Papers provide no protection

Right now I have in my possession a piece of paper apparently meaning nothing. It’s actually five pieces of paper, to be fair, and I have physical copies as well as ones on my computer and phone ready to be retrieved at a moment’s notice.

Every page carries an official red stamp and a lot of legal language. The first page contains a list of names and numbers; the second, a host of conditions. The third page is all orders and directions, while the fourth is taken up by a roll of consequences. Those consequences spill over on to the fifth page and end with a warning of jail or fines.

It’s all solemn and reassuring stuff on paper, though in reality is anything but. These five pages make up a protection order issued by the District Court of New Zealand and don’t mean much at all.

The point of a protection order is, well, protection. ‘‘No s..., Sherlock’’, I hear you say, but the explanation is at least necessary for those meant to uphold the things.

Ostensibly, protection orders are one of the strongest defences a domestic violence victim has against their abuser, and are put in place by a judge. They limit both physical and non-physical contact and can also prohibit the respondent from owning a gun.

Each year about 4500 people – mostly women – file for the orders in the Family Court and, in about 3000 cases, they’re automatically made final after a three-month interim period.

Breaches are taken seriously, the police website says, and the policy is to arrest anyone in violation of an order. They’ll be dealt with in a criminal court, where the maximum penalty is three years in prison, it promises.

Again, it’s all comforting stuff when put down in print, but that’s about where any consolation ends. Breaches, meanwhile, often end up in horror headlines; something I’ve been pointing out to officers quite a bit recently.

I’ve been carrying my five useless pieces of paper about for months and they may as well have contained a shopping list for all the police attention they’ve received. Accompanied by evidence of breaches, I’ve brandished them at least three times at various officers in person; referred to them four times when speaking to police phone operators; and queried the point of them countless times when ranting to the lawyer.

‘‘The police know full well an order is in place,’’ he said during the latest episode, ‘‘they need to do their job.’’

‘‘You need to do your job,’’ I said to various cops who hadn’t and then didn’t. ‘‘You need to do your job,’’ said the lawyer’s email to the station – and the end result was the same.

One officer even admitted the order isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on; a depressing opinion, though the honesty was refreshing.

Although my name isn’t printed on the papers, they’re still my business. Every victim needs an advocate in their corner and in this case that involves demanding the police uphold a legal order. It’s not like I’m asking them to actually attend a burglary or something.

So, after weeks of inaction and countless minutes on hold, in a fit of frustration I told an officer I’d be writing about the issue this week, putting it all down on a different type of paper. Hours later, the problem was resolved.

The last thing I want to do is convince anyone not to apply for an order. I just want the papers promising protection to be upheld.

It shouldn’t take this sort of paper to make that sort of paper actually mean something.