The Seldom-Mentioned Somoza

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.
John F. Kennedy


To discuss Nicaraguan history without mentioning the Somoza dynasty is impossible. This family, whose name resides in ignominy, ruled the country for nearly half-a-century as if the land and its inhabitants were their personal property. What’s more, to preserve their power and holdings they ruled Nicaragua with an iron fist.

The legacy of their nearly-fifty-year stewardship endures to this day in the chaos and bitter divisions that characterize Nicaraguan politics.

The names that invariably surface when discussing the clan are those of the generals: Anastasio Somoza García (1896-1956) and Anastasio Somoza Debayle (1925-1980), both supreme commanders of the Guardia Nacional, Nicaragua’s armed forces. Respectively, these men represent the Alpha and the Omega of the regime: they are responsible for its rise and its fall.

In most discussions, however, the third member of the regime is usually omitted. Only Nicaraguans and a cluster of hardcore Latin American historians remember his existence: Luis Somoza Debayle. He was the eldest son and older brother of his fellow dictators. On his sixteenth birthday, as a gift, his father awarded Luis the rank of coronel in the Guardia Nacional. But Luis didn’t inherit the others’ passion for military life. Instead, the world of business, particularly agriculture—in which he had a degree from Louisiana State University—called to him.

Shortly after Luis Somoza completed his college studies he won a seat in the Nicaraguan Congress. At the age of thirty he was elected that body’s president. And when he was thirty-four, in September of 1956, his father, Anastasio Somoza García, was assassinated. The brothers’ held firm in the ensuing challenges to their power. The younger brother, Anastasio Somoza Debayle, already at the head of the Guardia Nacional, reacted forcefully—a foreshadowing of the ferocity that would characterize his tactics twenty years later—to squelch all attempts to remove the family from the throne. The Nicaraguan Congress appointed Luis to fill the remainder of his father’s term; and the following year he was elected president of the republic and served in this position until 1963.

The view historians’ have of Luis Somoza’s presidency is ambivalent: his reign is regarded as a mixture of benevolence and force. But his reputation for recurring to violence arose during the Somoza brothers’ quest to avenge their father’s death. They believed, erroneously, that the assassination had been the product of a widespread conspiracy. As a result, hundreds of Nicaraguans suspected of wishing the dictator’s death were jailed, tortured, and several of them executed.

Although most of the responsibility for the bloodshed during this dark era falls squarely on the shoulders of the younger brother, General Anastasio Somoza Debayle, many of their compatriots claim that Luis Somoza did little, or nothing, to stop his sibling. Nevertheless, there is ample evidence to suggest that Luis was far less inclined to use violence and fear as tools to secure obedience. One episode, I believe, illustrates this. In 1958, a revolutionary group, which included Pedro Joaquín Chamorro, launched an invasion of Nicaragua, inspired by the success Castro was having in the Sierra Maestra, with the expressed purpose of overthrowing Luis Somoza. The operation failed and the rebels were sentenced to nine years in prison; but after serving eighteen months Luis granted them amnesty.

Luis Somoza also passed legislation that suggests that he was a visionary statesman—he understood that his family’s grip on Nicaragua would have to be loosened if they wished to remain influential over time. Before stepping down from the presidency, Luis Somoza signed a law that prohibited family members from succeeding one another in the presidency—a move that reportedly infuriated his younger brother.

When Luis Somoza’s term ended, he maintained a low political profile, preferring instead to devote his energies to watching over the family businesses. During this time, nevertheless, he played a significant buffering role—keeping in check his younger sibling’s inordinate lust for power and wealth.

The elder brother indeed provided a measure of sanity in an otherwise ruthless family dynasty. The following story, I think, indicates this. Luis Somoza built a mansion in what was, at the time, the eastern edge of Managua. He chose a small city block and purchased all the humble homes on it—at a fair price. There was, however, a woman who owned a corner house and refused to sell. Luis Somoza pleaded with her until he realized that his efforts were useless—the woman would never yield. A true dictator would have removed the woman from the lot through intimidating tactics, an improvised law, or by force. But not Luis Somoza. Instead, he built a high red brick fence around the entire block with the wall running alongside the back and one side of the woman’s home. The sight always struck me as surreal: a mansion that resembled a Louisiana plantation and, left outside, on a small corner, a humble adobe home.

Luis Somoza did, indeed, come across as the benevolent face of the dynasty.

He died in 1964, at the age of forty-five, from a heart attack. After his death, his younger brother, Anastasio Somoza Debayle, assumed absolute control of the country, ruling with such lack of compassion that within twelve short years of Luis’s death the rest of the family was on a plane, bound for exile, after a popular uprising overthrew them.

The void left by Luis Somoza’s early death represents one of those historical enigmas that will never be solved. And the essential question is: would he have let go of the family’s stranglehold over Nicaraguan life to allow democracy to take hold in return for the Somozas being allowed to retain a significant portion of their properties?

I choose to believe that Luis was the visionary and that he would’ve placed restraints on his younger brother’s ambitions, an act that, in the end, would’ve saved tens of thousands of lives and avoided a violent revolution.

In the midst of this pointless speculation I offer a personal story: a memorable experience involving Luis Somoza that took place when I was nine-years-old. This tale, in my mind at least, is a small indicator of his warmth and humanity.

My family and I were returning to Los Angeles from visiting relatives in Nicaragua. This was back in the days before direct flights existed between the United States and Managua. Large, four-engine Pan-American Airline planes would make scales in San Salvador and then Guatemala City. There, passengers would board a jet that would take them straight to Los Angeles.

During our stop in San Salvador, as we waited for new passengers to board, I visited the restroom. As I was returning to join my family, somewhat distracted and looking down, a sudden, collosal presence blocked the aisle: a remarkably tall man with an massive, barrel chest. My gaze turned upward and his dark suit made him seem like one of the most daunting obstacles I’d ever encountered.

And then I gasped when I recognized the handsome face. I had seen it often in the newspapers during my visits to Nicaragua: it was the man who only a couple of months before had been President of the Republic. I stood there, awestruck, my mouth agape.

Seeing the state I was in, he smiled—a sincere, warm smile—reached forward, gently placed his right hand on my shoulder, and said, “Con permiso, caballero”—Excuse me, Sir.

With my mouth still wide open, I nodded, stood aside, and allowed Luis Somoza and the three men he was traveling with—who were also dressed in dark suits—to pass by to take their seats toward the rear of the plane. Yes, it was Luis Somoza who, like me, was flying in economy class.