Once a Jolly Hangman (27 page)

He decided on launching a public relations campaign: printing up hundreds of flyers on the case and distributing them. These flyers were handed out primarily at Centrepoint, a popular shopping and dining complex along Singapore's Orchard Road. While his sons played the major role in the distribution, other volunteers also came forward to help out. Unusually, the local press took notice of this action and gave the story some valuable space. Photos of the twins offering flyers to passers-by made for good attention grabbers in the papers. The effect was promising in attracting the attention and support of many, including some opposition political figures, such as Dr Chee Soon Juan, the head of Singapore's Democratic Party and a long time campaigner for civil rights. Chee and Ravi then organised a special forum on the death penalty itself, printing more flyers and booking a meeting hall at the Asia Hotel. They had expected about 70 to turn up but they totaled almost 200. This number included me and several plainclothes police officers from the much-feared Internal Security Department. Talks on the death penalty were given by the condemned man's lawyers and Dr Chee. The emotional high point was a plea by Letchumi Amah for her son's life. This brief appeal, delivered in Tamil, then translated into English by Ravi, came at the end and stirred almost everyone in the room bringing tears to the eyes of many.

Tim Parritt from Amnesty International had been invited to speak at the forum. He flew in from Kuala Lumpur specifically for the event. However, the day before he was informed by the Singapore government that he would not be permitted to speak. He was free to come in but if he opened his mouth he would most likely be arrested. Parritt naturally
wished to show his solidarity with the cause, so he took his assigned place of honour, then sat silent on the stage with the other scheduled speakers while his prepared speech was read out by the event's moderator, Saliah Ahmad. She was then approached by two plainclothes officers who questioned her and demanded to see her passport proving she was a Singapore citizen. There was nothing more they could do but their action put a damper on the event and the forum was shortly brought to a close. But the forum's impact created quite a stir locally and internationally. Many people from the local arts community put together a three-hour vigil with music, poetry, dance and theatre to energise everyone on this issue. Reporters and photographers from the Associated Press, Agence France Presse and Reuters turned up in full force. Even The Straits Times relaxed its straitjacket buttons just a tad and sent a reporter to record the goings on. Later a dedicated group of 30 headed off to the Istana, the
Presidents palace, to make yet another personal appeal to the President to grant clemency. They were bent on making this appeal as effective as possible. In at least one regard, it produced undeniable effect. Observers noted that there were probably more police than petitioners there, many of them Internal Security Department officers. So that they would not get arrested for 'unlawful assembly' the demonstrators split into groups of four - otherwise they would have been carted off in black marias to spend the night in a detention centre on a cold concrete block of a bed with only a smelly, bug-infested blanket to keep them warm. Then hauled before a court the next morning and fined.

The most dramatic moment in the impromptu demonstration came when Shanmugam's mother and both sons knelt down before the Istana's gates and implored the president to grant the convicted man a reprieve from the death sentence. A Reuters's photographer had gone with the group to shoot photos of such spontaneous protests. Over the next few days dramatic photos of Letchumi and the boys were flashed around the world. The impact was stunning. Never before in the history of the city state had an impending presidential clemency ruling drawn such widespread attention. Less than a week later, President Nathan issued his ruling. Despite all the activities of the previous few weeks, the appeal was rejected. Was this just a demonstration to the world that Singapore's rulers would not be moved and by such protests and react
in a humane manner? Just consider the difference in the treatment serial drug trafficker Julia Bohl received when the German government stepped in and saved her life. Had Shanmugam's name been Schonfeld and had he been born in Dortmund, the outcome would have been entirely different. He had no valuable currency, no huge trade deal to offer. He was dead meat. Ravi, a man I am proud to know, felt sick when he read the President's decision which was sent straight to his office. He shook his head. 'I really couldn't understand this president, denying clemency to a man who seemed to be a perfect candidate for such a show of mercy', he told me later. 'What had gone through the Head of State's head as he weighed all the factors in coming to this decision?' Ravi said he then had the awful duty to tell Shanmugam's family. When he arrived at their home, a housing development flat in Jurong West district, only his mother, Letchumi, and her elderly aunt were at home. What happened next is something he will never erase from his memory bank. 'For a few minutes', he said, 'she just stood there, numb with shock'. Then, as the shock wore off, he recalled, she first started beating her own face with her fists, then dropped her hands and started drumming hard on her chest. Finally, she screamed and almost collapsed on the floor in grief. Well aware of her poor physical health, Ravi said he was afraid she was about to have a stroke, or maybe already in the throes of one. Then tensions and pain in her body, he said, seemed to have taken on an intense weight of their own.

