It's easy to get romantic about our life experiences, to look at things through from a sort of rose coloured nostalgic perspective. Throughout our lives we no doubt have a wealth of memorable moments, but there are of course many that we won't have a chance to experience. What is life if not a string of moments, one after another. Living life is about having experiences, the good along with the bad.
I visited three men on Death Row yesterday at
Angola prison but that's not where my story begins.
When I arrived home late from work on Thursday night I found all of my neighbours gathered in the courtyard having dinner. They told me that they planned to watch
"Dead Man Walking" that night, a movie that is arguably the most renowned cinematic representation of "southern hospitality". So many times I've walked in to Blockbuster with every intention of renting the movie, only to be distracted by
"Blades of Glory" as a new release, or some other Hollywood flick which promises a much more upbeat evening. What are the chances that the day before my journey out to Angola a group of people I live with will decide to watch that very movie, a total coincidence. I had to get up at 6am Friday morning but I decided to make a date with destiny and just watch it.
For obvious reasons I can't write about the names or the details of the conversations that I had with those three men, but I will write about the effect that it had on me. Angola sits on the border of Mississippi and Louisiana and is one of the biggest state prisons in America. It's not what you'd expect if you just arrived there out of the blue. It's a giant chunk of land with farms and animals on one side, and on the other concrete buildings, high fences and row upon row of
razor wire. It takes nearly 1o minutes to drive from one end of the prison to the row, which sits right at the end of the facility.
The rooms in which you sit are a little bigger than a telephone booth. Thick plate glass separates you from them and a phone exists as your link of communication. When you first enter the room you're alone for awhile as the guards retrieve the man from his quarters. The glass is so dense you can see your reflection in it as you wait. Your own image sits, staring back at you, perfectly
in line with the empty chair on the other side. At this moment I was hit with the most overwhelming feeling of isolation. How easily I could be sitting in that chair on the other side. How incomprehensible it is that an inch of glass can distinguish the living from those condemned to die. The feeling of helplessness is difficult to deal with when it's just sympathetic, and so it is impossible to imagine how it must feel when it is the cold reality you wake up to every morning.
This is a life experience I hope to never have to live through, but it is certainly one that I can't help but wish I could understand. A strange respect and deference grows from this sort of inability to comprehend. They must be incredibly brave to keep pushing forward every day when others are working hard to kill them. It's so easy to admire someone for what they have endured in their life. The stress and anxiety that is created when you live everyday with the thought that there are people who hate you and want to kill you is something we appreciate in our
ANZACS, both dead and living. We revere them for sacrificing their peace and safety for turmoil and violence. We vow every year, lest we forget, that their sacrifices were not in vain nor will they ever go unappreciated. Our Diggers are respected for what they accomplished, but more
importantly, they are considered heroes for what they endured.
There is a fine line between respecting peoples sacrifices, and glorifying warfare. The same goes for these men on the row,
after all they are men who endure the threat and fear of death every moment of their lives. Are they heroes too? It's easy to get romantic, to get carried away with the injustice of it all and to treat them like heroes. They aren't heroes, nor are they martyrs. It's unhelpful to take the bleeding heart approach and treat them like helpless victims, and god forbid pity them. I hate that word, pity.
It's easy to justify why I would fight for the life of someone on Death Row, but it's hard to stop yourself from putting them up on a
pedestal. It's hard to fight for the rights of people who did not respect the rights of others. It's hard to believe that the person sitting across from you murdered someone. It's even harder to believe that someone intends to murder them in the future. I didn't look up the crimes committed by the men I visited because I didn't feel like it should matter. I wanted to treat them with the respect and dignity I'd give anyone else. Their punishment lies in the arresting of their liberties, not in being treated like something less than human. At the same time I have to always remember how important it is that these people be held responsible for their actions. It's difficult to give your heart and mind to a cause which demands that you curb your compassion at the same time.
In "
Dead Man Walking", Helen
Prejean, a nun living in New Orleans, battles against the values and expectations of those around her. Matthew
Poncelet is a man convicted of double murder and sentenced to death, but still professing his innocence. The movie depicted the struggle of her urge to save the mans life with the fact that he was entirely unrepentant. It's hard not to feel a great deal of sympathy for a man who says with great conviction that he is innocent. The movie tricks you into believing fully in
Poncelet's innocence by showing the moment of the crime in a flashback, with another man committing the murder. But the message in the film isn't that the Death Penalty is horrible because it could possibly execute an innocent person, that doesn't go nearly far enough. Moments before his execution he admits to the murder and it's as if the director has pulled the supports out from under you. The movie is no longer about innocence or guilt, but life or death. The viewer is forced to watch the execution of a guilty man, but a man nevertheless. The scene of his execution is cut intermittently with the true version of events during the crime, which confirm that he did indeed commit the murder. The message seems, at least to me, to be that no man deserves to die, but that such compassion or sympathy should never forget or forgive the crimes that they
committed.
The experience of meeting those men on Death Row was incredibly challenging and confronting and something I would struggle to forget. They spoke about their experiences with the sort careful consideration that we so rarely afford ourselves in our modern, hectic lives. I'll finish this post off with the words of one of the guys I spoke with. It's not the last time I'll speak to them, and it's certainly not the last time I'll walk away from that prison feeling absolutely humbled.
Quote of the day:"We're not monsters. We're just people, people who have made really stupid choices but people nevertheless. No-one can take that away from us."
