“A ship in the harbor is safe, but it’s not what ships are for”,
Thomas Mann

September 10, 1986. La Cumplida State farm, Km 147 Carreterra a El Tuma, Department of Matagalpa.

The place itself is breathtakingly beautiful- all shades of green- the mountains, the woods, the cafetales, the pastures, the tree-lined roads. Often, at the end of the day, I’ll ride Zapoyol or El Moro up into the hills and just stand there looking out over the valley in absolute tranquility and beauty, often as the mist creeps down over the mountains. A euphoria embraces me those afternoons. I melt into the countryside, giving thanks for my mere existence, caught in the timelessness of the mountains of northern Nicaragua. I feel like I could stay here all my life. Just standing on those hills, alone except for my horse and my black lab, Dumpster, I feel so content and complete; so fulfilled. Like “this is the meaning of life!”

I woke up yesterday to Valentín’s blaring radio. But there was something odd about it, so I started paying more attention to it. Then it hit me- it was contra radio ironically called “Radio Liberación”, the propaganda part of Reagan’s dirty war. “Radio Liberación- la voz de los que no tienen una voz .” It was slick and came in loud and clear from Honduras. They played the Nicaraguan national anthem and music by Dimensión Costeña. Featured was a soap opera about two young people from Jalapa who fall in love despite a feud between their families, and when the families decide they can get married, plam! He’s called up for the draft. He gets indignant- “I’m not going! I’m not a communist!” The solution is given by Papá- go to Honduras with the young woman. And they live happily ever after. It was just too much. Then came a soothing, but firm, female voice talking about liberating Nicaragua from “underneath the Soviet boot” and some hard talking about those “communist internationalists” which means folks like me, like the nurse Annie Souter, teachers like Sheyla, Felipe the carpenter, and all the brigadistas bringing in the coffee harvest. There was a fair amount about us nasty foreigners taking over their country. And just when I thought I was going to die laughing at that propaganda, Valentín changed stations- to “Radio 15 de septiembre”, the other contra radio station. Valentín, Olivia and I hooted and howled with laughter. In response to their program on hunger here and how before there was every kind of food available (for whom, they don’t say), Valentín yelled “We don’t have food, but we have a shitload of bullets!”. We had a great time listening to it, but one wonders what kind of impact it has on politically unsophisticated campesinos in remote areas. It could be the only information they get, as their transmitter is a lot stronger than the Sandinista ones. And it really was rather slickly done- even with a catchy tune called “Comandos de la Liberación” about the contras which Valentín and I hummed the rest of the day. Creepy.

February 24, 1987

I came down from la Cumplida last weekend to see Larry Boyd, up from Managua, and Melody, in from her mountain asentamiento of El Apanti near Somoto. While waiting for them in Matagalpa I ran into other long lost friends like Donald from El Cuá and soon leaving for Italy, “if I survive the month” he says with a morbid seriousness. Don and I had little time together last Saturday- so many people arriving. He’s glad to be getting out of the war zone, out of Nicaragua. Having made the decision to go to Italy, he looks much more relaxed; less distraught by the fears and tensions of living in one of Nicaragua’s worst war zones. Lately he had seemed like he was losing it, and one day I was shocked to find the glove compartment of his jeep full of hand grenades.
I ran into Felipe, my Swiss carpenter friend, who gave me a ride to Santa Emilia on his way back to Rancho Grande. He is going back to Switzerland in May after three or four years here. He mentioned that his name was broadcast on Radio Liberación as some of the “internationalist scum” that must be gotten rid of to “free” Nicaragua. Not only do they have his name, but the kind of truck he drives and his license plate number. They know where he works and where he travels. I hope he makes it until May. Two Swiss have already died here.

February 26, 1987
Yesterday the contra were close by in La Perla- about one kilometer away. And all the school’s guns are locked up because everyone is on vacation.

April 12, 1987. Matagalpa.

I came into town yesterday to spend the weekend with Desiree and run my usual errands. There is a strange feeling in the air- a feeling of increased tension. Both at the Casa de Gobierno and UNAG, people are going to be given military training, including the North Americans that work there. There is a lot more movement of troops and military caravans, and last night the streets were full of Ministry of Interior and Sandinista Army compas recruiting draft age boys.

This morning at Annie Souter’s a helicopter went over the city. In the afternoon at Desiree’s we heard rafaga (machine-gun fire) nearby, but unlike most ráfaga- where some bored or drunk compa lets off a clip- this ráfaga was answered by another AK. Two people were shooting at each other. And nearby. We froze. More ráfaga, answered again. Then nothing. It was creepy.