Ravi had never been the recipient of such a notification from the President before and said he was 'surprised' at the rather cold handling of this matter. The letter from Nathan was sent by regular mail and took four days to reach his office. 'I thought that the head of state, generally known for his courtesy and congeniality, could have accorded this one small courtesy to the family of a condemned man'. And just as bizarrely, Ravi revealed, Shanmugam received a medal for his achievements as an army
reservist, which was presented to him around the time of the clemency decision! Obviously, he pointed out, the clemency committee had not allowed this honour, or any of the previous honours, to influence them in their deliberations.

Ravi and his supporters lined up one more major event before the scheduled execution. It was a vigil planned by Lee Weng Choy of the Substation Arts Complex and Lucy Davis, along with Samydorai
Sinapan, head of the IhinkCentre. The Substation offered a large garden performance area at the rear of the complex that would have been ideal for such an event. The various acts could perform in the open air with a large open stage. Moreover, a candlelight vigil for the condemned man could be held there with no fear of violating fire laws or endangering participants. The police got wind of their plans and banned the event on the grounds that as it was in an open space things could get out of control. The group then approached the Golden Landmark Hotel on Beach Road and booked a reception room appropriate for their needs. Samydorai Sinapan was the official organiser booking the room. Just three days before the event, he received a call from the hotel with some bad news. There was a leak in the roof and they had to cancel the booking. 'It was more likely a leak to the police', said Ravi. 'We speculated that pressure had been put on the hotel to prevent the vigil'. With total secrecy Ravi then booked a room at the Furama Hotel near Chinatown and the vigil went ahead more or less as planned. It was held in the Canton Meeting Room and lasted more than three hours. There were bands, solo musicians, an a cappella singer and poetry readings. Ravi got up to talk about Shanmugam's demise and the death penalty. Others followed him. But not everyone wanted to speak, read, play or sing in protest at the pending execution. Members of Singapore police department in plainclothes happened to drop by. And when anyone not listed to speak were invited to, the police stepped forward and stopped them, threatening arrest if they continued to defy the law. One of these was V.A. Sivakumar of the Vallalar organisation, a Hindu group opposed to all killing for any reason. He was stopped from talking immediately, his name and address taken down by two police officers at first pretending not to be. Shanmugam's mother and his sons were also present and all this only added to their misery.

An article about the vigil appeared in 7he Guardian, one of Britain's most respected newspapers, the next day. Headed 'Singapore Finally Finds A Voice In Death Row Protest' the article proclaimed that history had been made at the Furama Hotel where 'an unprecedented event for the tightly controlled island republic' had been held. Then a renowned journalist from The Guardian/Observer, John Aglionby, was sent from Jakarta to cover this groundbreaking event. The headline on Aglionby's article, which appeared in that Sunday's Observer read:

'A Silence Broken'. And there was indeed, said Ravi, an invigorating sense of silence being broken. Sadly, whatever this vigil did accomplish, reminisced Ravi, it did not increase Shanmugam's chances of escaping the noose. The execution date was immediately after the vigil: Friday 13 May 2004. Meanwhile, Julia Bohl, drug trafficker, dealer, party hostess extraordinaire from Germany, was busy swotting in her cell in preparation for a distance study course examination with the London School of
Economics. She served three years of her five-year sentence and flew back to Europe. The Changi Prison motto: 'Rehab, Renew, Restart' worked for her!

Don't Let Them Kill Me!

'Please don't let them kill me. I don't understand why they have to kill somebody for something like this'. This haunting cry from a terrified young man was ringing in lawyer M. Ravi's ears as he walked through the gates of Changi Prison into the sunlight. He had just said his final farewell to his client Amara Tochi who was due to hang at dawn the following day. It was a tearful moment for them. Ravi had worked himself to exhaustion to prevent the killing of this likeable, handsome young man, a talented footballer who had come to Singapore to fulfil a dream. For the 21 year-old kid from a dirt poor village in Nigeria, Ravi was his last hope. He knew he would be dead the next day - hung by the neck by Singapore's official grim reaper, Darshan Singh. Earlier that morning, the Court of Appeal refused to commute the death sentences on Tochi and his alleged accomplice Okele Nelson Malachy, a 33 year-old South African for trafficking 727.02 grams of heroin into the country. Ravi had worked ceaselessly day and night to save Tochi, first in the Appeal Court then, as a last resort, a desperate plea for clemency from President S.R. Nathan. Tochi said he thought he was carrying African herbs which tasted like chocolate, and even ate one capsule, according to the evidence, to show the police it was 'safe', a gesture suggesting either complete ignorance or naivete. The court delivered the death sentence after a 13-day trial during which even Judge Kan Ting Chin himself raised reasonable doubts about the alleged crime before he sentenced him to death. Judge Kan wrote at paragraph 42 of his judgement. "There was no direct evidence that he knew the capsules contained diamorphine - or heroin'.

