The Execution

Myanmar, a rain-soaked morning. The light of misery talks over the high walls and shines into the prison yard. The death row cells are nailed with two layers of bars, like small cages for animals. Each cell was about 10 feet square and contained nothing more than a plank bed and a jug of drinking water. In several other cells, brown-skinned death row inmates crouched silently behind a barricade, wrapped in sheets, as they were to be hanged in a week or two.

One Indian death row inmate had already been taken out of his cell. He was a small, thin man with a bald head and cloudy eyes. His thick, luxuriant beard, so large that it was incongruous with his stature, looked ridiculous, much like a prop for a comic character in a movie. Six tall Indian jailers were escorting him, preparing him for the gallows. Two stood by carrying bayoneted rifles, while the rest handcuffed him, slipped a chain through his handcuffs to their belts, and then tied the prisoner's arms tightly to his sides. They were close to the prisoner, hands always on him, gripping carefully, as if dealing with a fish still alive and could jump back into the water at any time. But the prisoner stood there, did not resist at all, listened to the arms to the rope tightly, as if he did not even think it mattered.

The clock struck eight and a bugle came from the distant barracks, a sound that seemed soft and forlorn in the wet air. The warden stood not far from us, sullenly scratching his cane on the gravel, and picked up his head at the sound of the bugle. He was an army doctor, with a short, flush gray beard and a gruff voice." Faster, faster, Francis," he said unhappily." The man should have gone to the gallows by now. Aren't you ready for that?" Francis was a corpulent Darovidian, the head of the jailers, dressed in white khaki overalls, with a pair of gold-rimmed glasses across his nose. He waved a black hand and said busily, "All right, sir, all right, everything is ready, no problem, the executioner is waiting there. We can go now."" Then go quickly. The prisoners won't be able to eat breakfast until this job is done." We walked to the gallows. Two guards with rifles on their shoulders walked on either side of the prisoner, and two others grabbed his shoulders and arms next to him, as if they were pushing and pinning him at the same time. The rest of the men, including the bailiff and us, followed behind. Just 10 yards away, the ranks suddenly stopped, without prior orders or warning. An unexpected event occurred when a dog came out of nowhere and suddenly appeared in the yard. It barked loudly and furiously and rushed among us, running and jumping around us, shaking its whole body, the big hairy mutt was very excited to see so many people together. It scampered and jumped around us for a while, then suddenly pounced on the prisoner, jumped up and actually tried to lick his face, everyone was stunned and stood there motionless, no one even remembered to catch the dog in panic.

"Who let this damn beast in?" The warden asked with unusual anger, "Catch it!" One of the guards left the escort and began to clumsily chase the dog, but the dog seemed to be playing a game with him, running and jumping to keep him away. A young half-breed jailer grabbed a handful of rocks to drive the dog away, but the dog dodged the rocks and came running toward us again. Its bark bounced back off the prison wall. The prisoner was caught in the hands of two jailers, watching expressionlessly as if this was part of the hanging. It was several minutes before people managed to catch the dog, and they tied the dog's collar with my handkerchief and set off again, the dog still whimpering and struggling.

The gallows was almost there. I watched the naked brown back of the prisoner dangling in front of me from time to time. His arms were bound tightly and he could not walk very easily, but he had a steady gait, a lurching gait characteristic of the Indian who walks with straight legs. With each step, the locks of hair on his head danced up and down, his muscles moved in and out, and his feet left footprints on the wet ground. I saw that, despite the jailer grabbing his shoulders, he turned slightly sideways and nimbly dodged a puddle of water on the ground.

It was only then that I realized what it meant to kill a healthy and sane man. It was a strange thing, when I saw the prisoner turn sideways to avoid the puddle of water, I understood the meaning of killing a man in his prime, it was an unspeakable mistake. This man was a living being like us, not a man dying of pain. All the organs of his body were at work: the intestines were digesting, the skin was renewing, the nails were growing, the tissues were forming, all this was going about its business with a clear division of labor. As he stood on the gallows, a tenth of a second from the end of his life, his nails were still growing. His eyes could still see the yellow stones and the gray walls, his mind was still remembering, anticipating, thinking and even thinking about the standing water. He is the same as us, seeing, hearing, feeling and knowing the same world, but in two minutes he will "snap" and go forever, to another world, and his soul will die with the wind.

