An Unforeseen Earthly Connection: On Santo Tomás, Chontales

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Robert Frost


I heard the story of my family name from my paternal grandfather, José Vicente Sirias. According to his tale, in the latter half of the eighteenth century two brothers left their homeland in the Middle East and eventually settled in Nicaragua. My guess today—after researching historical migrations to Central America—is that they were part of a large wave of Catholics who came to this region from what today constitute Lebanon, Syria, Israel, and Palestine to escape economic hardship, as well as discrimination against non-Muslims, during the last throes of the Ottoman Empire .

The brothers settled in the town of Acoyapa, located in the cattle-raising province of Chontales. Their presence intrigued the residents of this region, but the local citizenry never learned to pronounce the immigrants’ surname. Instead, folks referred to the brothers as “Los Sirias”—an abbreviated form of "The Syrians"—and the brothers adopted the nickname. Sadly, both the original family name and their true land of origin have been lost to time.

This tale, as fragile as it is, is the only source I have that explains our uncommon last name.

Today, for the branch of the Sirias family I belong to, the locus of our heritage has shifted ten miles south of Acoyapa, to the town of Santo Tomás. This community—of 16,000 inhabitants and located 118 miles south of Managua—is the last outpost of civilization. (Many Nicaraguans would disagree with the term “civilization” being used for any Chontales community.) The heart of Santo Tomás lays on the eastern side of the road to Rama, a village where, after a long and exhausting boat ride, one can reach Nicaragua’s isolated Caribbean coast.

Santo Tomás is where east meets west. It is the wild frontier where the Afro-Antillean, the indigenous, the European and, in the case of the Siriases, the Middle Eastern heritages merge.

After two failed marriages—in which time my grandfather produced seven children, including my father, from his first marriage—he returned to his province of birth after a long absence and settled in Santo Tomás. There, he married again—at last successfully—and had eight more children.

Although my father and the Santo Tomás branch of the Siriases had different mothers and they didn’t meet until they were adults, they got along splendidly, caring for one another as if they had been together all of their lives. I’ve come to feel close to the Sirias-Vargas clan as well. (My father’s limb of the family tree is that of the Sirias-Burgos.) When I visit my uncles, aunts, and cousins in Santo Tomás I feel rooted. Admittedly, I find it strange to feel intimately connected to a community where I’ve never lived. But I believe that’s because when I’m in Santo Tomás I hear wondrous stories that make me feel close to my father and his three brothers—all of them now departed.

This is why Santo Tomás has become such an important part in the construction of my identity. That is why the community is mentioned prominently in Bernardo and the Virgin. It’s also why this Chontales town is the site of a key encounter in which my aunts and uncles briefly become fictional characters in Meet Me Under the Ceiba.

Santo Tomás is where I feel close to my paternal heritage. What’s more, I know that I shall always feel this way because, through a series of unpredictable events that now appear to have been steered by the more blessed forces of fate—too complex to discuss in a blog entry and, I confess, a little too personal—my father is buried there, next to his father.


For anyone interested in learning more about Santo Tomás, click here

And to learn more about Acoyapa, including the mention of several Siriases who played important roles in the town’s history, click here