An unforgettable Christmas
Memories of the 1972 earthquake in Nicaragua
An earthquake in Turkey and Syria on February 6, 2023, caused widespread damage and tens of thousands of fatalities.
An earthquake in Morocco on September 8, 2023, heavily damaged parts of the country, killed 2,900 people and injured 5,500.
These news headlines trigger many memories of the earthquake in Nicaragua on December 23, 1972. I don’t need the news coverage to tell me about the fear of aftershocks, the hysterical screams of fear as people look for loved ones in the rubble, the dust, the darkness, the smell of decaying corpses, the mass grave burial site near a cemetery, the long lineups for water and food, the fear of disease and being cut off from communication with family desperate to know of our whereabouts.
Living in Manitoba where we don’t experience earthquakes, we hear “thousands died” and very quickly forget what we just heard. However, for me the memories of the major earthquake we experienced in 1972 immediately come flooding back in vivid colour. This year, as in the past many family circles will be missing one, two or even whole families around their Christmas dinner table.
The most unforgettable Christmas for me and my family was Christmas of 1972. Just two and a half months earlier, Hilda and I with our two young sons had made the 5,000-mile trip from Swift Current, Saskatchewan, to the fascinating Republic of Nicaragua, our new home and mission field. We had just settled into a unique house in Jinotepe and were trying hard to befriend our neighbours and learn to communicate in Spanish.
It was December 22, and we were busy preparing for our first Christmas away from our families. The few Christmas gifts we had bought the day before in Managua had to be wrapped, and I had a Christmas message to prepare. Hilda was making popcorn balls while a neighbour lady watched. We had improvised a Christmas tree out of red and green streamers and a broom handle on a sheet of plywood (you had to have a good imagination), since real Christmas trees were much too expensive. That night we went to bed, tired but happy to be in our new surroundings.
Shortly after midnight, having just fallen into a deep sleep, we were rudely awakened by a shaking sensation. “What was that?” my still groggy mind asked, “What’s going on around here?” Dazed and sleepy, I reasoned (and Hilda concurred), “It’s only the neighbourhood cats using the corrugated tin roof as a racetrack.” We returned to our pillows and continued to sleep. Our subconscious minds had not yet assimilated the unfamiliar shaking of the dreaded earth tremors that could frequently be felt. We were totally unaware the city of Managua some 30 miles away had just been hit with a devastating earthquake and about 10,000 people had died; many more were hurt and dying underneath the mountains of rubble and ruin.
Our sleep was once again rudely interrupted when at 3 a.m. we heard loud knocks on the door and our names were frantically being called. It was Fred and Doris Friesen and their three children, our missionary colleagues from Managua. But what on earth were they doing at our house at this hour?
I stumbled toward the light switch, but it did not respond. The cool damp night air sent ominous shivers through my body as I fumbled to open the securely locked front door. There they stood, shivering and in shock. They had travelled the 90-minute drive up the mountains to our house avoiding fallen power lines and trees, crossing over six-inch cracks in the road not knowing whether there would even be a road around the next corner.
Nicaragua 1972, photo by Wilbert Friesen.
“Managua is finished! Everything is in ruins! Oh, it is just terrible! Our house is all broken! We are so scared!” they lamented as they trembled in a state of shock. The city of Managua had been shaken by a 7.2 magnitude earthquake.
As the early strains of daylight began to appear, Lester (another missionary colleague), Fred, and I made our way with considerable apprehension back down the mountains to Managua. We wondered what we would see and prayed that the Christian brothers and sisters we served in Managua would be well. As the winding highway brought us closer to the city, we could see billows of smoke rising from the heart of Managua. After we had straddled the crevices and ducked under the downed hydro wires, we would behold devastation such as we had never before seen.
Arriving at Fred and Doris’s house we noted that the clay tile roof was badly shaken and inside there were broken shelves and glass and dust covering everything. The brightly wrapped Christmas presents for the children under the small, now tattered Christmas tree lay covered with dust and debris. For a brief moment, I remembered that in two days it would be Christmas Eve.
We soon made our way to the colonia where the people from the church lived. God had protected them. Neither the church nor their relatively new houses had suffered much damage, but fear and shock were written on the face of every person we met.
Everybody was outside. Nobody even wanted to venture into their houses, because of the frequent aftershocks that continued to frazzle their nerves. For weeks to come those who stayed in the city slept under the stars, too afraid to sleep in their houses.