People are talking about an invasion. The CDS’ are re-activating civil defense. With 50,000 US troops “on maneuvers” on the Honduran border it’s not too far-fetched an idea. There’s a major propaganda war in the US- the newspapers talking about a contra offensive and the contras having successfully blown an electrical tower near Sébaco as proof of it. The road between Muy Muy and Matiguas is closed due to contra activity- something incredible to me. That road is never closed. Despite it all, the contras are essentially beaten. Not eradicated certainly, but beaten badly. Which may mean the US will come in to help them out. Well, they may come in, but they’ll never get out.

April 15, 1987

Yesterday Desiree and some new friends- actors working on the movie about William Walker- and I met at Puente Las Cañas to go to the waterfall. I tied Zapoyol up at Don Gustavo’s farmhouse. Don Gustavo was drunk and quite talkative- heralding our great friendship and introducing me to the other campesinos who were waiting for the pig to be slaughtered. One thing he said though. He said “state security watches people like you” (foreigners presumably) to which I replied “that makes sense, there’s a war going on.” Then he said, “I just want you to know that I’m one of those people that watches you” and grabbed my hand, squeezing it hard. State security had shown up one day to ask Don Gustavo to keep an eye on me. I told the grizzly, old cowboy that I was glad it was my friends watching me and not my enemies.

April 21, 1987

Back from Semana Santa to find out that someone broke into Danilo’s room at the school and stole his machine-gun, which was hidden, and some military clothes. The same day (last Wednesday the 15th), the contra were up at La Cumplida # 2, asking for food at the houses by the corral. They’ve never been so close- practically at our coffee beneficio. Plus they slaughtered one of our cows and left the hide in front of the commando post at the coop up the hill. Scary. And with our handful of guns and a few clips, how can we defend the farm? In case of an attack we could not do much more than make some noise. We have no refuges nor trenches to hide in nor any sort of civil defense plan. We’re sitting ducks. With one good morterazo from that hill we could all be blown to hell.
But the creepiest thing is that about Danilo’s gun- it was obviously an inside job. Someone knew about that gun- not an AK, something else- and where it was hidden. We’re infiltrated and that’s to me the scariest part. If they know about Danilo’s gun, they must certainly know about me. I always assumed the contras knew about me living here- so many people in the area know about “la chela de La Cumplida”. Folks see me riding all over on Zapoyol. Word travels. And I’m hardly inconspicuous. If the contra ever wanted to get me, it would be a piece of cake as I always ride alone through the fields, accompanied only by Dumpster. I think of how many times I’ve ridden alone up in the hills and shudder. Even going with a cowboy or two is no defense. And now the contra is nearby. What more is left to say? Obviously I would never abandon my work for fear of being killed or kidnapped, yet I gnaw on my thumbnail as I write this. Just last night Annie Souter was telling me how she’d written a letter to the public and to Reagan to be published if she’s killed by the contras. She implored me to do the same- just in case. Maybe tomorrow I’ll do it.

April 22, 1987

Tired. After a long day visiting the other state farms in our complex, I came home to find there’s no water. Migdalia, Carla, and I carried our buckets to a spring one and a half kilometers away and then grudgingly hauled them back. Ugh.
I had ridden over to Santa Emilia and there by chance ran into Alejandro, the extension agent from the central office in Matagalpa, and Machín, one of the new Cubans. We took off together and drove to La Cumplida to show them where we’re plowing and then visited El Hular to see the experimental coffee pulp silage. And then to Bonanza to talk with the foreman about planting. We took the wrong road to Bonanza, though and ended up on a 10-kilometer detour through the hills by La Lucha where there have recently been contras. It’s rather dangerous around there, so we joked about the contra grabbing us- a Nicaraguan, a Cuban, and a gringa. What a catch we’d be. However, two helicopters flying low over El Hular when we were there gave us an unsettled feeling. You almost never see choppers in this area.

April 28, 1987. Ten pm.

