Once a Jolly Hangman (9 page)

To understand the weight of this burden, it is important to know what happens before and after anyone is hanged. Darshan Singh himself has a special way of helping some of the death row inmates he has known come to terms with their fate. He always talks quietly and explains the process as kindly as possible. He promises they will feel no pain, that he is an expert with many years experience. This attitude may be his way a easing that terrible, compounded burden. He told me he so convinced 18 men convicted of murder arising from the Pulau Senang penal colony riots of 1963 that being hanged by him would be painless and all over in a split-second that they actually wanted only him to hang them. On occasions when he was not sure if a prisoner would struggle on the way to the gallows a prison doctor prescribes a relaxant to help him - or her - stay as calm as possible. The drug is usually slipped into a last drink the night before. But there is often very
little chance of anything really violent happening. An assistant or guard usually stands by while preparations are completed. The prisoners' arms are quickly pinioned behind their backs with handcuffs and straps rendering them virtually helpless. Then Darshan Singh hastens them into the execution chamber via a connecting door and before they know what is happening, they are on the twin trapdoors. To prevent the prisoner kicking out as the doors spring open and breaking their fall, their legs are tightly strapped together.

Darshan Singh, as in the usual tradition of the British way of hanging, then places the noose around the neck, ensuring always that the knot is in the correct position behind the right ear and to thus break the spinal cord instantly at the end of the drop. The white cap is then produced as if out of thin air like a conjurer's trick and placed over the head in one deft movement. In true Singapore tradition timing also has to be perfect. Whether it is just one prisoner or three - the maximum Changi's modern scaffold can handle at one time - the trapdoor or doors now mechanically connected to one lever will open simultaneously at precisely 6.00 a.m. give or take a second or two. Why this final, grotesque ritual takes place just as the sun rises has never been clearly explained to me. Perhaps it is to do with the date on which the execution has been ordered - to ensure the condemned will never see the light of another day or even a fraction of one beyond his or her legally-determined lifespan. The body - or bodies - will plunge down a distance gauged by his or her weight, height and muscularity and the length of the rope. This method prevents decapitation or strangulation but no method of execution is without its faults. Despite Darshan Singh's claim, no one can be sure that every one will be perfect. No hangman is infallible no matter how many times he has carried out a hanging but he will never admit committing any kind of blunder.

The body will be left suspended for at least 20 minutes to ensure death has taken place or while it stops writhing. The face will be purple, engorged with blood, the neck covered with lacerations, the tongue swollen and protruding from the mouth, eyes nightmarishly bulging. And, as always happens, involuntary ejections of urine and faeces will stain the clothing. Such has been the lot of Darshan Singh who has done this, although he cannot be sure, around 900 to 1,000 times since 1959. He has kept his sanity by lightening his load, repeating his half
dozen or so jokes, conversational set pieces for the dinner table or over a glass of beer in one of his favourite haunts in Singapore's Little India.

Sigmund Freud had a theory about gallows humour. In his 1927 essay 'Der Humor', he wrote: "The ego refuses to be distressed by the provocations of reality, to let it be compelled to suffer. It insists that it cannot be affected by the traumas of the external world; it shows, in fact, that such traumas are no more than occasions for it to gain pleasure'. Some other sociologists elaborate this insight further. Paul Lewis, for example, says that this 'liberating' aspect of all kinds of gallows humour depends on the context of the joke: whether the joke is being told by the threatened person themselves or by someone else. 'Stress is the condition that results when person-environment transactions lead the individual to perceive a discrepancy, whether real or not, between the demands of a situation and the resources of the person's biological, psychological or social systems'.

During conversations I had with him, Darshan Singh constantly peppered his responses with his personal brand of real gallows humour - the product of a record number of executions for any hangman anywhere which seemingly has kept him psychologically balanced throughout the years. However, I still asked him if he slept well or whether he ever experienced nightmares involving some of those he had executed. Did he ever see any of the faces whose life he has snuffed out mocking him from the darkness during a disturbing dream? I almost believed him when he said he always sleeps well and what he does has never bothered him or disturbed his peace of mind ... until he began reeling off some of those jokes and laughing so heartily. 'After every execution', he has probably repeated a thousand times, 'it takes me two days to get over my hangover'. I felt sure that Freud would have loved to have had Darshan Singh on his couch for a few hours and attempted to analyse that particular joke. The conversation continues. Another joke - more raucous laughter. 'I am the fastest executioner in the world', he says. 'I don't hang about'.

