Letter To A Baby About To Be Aborted.

Come on, let us not get obsessed with these things now…

My dear little one,

I write to you in a very difficult moment of your very young life, because even if you cannot read I think there are some things of which you should be informed.

In just a few minutes your young and tender life – a God-given gift, full of bliss and promise – will be abruptly, unnaturally, and cruelly put to an end. I am very sorry to tell you that if you have already developed small legs and arms , and are already almost looking like a little child, you will be torn to pieces whilst still living, and you will be extracted from your mother’s womb one piece at a time.

Your rests will be discarded. You will not be considered a person, so you will not be buried.

Talking of your mother, she has by now persuaded herself – in conscience – that you are a lump of cells, and refuses to see herself as your mother, or you as the baby God gave her. She thinks she has the “right to choose”; which, my dear little one, means she thinks she has the right to kill you, or to dispose of the lump of cell she pretends you are as if you were a huge tumor, or an overgrown cyst.

I will not lie to you. You will have to be strong. It will be very painful. God in His mercy and justice will, no doubt, provide you with ample recompense for the atrocious suffering and injustice of your murder. He will treat you with great love, and show you all His infinite justice and mercy. You will not feel unjustly treated, not by him at least. But yes, it will be very painful. Perhaps, little one, your little soul will feel at some level, in those terrible minutes, the atrocious pain of knowing that your own mother wants you dead, your own dear mother you thought so warm, welcoming, and loving.

Your mother hesitated a long time, you know. All her friends, and some of her relatives, told her to “do what she has to do”, and she was torn. She wasn’t able to see the blessing of your life, you see, nor was she encouraged to see things in that way; so she was undecided, waiting, not knowing what to do.

Last week, though, your mother read an interview about a man you do not know; a very famous one. This man was saying if she does not believe in God she is allowed to decide according to her conscience, and this will decide whether what she does is right or wrong. Your mother never believed in God, you see, and whatever little doubt she might have had that perhaps, perhaps there is this God – and if there is, she is doing something terrible – was instantly silenced when she read the interview; because the man is very important, my dearest little one, and it is very easy to let him say more than he wants to say. Particularly so, because this man is very anxious to please, so eager to say nothing that your mother would dislike; therefore, he never said to your mother in clear and unmistakable words that she has no right to murder you, full stop.

At that point, little one, your permanence on this earth was probably decided. Still, your mother hesitated.

A very few days ago, she read another interview. It was with the same important man. The man said words to the effect that he can’t “obsess” and talk “all the time” about your mother murdering you, because there are so many other important things to care about. He also had said – or your mother thought he said; which she did, like pretty much everyone else – people should not let your mother feel bad if she murders you, because she is following her conscience, you see. In addition, your mother thought, the man is right also in this: she is doing what she thinks right, so who is anyone to judge? The important man told that too, you must know.

No, little one. Your mother did not read the interviews in detail. She did not make any enquiry about the theological implications. She did not read many of the 12,000 words of the latest interview. She did what most people do: she read the titles, perused the articles, read the clear citations from the man, and felt relieved.

Case closed, then. She is not so bad after all. There are so many other things in life than a clump of cell who thinks he has the right to become her baby. She is very environmentally friendly, you know – she drives a Prius; you have been brought to your place of execution in a low-emission vehicle -, she does not eat meat because it’s cruel towards animals, she campaigns against smoke and drink, and she supports the struggle of the polar bear; she is concerned about social justice, is a great friend of hope and change, and sends money to Africa to help those poor children who might, otherwise, die; because the Western capitalistic society is so selfish and self-centred, instead of being as caring, concerned for the planet and socially aware as she is.

And that it was, my dear, that sealed the deal on your death. Even the Pope – this is how the man is called, though he seems not to like it – was not “judging” her, then. Even he “got it” then, at least at some level. There are so many other priorities in life, she thought. She can abort – erm, terminate her pregnancy – and continue her battle in defence of humanity. By that she means of the people who have been born. No, to her you are not part of humanity. To her, you are a punishment. Yes, she remembers these words clearly, “punished with a baby”. They are from another important man who doesn’t like you at all, because you can’t vote.

Your mother “meets the other”; she is caring, generous, concerned and socially aware. To her, Christian “homophobia” goes against elementary “human rights”, like slavery once. No, to her you are not human, so you have no human rights. But look: she never ever gossips, because it’s so “judgemental”. She follows her conscience, which says to her it’s not good for you to be born. Not at all. Nope.

So she took the decision, and made the call. When she had put down the phone, she recalled those words of the man again: “who am I to judge?”. Yes, who is anyone to judge? She is following her conscience, and her conscience tells her you have the duty to die, because no one asked you to be there in the first place; besides, even that man said there are other priorities in the end, you can’t reduce bad and good to one single issue and obsess over it. The times have changed. Abortion is here to stay, you see. Sad, he knows; but not worth obsessing about.

And so there you are, my little one, and you will die today. No, it was not the important man who killed you. Your mother will kill you. She will kill her own son, and give to a trained executioner the task of executing her death sentence. Make no mistake, her conscience will make no objection. Not today, not in ten years’ time; but in twenty or thirty, more probably; and then it will be hell on earth: a mother knowing that she has killed her own baby, and does not even believe in God, in Whose merciful arms she could take refuge.

No, it was not the important man who killed you. But what he could have done to try to help you he decided not to. You are too controversial, little one. Your existence goes too much against the grain of modern society. The important man just does not want to be “obsessed” with you, you see. He has other priorities. Poverty, or gossip.

You know, the day after that long interview your mother did not read he did speak in your defence, the important man. Yes, for the first time he clearly did. But he has done the damage already, and today no one believes this is really what he thinks, or rather really an important part of how he acts. He was told to say so, says everyone; he was told to say so because he has to, because he needs to save face, because all those around him implored him to say something, because damage control had become necessary. So, it was too little, and too late. Your mother has made her decision, and she is now sure that even the Pope thinks that your life isn’t the only issue, or whatever…

Therefore, little one, today is the day you die. You will never know the embrace of your earthly mother, never will you learn to smile at her, recognise her voice, feel her tender love. You are a punishment and a clump of cells; you are a “product of conception”, and you must be disposed of in an environmentally friendly way.

When you look at it with your little eyes open, you realise that it must be so.

Even the important man thinks you are, when all is said and done, just not that much of a priority.

Mundabor