On the morning of
November 5th, 2012, a group of protesters began to gather in front of the main
voting center in the small northwestern town of Ciudad Dario, Nicaragua. A day
earlier, on Sunday, the town had gone to the polls to vote for an alcalde. It had been a bright, sunny
day, as usual, and the townspeople had woken up early to visit their local
polling center, where they had waited patiently in line to cast their votes. Afterwards
they had proudly showed off their ink-purple thumbs to their family and
friends, proof that they had exercised their civic duty, as they went about
their usual Sunday business. Though sporadic violence had become an unfortunate
and regular part of previous elections in Ciudad Dario, on this day, it was
almost dead silent—except for the soft, ominous murmur (like the sound of the
first bubbles in boiling water) of people sitting in plastic chairs on the
sidewalk in front of their houses.
I had thought that
perhaps this election would be different. The run-up had certainly felt
less tense than the run-up to the presidential election a year earlier. Maybe,
I thought, the opposition in Ciudad Dario had resigned themselves to losing
(even unfairly), like the opposition had in most other parts of the country. By
nightfall, however, I began to witness the first signs of a potential battle. All
the comedors were closed, which I found odd, but I managed to grab a bite at a
place that had leftovers. On the way home, I passed the alcaldia building,
which is on the corner facing the town square, and as I kept walking north I
came across a group of hooded youth, their faces covered with bandannas. Not
a good sign.
