OPEN LETTER TO MRS. VAN DER SLOOT
by Richard, Vermont USA
So far, you are the cool one. Your vapid smile has been seen on TV, but otherwise you have drawn little notice. Indeed, I cannot even remember your name.
Do you enjoy your anonymity, seeing in it a refuge from the hate and contempt directed at the rest of your family members? When you lie in bed at night, what do you think of? Good times in the past? Or do you sense the tension, the silent acknowledgement of gui
lt, the fog of amorality gone bad that even you must recognize by now? “Oh, Joran is such a good boy….” The statement that every mother might be expected to say.
I’m sure that the Aruba government would like your photo to be on the front page of every newspaper, dutifully preparing his favorite food in a congenial household meal. But at night, do you ever think of that night? Of muted, half-conscious cries and struggles by the beach? Of brutal force? What kinds of thoughts go through your mind? Do you ever trade places with the other mother in this saga, or do you close your eyes and heart and thoughts? “Oh, Joran is such a good boy ….”
My friend once told me that when your husband was going in for questioning, he once turned to you in the presence of the TV cameras and growled, “GET IN HERE!” as though you were a trained dog behaving badly. Is that indeed how you see yourself? Or do you fear what might happen to you? Is
survival your only concern? Do you know that you too might go missing, at the behest of your own family? Do you look at them and see the knowledge of murder?
No doubt you dare not talk with them about the looks that you can sometimes see in their eyes. What future do you see? Will you deny your knowledge for the rest of your life, hoping to pass quiet days in a house darkened to keep off the Caribbean heat? Do you think that refusing to speak out will make the nightmares go away? Or do you have a needle, a bottle, or something else to dull the senses and keep the ghosts at bay? Not only the ghosts of what has happened, but the ghosts of what could have been – for you must know that only criminals and Aruba government officials now tolerate the van der Sloots.
And when your days are ending, if you are allowed to live out a natural lifespan,
what visions will you see at the end, and struggle to deny? Will you run from the truth your whole life? And when your family are rotting in prison, should that come to pass … do you think that anyone will heed your cries, or care for you? If you do not speak out, you will be remembered as the handmaiden of evil. Shutting your eyes to the last … “Oh, Joran is such a good boy ….” It will not redeem you.
So far, you are the cool one. Your vapid smile has been seen on TV, but otherwise you have drawn little notice. Indeed, I cannot even remember your name.
Do you enjoy your anonymity, seeing in it a refuge from the hate and contempt directed at the rest of your family members? When you lie in bed at night, what do you think of? Good times in the past? Or do you sense the tension, the silent acknowledgement of gui
lt, the fog of amorality gone bad that even you must recognize by now? “Oh, Joran is such a good boy….” The statement that every mother might be expected to say.I’m sure that the Aruba government would like your photo to be on the front page of every newspaper, dutifully preparing his favorite food in a congenial household meal. But at night, do you ever think of that night? Of muted, half-conscious cries and struggles by the beach? Of brutal force? What kinds of thoughts go through your mind? Do you ever trade places with the other mother in this saga, or do you close your eyes and heart and thoughts? “Oh, Joran is such a good boy ….”
My friend once told me that when your husband was going in for questioning, he once turned to you in the presence of the TV cameras and growled, “GET IN HERE!” as though you were a trained dog behaving badly. Is that indeed how you see yourself? Or do you fear what might happen to you? Is
survival your only concern? Do you know that you too might go missing, at the behest of your own family? Do you look at them and see the knowledge of murder?No doubt you dare not talk with them about the looks that you can sometimes see in their eyes. What future do you see? Will you deny your knowledge for the rest of your life, hoping to pass quiet days in a house darkened to keep off the Caribbean heat? Do you think that refusing to speak out will make the nightmares go away? Or do you have a needle, a bottle, or something else to dull the senses and keep the ghosts at bay? Not only the ghosts of what has happened, but the ghosts of what could have been – for you must know that only criminals and Aruba government officials now tolerate the van der Sloots.
And when your days are ending, if you are allowed to live out a natural lifespan,
what visions will you see at the end, and struggle to deny? Will you run from the truth your whole life? And when your family are rotting in prison, should that come to pass … do you think that anyone will heed your cries, or care for you? If you do not speak out, you will be remembered as the handmaiden of evil. Shutting your eyes to the last … “Oh, Joran is such a good boy ….” It will not redeem you.This 1916 poem, "The Fence," by Carl Sandburg is worth your reading and thinking about. For we all have metaphorical fences in life ... but yours is not destined to last. "Now the stone house on the lake front is finished and the workmen are beginning the fence. The palings are made of iron bars with steel points that can stab the life out of any man who falls on them. As a fence, it is a masterpiece, and will shut off all the rabble and all vagabonds and hungry men and all wandering children looking for a place to play. Passing through the bars and over the steel points will go nothing except Death and the Rain and To-morrow."
