I picked up my Sunday Boston Glob from my front walk this morning (looking like Tony Soprano in my bathrobe and slippers), and this was the front-page story:
She only wanted to change the world
Erin Willinger wasn’t going to be held back by her illness, not by anything. With much to fear, she was fearless. And then she was gone.
Erin Willinger left Newton to search the world for purpose. Last July, she settled in Agra, India, marrying a local taxi driver. In February, he killed her and committed suicide.
Something’s wrong here. How does a local girl from Newton North marry an Indian taxi driver, only to die at his hands in a murder-suicide?
It gets wronger:
At Newton North High School, teachers imbued her with a healthy outrage at the world’s shortcomings. She leapt at a chance to travel to Cuba in her senior year, and was desperate to see more of this aching planet.
“I hope you realize, I’m never going to live here again,” she told her father just before she left for Vassar College.
“Are you going to put that in writing?” joked Andrew, who had been raising Erin on his own after he and her mother separated a few years before.
Despite her vow, Erin did come back for a time, after being diagnosed with bipolar disorder in her junior year at Vassar. She worried that her illness would define her, often telling her father she didn’t want to be known as “bipolar girl.” After her treatment, she went back to college — this time to Columbia — then on a journey that her father said was occasionally interrupted by her condition, rather than defined by it.
“I think she was doing what she was meant to do,” Andrew said.
I’m sorry, but that’s crap. I can’t possibly judge a man who’s lost his daughter—I’m only writing about this because I feel something terribly wrong has happened—but people with bipolar disorder are defined by their condition. It’s not a bad thing, but it’s a real thing.
There are other red flags, as well. What’s healthy at the outrage her teachers propagandized about the world’s shortcomings? If you want to help the people of Cuba, you go to Miami and work with the refugees from Castro’s gulag, not to Castro’s gulag itself.
Anyway, she saw plenty more of this “aching planet”:
Fluent in Spanish and French, Erin did an internship in Helsinki, working on human rights. After college, she visited the Czech Republic, Russia, Bolivia, Peru, Vietnam, Thailand, and other places. She traveled to rural Mali with an African dance class she’d joined in Cambridge. In e-mails, she said felt most comfortable in less developed countries, where there was little structure and no stigma about someone like her, where she felt no pressure to conform in order to do meaningful work.
She searched for purpose — in yoga, in Catholicism, and, on an extended stay in Israel, in Judaism. Eventually, she found her faith not in religion, but in connecting with people who needed help.
May I observe that I feel the presence of her bipolarity in this resume of her life and experiences? No proof, just a hunch.
Last July, just after her 30th birthday, she settled in Agra. Red-haired, with alabaster skin, she stood out there despite her jewel-toned saris. After her traveling companions moved on, she settled in with a local family, eventually beginning a relationship with their taxi driver son, Bunty Sharma. Sharma had a son of 6 or 7 and Erin felt sweetly and irrationally responsible for the child, and desperate for the kind of acceptance her illness had denied her elsewhere. So she married Sharma, over her father’s objections.
Erin Willinger was diagnosed with bipolar disorder while in college and she worried her condition would define her.
“I just thought it was crazy,” Andrew said. “And soon enough she thought it was crazy, too.” Shortly after they were married, Sharma revealed to Erin that he had served time in prison for killing someone. She left him, and began working on a divorce.
“I told her, ‘Don’t go a little way, leave town,’?” Andrew said. “And she just didn’t want to leave the work she had started. She was kind of stubborn.”
Erin saw the masses of tourists passing through Agra to see the Taj Mahal each day, and lamented the fact that the city’s poorest residents never benefited from them. If the city was more inviting, visitors would want to stroll around and spend their money beyond the monument’s walls, she figured. And so she began a movement to clean up the streets, modeled on a program she’d started in Israel. Andrew worried about Sharma, but Erin convinced him her husband was no threat.
It’s a lovely idea, but how can I focus on it when alarm bells are going off in my head? Moving in with a local family and marrying their taxi driving son? Playing step-mom to his boy? “Working on a divorce” after her “husband” admits to being a murderer, rather than getting the hell out of Dodge? Crazy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“In the back of my mind I was always worried I was going to get a call in the middle of the night from the embassy,” he said. “I told her all the time she should come home and get a real job and get a normal life and she would repeatedly tell me, ‘That’s not very helpful, dad; I’m not going to do that.’?”
It is the loving burden of all parents — to raise kids and send them off into the world, hoping for the best, and dreading the worst. Most of the time, the dread is unfounded, merely an instrument of torture on sleepless nights. But for Andrew, those calls did come over the years, usually from somebody letting him know that Erin had had an episode, and needed treatment.
When the US embassy called at 6 a.m. on Feb. 21, the day after Erin’s triumphant press conference, he assumed she’d been hospitalized again.
No. Erin was dead. Sharma had stabbed her in his taxi and dumped her body by the side of a road. Then he went back to his apartment and blew up a gas canister, killing himself.
I’ll stop here, as we needn’t wallow in the understandable yet incomprehensible grief her father felt. There’s no one to blame, yet everyone’s to blame. Erin herself, who didn’t give her condition the respect it demanded—didn’t see her life and her choices as defined by her condition. Her father, who let her believe she could do what she was doing and not come to such an end. (To be fair to him, he sounds like he did do everything he could do, short of kidnapping his 30-year-old daughter.) Her “teachers” who imbued the outrage that led to so many of her bad decisions.
But most of all to the Boston Gob, and Yvonne Abraham, the author, for implying sense to senselessness. A girl whose bipolarity was as much a part of her as her red hair and “alabaster” skin, made a series of bad choices, most prompted by that condition. And she was murdered for it.
The Indian papers cast the murder as the story of a Bollywood-style romance gone wrong: A beautiful, educated American woman falls in love with an illiterate Indian taxi driver and their marriage goes sour, their two lives extinguished in a crime of passion.
That simplistic story line eats at Andrew. His daughter’s death was uglier than that, her life more beautiful. He wants people to know Erin stayed in India for a love far bigger than some treacly romance.
She stayed because she was fearless. And because she wanted to fix the world.
Did she fall in love? Did she want to fix the world? Or was she just off her meds? I’m sorry, but a “beautiful, educated American woman” from Newton North high school doesn’t get stabbed to death in her illiterate “husband’s” taxi and dumped by the side of the road in rural India unless something’s gone terribly, terribly wrong. Either someone should have saved her, or she was going to die—that’s the perverse moral of this story.