He recalled a certain execution many years ago that was celebrated with two fellow prison officers. It was the evening after his 500th execution, an obvious momentous occasion for any hangman proud of his work. The officers came to his home in civilian clothes with a bottle or two of Chivas Regal! 'I can't remember whose execution we

were celebrating, who the 500th person was', he said. 'It was a long time ago ...'. Listening to Singh reminisce about this particular celebratory moment and make decidedly off-colour jokes reminded me of the Hungarian-born author Arthur Koestler who played a crucial part in the campaign to abolish capital punishment in Britain back in the 1950s. In his damning Reflections on Hanging which was serialised in the British Sunday newspaper, The Observer, and was causing alarm in the British establishment
then fighting a rearguard action to keep the death penalty, Koestler opened with a startling commentary on 'this peaceful country where necks are broken: There seems to be jolliness about the procedure as if the victim, twitching on the end of the rope, was not a real person but a dummy burnt on Guy Fawkes' Day. The present hangman, Albert Pierrepoint, runs a public house called Help the Poor Struggler ... and the present Lord Chief Justice delighted a Royal Academy banquet with a story of a judge who, after passing the death sentence on three men, was welcomed by a band playing the Eton Boating Song's refrain: 'We'll all swing together' .... It all goes to show that hanging has a kind of macabre cosiness, like a slightly off-colour family joke, which only foreigners, abolitionists and other humourless creatures are unable to share'.

Darshan Singh told me that he wanted to retire one day but the authorities could not find a replacement hangman. Not long ago he spent weeks training two understudies, one Chinese and the other Malay. Using dummies he taught them the Table of Drops, how to weigh and measure the condemned, and calculate the length of the drop accordingly. He told them it was important to get the length of the rope and the drop exactly right. Too short and they are strangled. Too long and they are decapitated, he always reminded them. Before the short walk to the scaffold arms are pinioned behind back on the trapdoors, the noose placed around the necks, the white cap on heads. Darshan Singh even told the trainees that he always uttered those now infamous words: 'I am sending you to a better place than this'. Then pull the lever. Perhaps he wanted them to carry on this tradition that he began. But when it came to a real execution, the would-be executioners froze and could not do it. They could not pull the lever. According to Darshan Singh, the young Chinese prison officer actually ran from the execution chamber in horror and never came back. He resigned from

the prison service the next day. The Malay prison officer returned to his normal duties. He refused to go anywhere near the scaffold again, however, and Singh was obliged to stick at the job while more futile attempts were made to find his successor.

At one time the prison authorities considered abandoning hanging and replace it with the lethal injection method used in some American states. Two arguments quickly put paid to that idea. It has always been a tradition in Changi Prison for the condemned to be given the opportunity to agree to organ donation. Singh always told them that if they agreed to 'make good' it would ensure reincarnation. Then it was discovered that if they died by lethal injection their vital organs would be destroyed. But more importantly, that proposal was shelved because it removed key elements to being executed on the gallows: the stark fear and horror that it presents and the utter ignominy of being hanged, say human rights activists. Lethal injection to the Singaporean way of thinking is too humane, too painless and too dignified. It would be more like lying on a gurney ready for surgery and never waking up from the anaesthetic. It is the very dread of being hanged by your country and the awful spectre of the gallows, death penalty advocates maintain, that is so important. It is the ultimate degradation.

7

Man In Transit

The neatly-dressed young man strolled nonchalantly through terminal ones transit lounge at Changi airport trying to look every bit a typical student traveller without a care in the world. He was returning from a trip to Phnom Penh, Cambodia, and looking forward to being home with his family in Melbourne for the Christmas holiday. But his cool look belied what was really going on behind that inscrutable face. It was 12 December 2002, a date he would come to remember until the end of his days. There would not be many more of them. In fact, although he didn't know it then, there were only another 1,085 days left. The countdown had just begun. This is the story of the very short life and violent death of Australian citizen, Nguyen Van Tuong.

