A Letter to the Judge

Dear Sir,

My name is Dana, and I am writing to you because you are the Judge assigned to my daughter’s case. 

I know that because, the other day, when I called your office again, a nice young lady answered my call and told me so. She sounded a little bit surprised at first. Probably because the caller’s number came up as hidden. It took me ages, but I finally figured out how to make my phone do that. My daughter would have done it in a flash! Kids are so clever these days with all the new tech and stuff. 

Anyway, the young lady and I had a pleasant chat. She said, Yes, yes, Ms Dorin, I do still remember you and your daughter’s case. I am awfully sorry for your loss. No, I don’t have any kids myself, but I can imagine what you must be feeling. I hope your friends and family continue to surround you with all their love and care. Oh, I am so sorry. Yes, of course, I remember. You don’t have any family left. Your daughter was your only child. I am so very sorry. I will have to take another call shortly, but I can tell you that your daughter’s case has been assigned to Judge Elliot. Yes, I know it has been over two years. I am terribly sorry it has taken that long. We have a large backlog of cases. I am sorry, Ms Dorin, but I really have to go now. All the Best. 

She was very nice, wasn’t she?

I could tell she was real busy, so I did not want to bother her explaining that my surname is Dorinčić. It always takes a long time to spell it (d for door, o for owl, r for rabbit, i for igloo, n for now, č for chimney, i for igloo, ć for chimney) and people get annoyed. I am getting used to Dorin anyway. Sounds a bit American, don’t you think? You probably don’t like Americans much. Not many people do here in New Zealand. They found them a little bit over the top. To be honest, they don’t like Americans where I came from either. Because of all the bombs they dropped. Back in the 1990s. When there was war in Yugoslavia. Lots of people died. Lots got sick. From depleted uranium.  

Anyway, sorry for all this chatter. 

I am looking to use my best English. To write you a real nice and polite letter. Honest too. I have tried it once already. It did not work.  

I wrote to a young man my daughter lived with when she died. Included his family too. I tried using my best English then too. All the words I have learned here in New Zealand. Because I did not speak English when I first arrived, you see. That was a long time ago. Back in 1994. The war was still on. I was six months pregnant with my daughter too. Her father could speak good English. He stayed in America for a year. As an exchange student. That was before. Before the war. 

But the letter I wrote did not work. I titled it  An Open Letter. I thought it sounded nice. Respectful. What you call the letter addressed to more than one person. When they don’t want to talk to you. And they did not want to talk to me. Neither the young man nor his family. I have tried. Oh, how I have tried! Begged. But they would not. So I sat down one night under the round-faced moon and wrote the letter.  

I wrote all the questions I wanted to ask. 

Why they packed my daughter’s things. Without letting me know. Letting me see them. Touch them. Gather them. With my hands. In my hands.  

What happened to the diary my daughter kept. To her drawings and sketches. She loved drawing. Animals and flowers and people. To the letters she wrote. Sticky post-it notes she would write to herself. With things to remember and to do lists on them. She kept it all in a big purple folder. It never turned up.  

Why they sent her on a four-hour drive each way when she said that she was not feeling fit to drive. Why they never called me, any of her friends, anyone, when she talked about ending her life. In more than seventy messages. Sent over four days. Why they ignored them all. 

I was desperate for answers. Something. Anything. But silence. 

I took special care with my writing too. Asked my friend, who was born and raised in New Zealand, to read it for me. To correct all the errors I make; misspelling words, using too many words, not putting articles where they ought to be. My friend read it and said that it all looks fine and polite. She said I can send it and not worry about coming across strange or cause offence. So I did. 

A few days later, my phone rang early in the morning. A male voice wished me good morning, said he is a Senior Sergeant and asked whether he is speaking with Ms Dorin. I said yes. My fingers looped tighter around the phone. Like a noose. 

The Senior Sergeant’s voice said he has called to caution me about harassing people and that charges will be laid if I don’t sort myself out and leave people alone. 

That took me by surprise. 

I never harassed anyone in my life. It was the first thing that came to mind. Which is why I said it. That I do not understand because I have never harassed anyone. The Senior Sergeant’s voice said to stop playing silly games. That I know very well what he is saying. Because I have written to people and upset them. That I have been unfair and unreasonable. Going around accusing people. 

I understood then that it is about the letter I wrote to a young man and his family. 

