Dopass.com

My dearest Daughter,

Though you are already a day old, I do not know your name. I pray that when this letter finally finds you, you will understand this and not take it as a sign of neglect: They would not let me see you, they still will not!

Still, I can hear you, when the camp is still. You are the only infant in the camp, so your cries are unmistakable. They are loud, throaty cries - full of life! Your cries are full of anger, wholly unlike the cries of your Mother as she brought you into this world. Hers were cries of sorrow, diminished and muffled by her lack of life.

I would tell you of your mother, for I know that They will not and she is no longer here to tell you herself. That she died while giving birth to you is not a lie, but do not feel sorrow or guilt at this! It was the camp that killed her, girl, not your efforts to be born! Like most of us, the camp sapped her will to live, much as the conditions here destroyed her lungs and frailed her bones. It is sad that you will not know her, but I fear that even had she lived, you would never come to know the woman I loved, for in truth she died long before then.

The woman I loved, she was a vibrant sort; the type of woman who, by her mere presence, could bring life back into a dying flower. It seemed as if a light shone through her into the world and no man who saw her could keep a frown upon his face. When she spoke, it was as if a symphony were played directly to your soul, bright and uplifting. Any man would die for her, and a few even tried, crying out her name, "Alicia!" as they attempted to escape the camps and "bring help." None succeeded of course, for this camp does not exist.

We are few in number, those of us "afflicted" with the disease. We have heard rumors that our numbers are increasing. A newcomer, a kindly sort named Jared, he tells me that he came from another camp somewhere in Oregon that had to be broken down and relocated the dead of night, last week. From this I gather that the outside world knows nothing of these camps, and so we do not exist. I wonder if the world even knows of the scope of the disease, yet.

Not even your mother knew that the camps were kept secret from the rest of the country. I could not bear to tell her. Too many tears had already stained her fair face. I could not mar that beauty with yet more bad news. Still, I take comfort in knowing that you made her happy.

Yes, you, our child who had not yet been born. Alicia said often that you and she shared a special bond. "It's like I can hear her joy!" she would say, smiling as she looked down at you in her womb. She knew you would be a healthy girl before the scientists who run the camp came and did their tests. She said you were precious, that you would save us all.

Though I have never lain eyes on you, girl, I know it to be true. As you cry right now, I think about soothing you, about holding you in my arms as I shush you back to sleep, or perhaps sing a lullaby. I feel a contentment spread through me as I think this, and I notice your cries have stopped.

Is it possible then that we also share a bond? Can you feel the love of a Father for his Daughter? Can you feel the joy that the simple fact of your existence brings me? I pray you can, my Daughter, for I send it to you, always. Sadly, I fear it is all I can send you.

They will not let me see you. They will not even let me give you a name! I am nothing to them, and I fear that you are the same in their eyes. Yet, I sense there is something about you that scares them. When I ask them about you they become agitated. They want me to forget about you, I think.

But I can't. I can feel you, always. I can't explain it, but I feel like I would know the moment something happened to you, no matter where you were. Perhaps all fathers feel this way, but none-the-less, the idea that I could forget you is ridiculous, unthinkable! It doesn't change that They won't let me see you, or know your name.

And so, I write this letter. One day, I will find a way to give it to you. No child should grow up not knowing her parents, alone in the clutches of a government cruel enough to imprison its innocent citizens and strip their children away from them. I will continue to write to you until the day we are finally together and become the family we are meant to be.

I love you child, always.

Your Father,

Michael Mendoza