I just heard on the radio that Ben was assassinated by the contra in El Cuá. Valentín had been listening to the radio, and yelled through the plank room divider, “they got one of you!” “What?” I said, and he said “listen!”. He turned the radio up as the announcer said “cooperante norteamericano asesinado in Jinotega” and then a second later they said it was Ben. It’s so hard to believe. It took a while to sink in. Every time they said, “Benjamin Ernesto Linder” I burst into tears. It makes me want to go fight those bastards. To go back with Miguel tomorrow to his battalion and volar verga to avenge Ben’s death. I just saw Ben ten days ago as he was getting ready to go up to El Cuá. Little Ben. And Donald, gone less than a month, will read about his death in some Italian newspaper. If Don hadn’t left, it would have been his death I’d be weeping over. They would have gotten him for sure. Tomorrow I’ll go to Matagalpa; there’s no way I could make it there at this hour. I assume they’ll bury him there with the Europeans who gave their lives. But Ben’s the first North American to be killed here. How will the US handle it? Why did it have to be Ben? Ben never wanted to die. He never looked for martyrdom. Oh, why, why did it have to be Ben?

May 6, 1987

From last Wednesday morning until now the week has been one of tears and rage and occasional numbness. Wednesday morning after crying all-night and waiting for the dawn, I had the good fortune that in the early morning a vehicle showed up at the corral to get milk. Otherwise I would have had to walk the six kilometers to Santa Emilia to hitch a ride. It happened to be a jeep from the Casa de Gobierno and Dumpster and I caught a ride with them to Matagalpa. I got to the Casa de Gobierno to Ben’s wake at 6:30 am. There in the front office, surrounded by flowers, was Ben’s coffin. I took one look at him and began to sob. Little Ben. How could those bastards kill you? I stood with him awhile; Dumpster lying beneath his coffin. Shortly afterwards, the group of Cuban veterinarians I know came en masse to formally pay their respects. I was so touched by their condolences. Then Rachel took me to another office to get some coffee. It was so unbelievable. Just ten days ago we had seen him alive and now we see him in a maroon coffin with shrapnel cuts in his face and a hole in the side of his head circled by powder burns. Stunned by a grenade and then shot in the head at point blank range, blowing his brains out. That’s our tax dollars at work. Sometimes I hate the US so much! I feel like going to the mountains and shooting some goddamned contra. The rage eats at me.

Wednesday morning a couple of hours after I arrived, all the major US stations wanted to interview me. I quickly broke down into a tearful rage which is exactly what they wanted. The tears, the raw grief, the anger. They wanted to know if he was armed. Does it matter? In the states millions of people keep guns to protect their TVs and stereos; their property. And those of us living in war zones, why can’t we carry guns to protect our lives and to protect others? The hypocrisy of it! I was so angry and cried during the ten or fifteen minute interview. Because Desiree and the others had found out a half a day earlier than I did, they had had more time to weep. My grief was fresh still. I cried a lot that day- in the wake, the interviews, on the drive to Managua, at the demonstration in front of the embassy, on the drive back, at the acto at the Casa de Gobierno. Desiree wandered about from task to task in a numb silence. In my grief, I was amazed at how quickly and effectively the North Americans living in Matagalpa had gotten things together. The night Ben’s body was brought in, they had stayed up all night writing a declaration for the press and then did honor guard, standing next to Ben’s coffin until dawn when I arrived.

Finally that night we got some restless sleep. Ben’s body was already decomposing from two days of summer heat and his family wouldn’t be here until the next day to see the body, so we broke the Nicaraguan custom of accompanying the body until burial and put his body in the morgue where it could be refrigerated. That night we slept.

Up early Thursday morning to prepare for the arrival of the Linders and of Comandante Ortega. At some point that morning as I was standing with Ben’s coffin, Annie Souter came rushing in the door of the Casa de Gobierno and said, “some embassy people have arrived and want to see Ben”. I looked out and sure enough there were some people in suits. I said, “fuck no!” and turned around and returned to Ben. He had already been dead two days and they had shown no interest in seeing him, yet at the same time had been issuing false statements: that he had been killed in crossfire and that the contras had mistakenly taken him for a Cuban. They were not interested in the facts; in the bullet hole in his temple from being held down and shot at point blank range. And insinuating that if he had been a Cuban it would have been alright to blow his brains out.

Little did we know that the burial would be that day. His parents hadn’t yet disclosed whether they would be taking Ben back to Oregon or bury him here, so we were only preparing for their arrival and an acto. We composed a skit and practiced a Holly Near song called “It Could Have Been Me”. It was macabrely appropriate. Several women and I sat at Kitty Madden’s house rehearsing….”it could have been me, but instead it was you, so I’ll just do the work you were doing as if you I were two…and it could be me, dear sisters and brothers, before we are through, but if you can die for freedom, I can too…”

At two we walked to the Casa de Gobierno for the acto. Then we realized the decision had been made to bury him here and after the acto his coffin was lifted into the air by the people who loved him and we started towards the cemetery. The streets were filled with thousands of Nicaraguans, North Americans, and other internationalists. In my grief I had totally forgotten about Dumpster who always follows me everywhere. In all that mass of people she would surely get trampled or lost. Yet there she was walking underneath Ben’s coffin; the only safe place for her to walk.