My insides shrunk. I could feel tears rising behind my eyes. My right hand moved on its own. It reached for a penknife. To push its tip deep into a thigh. As deep as it would go. Digging for gold nuggets. Of pain. To stop the tears flowing. It worked. As all other times. Tears did not rise. I did not cry. Did not cry into the Senior Sergent’s voice.  

The dagger from my thigh spoke calmly. It said that I never went around anyone. Only posted a letter. Not to upset anyone. Only to talk. Find out what had happened. To my daughter. That I am very sorry if the letter made anyone upset. That I myself am very upset. Very sad. To have lost my daughter. To have no one to talk to. About her missing things. About all the messages she had sent. Asking for help. 

The messages I found when the police sent me her phone. Together with the clothes, she was wearing when she died. Mailed to me in a parcel. My name and address handwritten next to my daughter’s. Both our surnames misspelt. 

The Senior Sergeant’s voice cut between my words. It said that it is the standard procedure in these types of cases. That they see it nearly every week, and there is nothing special about my case. The law in this country says even if someone kills themselves in front of someone else, they are not to blame. It is not their fault. Nobody is responsible for someone else’s life. Remember not to write any more letters or charges will be laid. 

I said nothing. 

For a few moments, there was silence. 

Then the Senior Sergeant’s voice said he is sorry for my loss, he trusts I have all the support I need and wished me a good day. 

I sat on the edge of my bed for a little while. Watching crimson dots growing on my skin. Uneven circles. Like my daughter drew when she was a toddler.

I wished I knew better, clearer words to explain that I meant no harm. That I never wrote word blame in my letter. Not once. That I do not blame anyone. Only asked them to speak to me. Tell me what they know. 

I wished that there are no such laws. That says it is OK to watch someone die and do nothing. I believe that is wrong. Very wrong, Sir. Tell people that it is OK to not help each other. Even when asked. I think it is a sin, Sir. 

Sir, I am sorry this letter has gotten so long. And for all the mistakes it surely has. I hope you would still read it. It would mean so much to me. I know I could have asked the same friend to read it for me again like she did the last time, but I rather not. 

You see, Sir, people do not like reading about suicide. Or talking about it. Or anything at all. It makes them feel uncomfortable. Even scared. That is hard. 

I have been scared a lot, me. In the war. In New Zealand too. When there was just the two of us. My little girl and I. I was so scared that I would not be able to provide for her. What other kids have. Would not know how to be a mum to her.  

I worked so hard, Sir. I did. That was wrong of me. Very wrong. I see that now. I see how it left little time to play, to laugh. Just chill out. Like she used to say. My girl needed that. Needed a mum who knew how to chill out just for the sake of it.

She had that big, huge heart, oodles of space for everyone; kids and people and animals. All kinds of people. She once told me that we are all imperfect people. She was smart like that my girl was. And she could laugh. Oh, Sir, she could laugh for Africa as they say here in New Zealand! You could hear her laughing for miles. Her whole face glowing. You could not help but laugh with her. Even if you are feeling sad or angry. She always knew how to cheer you up. How to talk to you to make you feel better. 

When she went to Uni, she found work as a nanny. People said their kids adored her. She was the best nanny they ever had. They said that when they came to her graduation. I was so proud of her. Then she found a job in a different city. Met a young man. They moved in not long after. I was worried that it was all happening rather fast. She said she was happy. Real happy. I believed her. I wanted her to be happy. It was all I ever wanted. 

Six months later, she took her own life. My little girl. She once found a sick hedgehog in a garden behind her room then nursed it to health. Loved fairy tales. The Little Mermaid was her all-time favourite. She knew it almost by heart. 

When they sent me her phone, I found the messages she wrote to a young man’s mother. Messaging how worried she was about him drinking and smoking. Asking his mum for help. I was not sure what to make of it. My friend said it was not smoking cigarettes. It was drugs. I then showed her the rest of the messages. Including the last few my girl sent. When she wrote, ... please help me ... I don’t know what’s happening to me. There was no response. 

I think I have said it all now. 

I will pray hard, real hard for your Sir. That you find out the truth about what happened to my daughter. That you make people talk. I understand that some truths are very harsh. I have learned that. Harshness does not make them less true. Only less palatable. I have learned that too.

I will pray with all my heart and soul, Sir.

Thank you very, very much.

Dana Dorinčić (Dina’s mum)

P.S. Sorry again for the mistakes. God Bless you, Sir.