Tochi had left his poverty-stricken village in Nigeria three years earlier and headed for Dubai hoping to find a football club willing to give him a chance to achieve fame and fortune. He had just turned 18 with little education having dropped out of school at 14 but his skill as a player was impressive. He was such a promising player he went to Senegal to join Njambi Football Club where he so impressed his mentors he was picked to play for Nigeria in the quarter-final in the West African Coca-Cola Cup. Tochi returned to his village to plan another career move. He wanted to widen his experience and become a world class player - and above all help his family get out of its poverty cycle. A football coach told him there were opportunities in Dubai for talented, determined young African players like him. With only a few hundred dollars in his pocket he travelled by plane and train to Islamabad in Pakistan to obtain a visa for the Arab emirate. There his plans began to go awry. His visa application was refused. He did not have enough documentation and the little money he had was running out. He was stranded and alone in a strange country. 'I was in total despair', he wrote in his diary in his cell on death row in Changi Prison on 4 August 2006, six months before he was hanged. 'No accommodation, no food and little money'. He went to St Andrew's Church in Islamabad for help. 'Pastor Andy was very kind to allow me to stay', he wrote.

It was during a Sunday service at St. Andrews that Tochi met 'Mr Smith', another African from the same Igbo-speaking ethnic group. He told Tochi he was an engineer and even recognised him as the player who missed a penalty that cost his team the match. 'It was a state league match in Nigeria in 2003', wrote Tochi.

I represented United FC. I felt shy about the missed penalty but later summoned enough courage and admitted to Mr Smith I was the one. He said they play only cricket in Pakistan, not football. Then I told him my story. From time to time he used to give me money for my survival and buy me food. I met him again in a restaurant when he told me he could help me get a visa to enter Dubai. He said there was a Dubai Embassy in Afghanistan. He took my passport and we went there together by plane.

Tochi's visa application was again refused. He needed much more documentation from his homeland to prove who he was. Smith
assured him all would be well. 'Not to worry', Smith kept assuring the youngster. 'He said he would take care of me', continued Tochi in his diary. It was clear that he did not fully realise that he was now in the hands of this hitherto unknown and mysterious 'Mr Smith'. Tochi then described being flown back to Dubai to catch a connecting flight to Singapore where, Smith assured him, he would be able apply for trials with the football federation. Smith would pay for the flight and his basic expenses. And, as a favour, would he take some special African herbs for his best friend, a 'Mr Marshall'? He was also African and was sick with a serious stomach ailment and needed them desperately. In return 'Mr Marshall' would give him US$2,000 to enable him to enter Singapore on a 30-day visa - enough time and money to obtain a long- term work pass and achieve his football dream. When Tochi arrived at Terminal 2's transit lounge there was no sign of Marshall, a man he had never heard of before. He should have been at the pre-arranged meeting point, a ubiquitous Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf cafe. After six hours with no sign of Marshall, he called Smith who was by then back in Pakistan. He was worried and would be stranded again if Marshall did not turn up with the promised money in exchange for the herbs. Without it, he would be sent back to Dubai, a country that would not let him enter either. His future seemed very dire indeed. But he was assured that Marshall would turn up soon. Exhausted by the wait and travel, Tochi decided to check into the airport's Ambassador Hotel and get some rest. The receptionist noticed he did not have a visa and advised him that he would be sent back to Dubai the next day without one. Tochi explained he was waiting for his friend to arrive with enough money for him to enter Singapore. The receptionist told him she was duty bound to inform the airport police. Twenty minutes passed before the police turned up. While he was waiting for them, Tochi strolled around the transit lounge unconcerned by the fact that the police would want to know all about him and the 'African herbs' he had in his bag. The police came, questioned him and looked in his bag. Tochi's football dreams had come to an abrupt end. He was now in a nightmare.