It was nice to see all Ben’s friends. We clung to each other weeping. We walked together, behind Comandante Ortega and Rosario and the Linders, singing songs to Ben, arms around each others shoulders, tears streaming down our faces. Slowly we walked the streets of Matagalpa towards the cemetery. People chanted “por estos muertos, nuestros muertos, juramos defender la Victoria!”, “Benjamin Linder- Presente, presente, presente!”, “Morir no es Morir- es sembrar para cosechar,” “Benjamin, no te decimos adios sino hasta la Victoria siempre”. The Mothers of Heroes and Martyrs carried purple flowers. There were even jugglers like Ben. At the cemetery, Daniel gave a speech called “for whom the bells toll” and not only talked about Ben, but also mentioned the eight Europeans and dozen Cubans who’ve given their lives here. I cried and cried. As we huddled by the gravesite with the throngs of masses pushing behind us, Daniel and friends of Ben’s lowered him down. Miriam, his sister, threw in on top of the coffin a placard someone handed her. “Ben- they can pick all the flowers, but they’ll never stop the spring.” Tom and I, arms around each other watched and wept. I thought I would drown in my tears.

Afterwards, many of us stood numbly in front of the cemetery long after the thousands of mourners had left. I stood there, in silence, thinking my head would burst from so much grief. Too much had happened too fast. Three days before Ben was alive and now all this. I was emotionally exhausted and wanted to be alone. Desiree and I went back home and I promptly crawled into bed- not to sleep, but merely to lie on my back and stare at the ceiling in the darkness. Numb. Mira and Rebecca showed up and sat with Desiree in the living room. I was too numb to move, despite my feelings for them. It was all too strange. My head was still spinning.

Friday Ben’s death began to sink in. Rachel, Desiree, Annie and I talked about its repercussions. Annie and I talked about security measures we can take to reduce, though certainly not eliminate, the chance of kidnapping or assassination. I have definitely been negligent on occasion- like my last trip to Bonanza. We’ve got to tighten up our act. We all talked with greater sincerity and seriousness, and less romanticism, about continuing our commitment to working in the war-zones despite the threat of death. None of us aspires to be a martyr, but nor did Ben. It was thrust upon him. Ben’s murder has shed a new light on things. It is making us look at things in a new way. Ben was the first North American to be killed by the contra; shattering the belief of some people (not I) that American lives were sacred because it is our government that bankrolls the contra war. I had always figured it was just a matter of time and probability. Now we know.

Ben’s death also brought us, as North Americans working in Matagalpa and Jinotega, together in a bond of solidarity that we never knew. At the wake I met paisanos working here in the region that I never knew existed. Upon the news of Ben’s death, Desiree, Tom, et al instantly formed the Committee of US Citizens Working in Region 6 to put out a statement regarding the murder. We’ve decided to maintain the committee to improve communication and solidarity between us and to do political work: like sending current information back home. We plan to have monthly potlucks in Matagalpa or Jinotega when all of us will come in from the zones to be with others. We’re compiling a list of all of us and it’s impressive: architects, biologists, engineers, nurses, doctors, an agronomist, and teachers. We’re also going to put together fact sheets in case we’re killed- whom to contact, where we want to be buried, epitaphs, memorial services, what to do with our belongings. A necessary, but unpleasant, task.

Friday was indeed a day of reflection and thinking about Ben. All the chaos, crowds, journalists, and hubbub had disappeared, leaving us in a quiet aftermath. Saturday afternoon we spent with the Linders, who had wanted some quiet time with a few of Ben’s friends. Mira and Oscar from El Cuá, and Tom, Desiree, Juliet, Annie, Rachel and I from Matagalpa talked with them in a luxurious protocol house in town. We talked about of the need to continue working in the zones and of our legitimate fears and concerns. We talked about if Ben really knew what he was getting himself into: the answer was a resounding, overwhelming “yes”. Most of us share Ben’s convictions and are willing to ultimately give our lives for those same ideals. We, like Ben, know what we’ve gotten ourselves into. If we were once romantic about it, that romanticism ended with the first shovelfuls of dirt on Ben’s coffin.

“Greater love has no one than this, that you lay down your life for your friends” (John 15: 13)