I knew what exile felt like, but nothing had prepared me to experience it again in my 70s.

I was 26 the first time I was forced to flee a dictator. It was in 1975, and I had to escape Nicaragua for resisting the regime of Anastasio Somoza Debayle, the last ruling member of a dynasty that had ruled the country for nearly half a century. Back then, I was a committed revolutionary, ready to die for my country in the fight against autocracy.

The exile I find myself in now, forced to start life anew in Madrid, is one I never could have imagined — one imposed on me by the man who helped dethrone Mr. Somoza with the promise that Nicaragua would never again suffer under a dictator’s thumb.

In 2023, I, along with hundreds of other Nicaraguan intellectuals and dissidents, was stripped of my citizenship by President Daniel Ortega, who has now ruled Nicaragua for the last nearly two decades. Even those of us who have sought shelter abroad no longer feel safe. Roberto Samcam Ruiz, a retired army major and vocal critic of Mr. Ortega, was gunned down inside his home in San José, Costa Rica, on June 19. No arrests have been made in connection with his killing, but he was at least the sixth Nicaraguan dissident to be shot, kidnapped or killed in Costa Rica since 2018.

It is the latest step in Mr. Ortega’s transformation from a onetime freedom fighter, my former comrade in the struggle against tyranny, into a full-blown dictator. Autocrats have long wielded statelessness and control over movement as tools to punish political opponents. Now, it seems as if Nicaragua can be counted among the states that reach beyond their borders to silence voices perceived as threats by those in power.

It has been painful for me to watch my country backslide into violence and repression. When I fled Nicaragua the first time, it was also to Costa Rica, to escape the Somozas’ iron fists. I was only able to return four years later, after the Sandinistas, the left-wing movement of which Mr. Ortega and I were both members, overthrew the dictatorship in 1979. It was a moment of hope, and I was ready to apply myself to the dream of a free and democratic country.

The guerrilla war that broke out with the contras, U.S.-backed right-wing militias looking to topple the Sandinistas, soon made clear that dream was a fantasy. The conflict, over which Mr. Ortega presided during his first administration, from 1985 to 1990, left Nicaraguans exhausted from death and scarcity — and from Mr. Ortega’s increasingly authoritarian tendencies, which I witnessed firsthand as an official in his government.

When Violeta Barrios de Chamorro, the opposition candidate, beat him in a landslide election in 1990, many throughout the country were relieved. Surprising many of her critics, she worked to ensure a peaceful transition of power and to mend a deeply polarized Nicaraguan society. But Mr. Ortega never got over his defeat, and his harassment of the new government drove many Sandinistas away from the movement, myself included.

Mr. Ortega returned to power in 2007, seemingly mellowed. But over time, he got to work dismantling the democracy we had so painstakingly built. He and his wife, Rosario Murillo, who became vice president in 2017, centralized power, scrapping presidential term limits and stacking the cabinet, the courts and the army with loyalists while keeping a facade of democracy. Favorable deals with Hugo Chávez’s Venezuela helped shore up a faltering economy.

The illusion of Nicaragua as a prospering, democratic state collapsed in the spring of 2018. When the regime tried to overhaul the social security system, peaceful protesters were shot. A spontaneous national uprising fueled by long-suppressed discontent followed. Thousands of Nicaraguans took to the streets, demanding the resignations of Mr. Ortega and Ms. Murillo. The couple responded with brute force. According to them, the protests constituted an attempted coup orchestrated by right-wing imperialists and treacherous opposition leaders.

Paramilitaries terrorized neighborhoods, shooting unarmed civilians and tearing down the barricades people had built to keep militias out. Doctors and other health care workers in public hospitals were fired for caring for wounded dissidents. The sight of hooded men riding in trucks and the bodies of protesters lying in the streets evoked chilling memories of the Somoza dictatorship. By July, the Nicaraguan flag had become a symbol of the resistance. Fear seeped into every home. Thousands, including Mr. Samcam, fled to Costa Rica, as generations of Nicaraguans had done before.

I remained in Nicaragua. Although I had broken with Sandinismo in 1993, I never thought Mr. Ortega would surpass Mr. Somoza in his tyranny.

When I left my home in Managua in May 2021 to visit my daughters in Oregon, I didn’t know that I was leaving for good. My husband and I had packed lightly, expecting to return in July. But as elections scheduled for that November drew closer, Mr. Ortega and Ms. Murillo began rounding up potential opposition candidates, along with independent journalists, business leaders and human rights defenders.

Friends warned me not to return, and so we didn’t. I vividly remember the disorienting thought: I have nowhere to go. Nearly a year later, we relocated to Madrid with the promise of work. We rented out our house in Managua, and my Spanish friends and readers made me feel welcome. I was not exiled from my language, and that was a blessing. For a time, I felt safe.

Then, in February 2023, I received a call from a friend in Nicaragua. What I heard left me in a state of shock: The Ortega regime had stripped me and dozens of other Nicaraguans, including my son, of citizenship. With no chance to defend ourselves, we were declared traitors. Our property was confiscated, our pensions annulled and our names erased from many public records.

Today, anyone who leaves Nicaragua risks being barred from returning without explanation. Citizens seeking to return to Managua have been told by airlines that they are “not authorized” to enter the country. Officials are legally empowered to deny entry to anyone deemed a threat to peace and security. Even a critical social media post can trigger a ban.

Afraid of their own people, Mr. Ortega and Ms. Murillo have given free rein to their paranoia. Watchful police officers prowl the streets. Public gatherings, even religious processions, are severely restricted. A recent constitutional amendment made the couple co-presidents — and effectively granted them a paramilitary force. Amid rumors of Mr. Ortega’s deteriorating health, Ms. Murillo seems to be moving quickly to ensure no one challenges her succession. Just last week, news broke that the former Sandinista commander Bayardo Arce, a wealthy and powerful former ally of Ortega, had been detained, in what many understand to be a purge of the country’s ruling elite.

To forestall resistance from civil society, the regime has closed thousands of nonprofit organizations. Dozens of Catholic priests and missionaries have been arrested or expelled from the country. Universities have been taken over. La Prensa, Nicaragua’s nearly century-old newspaper and a beacon of free expression, was effectively forced to relocate abroad after its offices were raided and much of its staff fled the country.

Now, the long arm of the Ortega regime seems to be extending even further. I understand what happened to Mr. Samcam as a warning that even those of us who live in exile are being watched. A message in the style of the world’s most coldblooded dictators: You are never out of reach.

Gioconda Belli is the former president of PEN Nicaragua. Her books include “The Country Under My Skin.”

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