The Bearded Saint


It is well known that the Sandinistas were funded and trained in Cuba under Che Guevara and Fidel Castro’s Cuban Revolution as well as being indirectly funded by the Soviet Union under Mikhail Gorbachev. This training commenced in the ’60s and the war officially ended on July 19, 1979, when Somoza’s army surrendered. The Sandinistas—led by Daniel Ortega—celebrated that date as “The Revolution.” The war left “30,000 to 50,000 people dead, a large population [600,000][i] homeless, several cities devastated by government bombing, and extensive damage to the economy, including the destruction of much of Managua’s modern industrial district,”[ii] not including 120,000 exiled Nicaraguans.[iii] My family was part of that exiled group. We escaped only with our lives.

We lost everything to communism: freedom, finances, motherland, houses, possessions, place of worship, pets, friends, etc. My father was a well-respected military pilot in Nicaragua. He lost his vocation but not before he saw his best friends slaughtered as they were brought to him from the front lines. My mother was a well-admired woman in the community who cared for the poor. She lost the only home she’d ever known. I was five-years-old and my brother was one. I lost my friends and the feeling of safety and security. My little brother lost the familiarity of a homegrown upbringing and the choices that would’ve shaped his future. But we needed to survive, even if it meant leaving everything we loved behind. America became our new home. And it’s been our bastion of politico-economic support, until recently.

Today, we’re seeing the Marxist ideals that we fought so hard to escape rearing its Cerberus heads on academic campuses, in Hollywood, the courts, and cocktail parties, ripping through the heart of the American flag, fomenting insurrection. The heads of cultural and political Marxism are prevalent. But we see the writings on the wall. We know the truth. Cerberus has a third head, and in this case, it’s called economic Marxism. And it’s grown hungry.

We’re standing on the street corner screaming, “Stop! We know how this war will end. Millions will die. For the Cause always requires others to sacrifice themselves in their stead. And sadly, the survivors will wish they were dead. They will be turned into scavengers, wandering the streets, searching for meaning and food that will already have expired. Tomorrow’s lunch. In the end, human nature turns all things good into sand and straw.”

Overnight, the Cordoba lost its value. The banks, in the hands of Sandinistas, confiscated all our money and then conveniently printed their own. But instead of redistributing my family’s wealth and liquidating our assets to give to the poor, the “compassionate” leaders of The Revolution kept our homes for themselves. This will be the theme song to every revolution that starts its salute to Marxism.

My naïve communist friends need to be prepared to die for the Cause. But this is what they don’t understand. As soon as they disagree with those in charge, their eyes will be opened to the oppression of their salvation. The great irony is that there is no tolerance in communism.

I come as a prophet to warn the collective of the consequences of their apostasy (if they are brave enough to defect): persecution, imprisonment, and even torture, which will be interpreted as “merciful”—a kind alternative to death. Their blood will be used on canvases for paint with the face of Che Guevara printed in the center. Their execution will be the crown glory for the greater good. And their eyes will see the hypocrisy of their religion, but only after it’s too late—as their heads roll away they will stare unflinching at the bearded saint who dropped the sickle of social justice.

[i] Tim Merrill, “Nicaragua: A Country Study,” ed. James D. Rudolph (Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress, Federal Research Division, 1994), xxxi, (accessed May 16, 2024).

[ii] Ibid., 73.

[iii] Ibid., xxxi.


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