As we wound our way through the city, carefully inching our van through the rubble-filled streets, I remember thinking, surely this must be a nightmare. Many of the walls of houses had just collapsed and lay in huge piles of rubble. In many places, the infrastructure of water and sewer was broken, and dirty water was running down the messy streets. Many people we saw walking were bruised and bleeding, others ran, and others just sat on the heaps of rubble too stunned to think clearly. Ruin, sorrow, hopelessness, crying, hysteria! Both the rich and the poor were hurting and terribly afraid.
As we inched our way through the rubble, the dead were respectfully laid close to the street curb to be picked up by large dump trucks to be buried in large common graves often without so much as a prayer. This process was to continue for days. Hardly a family escaped the hand of death.
I saw a patient from the hospital, walking down the street with surgical tubes still in place and carrying an IV bottle. Over there I saw an old man bent over in despair. And over there was a mother sitting on the remains of her house holding her frightened child, waiting for the dad to come home. He never did come home. Beside them were some tattered Christmas presents.
Was this Christmas? How suddenly the excitement of Christmas had disappeared. Where was the love and peace that was supposed to symbolize Christmas? Having assessed the situation we went back home that night with very weary and heavy hearts. We were glad to have a home to go to.
As we awoke on the 24th, we were faced with the stark realities of this national disaster. The infrastructure in Managua was broken, and the people were without drinking water. We filled all the containers we could find and brought water to our church families. Some needed medical attention, so our van became an ambulance to the Red Cross centers. It soon became evident that all they wanted was to get out of their terrifying environment.
All that day from early till late we attended to people in need. I made many trips with the van full of people out of Managua, slowly picking my way through the rubble-filled streets, with the smell of decaying bodies in the air. With the urgency and the intense heat of the day, there was little time to think of family, snow, and Christmas programs.
When we arrived home after dark to our unlit home, Fred and I were welcomed by our families. Since everyone in the whole country was without power, the lighted candles did not remind us that it was Christmas Eve. After a simple supper, the two Friesen families celebrated Christmas together.
After we had read the Christmas story by the flickering candles, we thanked the Lord for his protection and prayed for the sick and the dying and for our families back home in Canada. Telephone communication was impossible so we could not talk to our families in Canada until a week later. In the faint candlelight, the children opened their presents and wished for daylight to come so they could play.
We decided to retire early and rest our weary bodies. We were just in bed, when we heard a truck pull up to our house and then a knock on the door. “Hermano Wil?” Here were 24 people—men, women and children—who had been able to load most of their earthly belongings onto a rented truck and were moving out of the city to more secure and higher ground. Could they spend the night?
Nicaragua 1972, photo by Wilbert Friesen.
Soon our large living room was covered with mattresses and blankets. They were served coffee and bread, and then we all went to sleep. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought of a night some 2,000 years earlier when Joseph and his expectant wife found no guest room to stay in. Yes, we did have room for our guests.
It was Christmas day. The day dawned bright and clear. Already I could tell it would be a hot and scorching day. Again, we took our containers of water, and after sending our guests on their way, headed back to the disaster area.
As we neared Managua we observed crowds of people on the move, just like our friends last night. It seemed like everyone wanted to get out of the rubble and disaster so that their frazzled nerves could settle down. They were fleeing the threat of disease and the very scary aftershocks. Some rode on trucks piled high with their belongings, others pushed two-wheeled carts, and many walked carrying babies and their possessions.
All Christmas day I drove, picking my way through rubble, glass, nails and bricks as I taxied desperate families out of the disaster area. I had taken along a bag of hard Christmas candy. While our families in Canada were eating peanuts and chocolates with mixed feelings about our welfare, I tried to share a little bit of joy as we inched our way along out of the city streets.
In the stifling heat, we saw long lines of people waiting to be vaccinated against typhoid fever and tetanus which threatened to break out in an epidemic. Some lined up for water, and others for food and clothes. We would all learn to stand in line for hours at a time.
As I wound my way home that night, I had time to reflect on what day it was. It was Christmas. There had been no Christmas day church service, no well-rehearsed Christmas program. I had heard no Christmas carols, played no games and had no family gatherings. It had been a day of sweat, hard work and tears, but inside of me there was a peace and joy and love that came from having served Christ.
A lonely candle flickered in the dark. Hilda was there to greet me at the door. The children were already tucked into bed. Together with our missionary colleagues, we prayed, “Oh God, we thank you that Christmas lies not in what we do, but in what you have done in our hearts. Make us your instruments of love and may many more experience the reality of your love. Amen.”
This is how I remember the Christmas of 1972.