Completely in the dark as to the nature of his trip his mother, Kim Nguyen, a devout Catholic, was at home busily preparing for the Christmas celebrations and a welcome meal for Van. It would be breakfast time when she expected him to walk through the door. But it was a meal he would never eat and a welcome he would never receive. The 22 year-old was also looking forward to seeing his young friends Kelly Ng and Bronwyn Lew again - and especially twin brother, Khoa. He had a very special Christmas present for him. It was strapped to his back and hidden in his luggage. Silk Air Flight MI622 from Phnom Penh touched down at terminal one at precisely 3.06 p.m. The connecting flight that would take him home on the final leg of the journey was Qantas Airways QF10. He had quite a long wait. Take-off time was not until 8.15 p.m. Nguyen tried to remain composed and as inscrutable as possible, anxious not to make eye contact with anyone.

He held on tightly to his canvas bag. The haversack slung over his left shoulder was trapped securely by his arm. He looked around for a quiet spot to spend the next five hours. He wanted to look natural but his stomach was churning and deep down he was feeling extremely nervous. He purchased a magazine and many cups of coffee and tried to take a nagging fear off his mind. Nguyen kept glancing at his brand new $1,150 Rado wristwatch he had bought for his 21st birthday, hoping his nervousness was not being noticed by anyone. He knew hidden CCTV cameras were quietly whirring away with men and women trained in reading body language sitting at batteries of screens looking for tell tale signs of trouble or anxious people with something to hide or fear. Terrorists are their priority targets. And drug traffickers. Security officers in uniform and some in plain clothes pretending to be fellow travellers were also everywhere ready to respond to any eventuality. He was also aware that other eyes could be watching him. The syndicate in Phnom Penh had warned he would be shadowed every step of the way to make sure he delivered. If they were bluffing he would take no chances. The man in the seat behind him might have been one of them. Any deviation, change of heart, would mean serious trouble. He feared for his life from all quarters. He just wanted to
get home, safe and sound, among family and friends again. Just after 7.15 p.m. he heard the Qantas flight announcement. He downed the last dregs of the coffee to keep his mouth from drying up, gathered his belongings and began walking slowly towards Gate C22.

He knew the next few steps would be the most hazardous part of the journey. His very life was on the line. He understood the meaning of those four simple words, always in English, on the sign he had just passed: 'Death To Drug Traffickers'.
r
fhey were everywhere - on immigration and customs declaration forms and walls at every checkpoint. Nguyen did his best to maintain a cool look as he was motioned through the arch of the metal detector by a female security officer. The canvas bag and haversack were going through the X- ray machine to his left. His heart almost missed a beat as the alarm sounded. But this was not unusual. A bunch of keys, a belt buckle, a mobile phone or a few coins could do that. He stayed cool - on the outside. The officer told him to stand facing her, legs apart on two 'Big Foot' imprints embedded in the thick carpet. She passed a hand

held metal detector around his body, front and back, up and down and between his legs. No alarm this time. Nguyen breathed a sigh of relief. But it was not over yet. The officer then ran her hand gently over Nguyen's back. Perhaps she had already sensed there was something suspicious under his jacket. Or perhaps she already knew more than he could ever have imagined. Perhaps she had been waiting for him. Whatever the reason, she called a male officer to take a closer look, a closer feel. Nguyen was taken to a room within Gate C22 for a more intrusive search. His haversack and canvas bag were now being carried by the officer. His heart was pounding. Inside the search room, Nguyen was ordered to take off his jacket and shirt. He did as he was told without further prompting. Then he turned around. A plastic packet was strapped to his lower back with yellow and white adhesive tape. He also had half a dozen counterfeit watches, and a number of belts - Christmas presents for friends - in the haversack with a second plain packet. At this point the police officer called for his superior, Sergeant Teh Kim Leng, to take over the questioning. The calm demeanour he tried to exhibit was now one of sheer terror. Streaks of sweat ran down his forehead. He cried, banged his head against the wall, and crumpled to the floor, howling, rocking back and forth with his head in his hands. His nightmare had just begun. He would never see his family and friends in Melbourne again. He would now be re-routed. Destination: Changi Prison. He was a man in transit of an entirely different kind. But at that moment he was still inside the search room at terminal one.