I returned to Nicaragua, where I was born, and found a country steeped in fear

MANAGUA, Nicaragua — From the Honduras side of the border, I can see a small brick building. It's down a hill, nestled in between the mountains, and that's where Nicaragua begins.

And as soon as I walk down that hill, it feels like I've stepped back in time. A big billboard that once beckoned tourists — "Nicaragua, unique, original!" — has lost its colors to the sun. Inside, instead of blue-and-white Nicaraguan flags, there are dozens of little red-and-black flags, the colors of the Sandinista party, which has dominated this country under President Daniel Ortega on and off for nearly three decades.

The border agents are all huddled behind a glass. They look like impatient bank tellers. I look at the Nicaraguan passport in my hand and know there is no turning back.

I was born in Nicaragua, but I'm a U.S. citizen. I'm also a journalist, and for the past few years, the Nicaraguan government has made it nearly impossible for foreign journalists to enter the country. I was hoping with a Nicaraguan passport, the authorities wouldn't pay me much mind. This particular border post isn't very trafficked — just a few big trucks ferrying bread from Honduras, and families who move back and forth often.

But I have to admit that at that moment, I was nervous. It's not that I've never been in this position before. In authoritarian countries, a border post is a government's first opportunity to scare you. In the past, I've had armed military men surround me in Uganda. In Ethiopia, the airport authorities once confiscated every bit of my recordinggear, everything that