Abstract
I was sitting on the wooden wheel of a horse-drawn cart in front of a small home in the Nicaraguan town of San Jorge. It was only my second week in the country, where for three months now I have worked in the adult-education program. A nightly literacy collective had just ended, and a campesino of about thirty approached me in the dark with a grave look on his face. "Can I talk to you?" he asked, and indicated the other, emptier side of the street.This article can also be found at the Monthly Review website, where most recent articles are published in full.Click here to purchase a PDF version of this article at the Monthly Review website.
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