The gallows was located in a small courtyard adjacent to the prison compound, full of tall, prickly weeds. The hanging platform is built with bricks, like a cottage with walls on three sides, covered with wooden planks, the top of which has two large beams and a horizontal bar, from which hangs a rope. The executioner was a prisoner wearing a white uniform and with white hair. He was standing next to the gallows. He greeted us with a nod and a smile as we entered the courtyard. At Francis' command, the two guards clamped the prisoner tighter, and they half-pushed, half-pulled him to the gallows, pulling him clumsily up the ladder. Then the executioner climbed up and put the noose around the prisoner's neck.

We waited a few meters away. The guards stood in a circle around the gallows. After the noose was put in place, the prisoner started shouting loudly and repeatedly: "Rama! Rama! Rama!" . That was the God of his heart. He did not cry out with fear like a prayer or a cry for help, but in an unhurried and rhythmic manner, almost like a church bell. The dog heard the bark and wailed. The executioner took out a small cloth bag like a pasta bag and put it over the prisoner's head. But the cries could still be heard, but they sounded muffled through the cloth, and the voice repeated: "Romo! Rama! Rama!" . The warden's head was shrugged on his chest, and his cane was slowly fiddling with the ground. Perhaps he was counting, letting the prisoner shout a certain number, maybe fifty, maybe a hundred. Everyone's face changed. The Indian's face turned the grayish white of bad coffee, and one or both bayonets were shaking. We looked at the prisoner standing on the gallows tied with ropes and his head covered, listening to him counting his lives second by second, and we were all of one mind: Ugh, do it, get it over with, and stop him from screaming so obnoxiously!

The warden suddenly made up his mind, he raised his head and gave a quick swing of his cane." Execution!" He shouted almost angrily.

There was a very soft thud, followed by a dead silence. The prisoner disappeared and the rope spun and twisted itself. I scattered the dog and he immediately leaped to the back of the gallows, but as soon as he got there he stopped and whimpered. Then he slunk to a corner of the yard and stood in the weeds, staring at us timidly. We went around to the back of the gallows to examine the prisoner's body. He hung there, toes straight down, his body still slowly turning, dead.

The warden used his cane, poked the naked body, and it swung gently." He's done." The warden said. He withdrew from under the gallows and took a deep breath. The gloomy expression suddenly disappeared from his face. He looked at his watch, "Eight point eight minutes. Well, that's the end of this morning, thank God." The guard unloaded his bayonet and started to walk away. The dog came to his senses, understood that he had just fallen from grace, and followed them obediently. We walked out of the courtyard where the gallows towered, past the death row cells and the death row inmates waiting inside, and back into the prison compound. Under the supervision of guards with batons, the prisoners were receiving their breakfast. They squatted on the floor while two guards carried the meal buckets to ladle it into their tin jars. After the hanging, the scene looked peaceful and serene. We all felt relieved that what needed to be done had been done. You felt a certain urge to sing, to run, to laugh, and everyone started talking in a relaxed and friendly way.

The half-breed prison guard walking beside me gestured with his head in the direction we were coming and smiled heartily, "You know, don't you, sir, that friend (the one who just died) just peed his pants in fear when he heard the appeal was denied. Please have a cigarette, sir, and make yourself at home. How about this new silver cigarette case I bought, sir? It's from the stall, two rupees for eight annas, a fancy European pattern." Several people laughed, at what exactly, no one seemed to know.

Francis was at the warden's side, chattering away, "That was nice, sir, everything went well. It clicked and it was all over quickly, just like that. It wasn't always like that before, and I know of times when a doctor had to be brought in to drill down to the gallows and yank the prisoner's leg to make him die quickly. That's nasty!"" Yanking his leg, huh? That's too bad." The warden said.

"Ah, sir, it's worse when a death row inmate doesn't follow directions! I remember one man who wouldn't let go of the bars of his cage while we were taking him to his execution. I don't believe you, sir, but it took six guards to pull him away, three of them pulling on one leg. We reasoned with him. We said, 'My friend, think how much trouble you're going to get us into! But he just wouldn't listen! Ah, he's a tough nut to crack!" Everyone was laughing, and I found myself laughing out loud. Even the warden grinned tolerantly." Why don't you all come along for a drink," he said amiably, "I've got a bottle of whiskey in the car. We can finish it off." We came to the road." Yank his leg!" A Burmese bailiff suddenly said, grinning broadly. We all laughed again. Francis' story seemed especially funny. We all made out over a glass of wine, the locals and Europeans indistinguishable from each other. The dead man was lying quietly just 100 yards away.