by organizations so he can communicate with his family, the Croc-style shoes, and a couple of tracksuits, including the gray one he’s wearing.