Life Cut Short

My ramblings are few and far between apparently. My first (and last) post was in August, when I took pleasure in announcing to the e-world how much I loved my new hometown of Raleigh, North Carolina. I regret to say that Raleigh and North Carolina lost much of its magic for me November 17.

November 17 I attended my first execution vigil. As I work, and now live, in downtown Raleigh, I can't plead previous ignorance of what happens on the occasional Friday morning at 1300 Western Boulevard, better known as Central Prison. I have passed the groups at the gates with their candles and prayers spoken over a loud speaker. Since moving to Raleigh to attend North Carolina State University (coincidentally located about a mile up the road from Central Prison) six years ago, there have been 26 such groups to bear witness to 26 State murders. I am ashamed I never joined them the first 25 times; I am ashamed it took a personal invitation to join the last group to honor the life of Elias Hanna Syriani, a 67 year-old father of four.

I didn't know what to expect or what emotions would be stirred by such a meeting. What exactly do you feel in a room full of people, all with an expectation that someone will die tonight, but too a hope that what's expected really won't happen? I didn't know Mr. Syriani personally - I only knew of him through newspaper articles I had read. Some portrayed him as a crazed monster that stabbed his estranged wife, Teresa, several times with a screwdriver in the presence of his 10-year-old son. And it's true, he did stab his wife over and over while his young son watched his mother's murder. This same father then spent the next fifteen years painfully regretting his thoughtless, cruel acts of violence, but never made any excuses for his crimes. He took steps to reconcile with his children and by some miracle of grace, all four children forgave their father of his crimes. His last pleas for life were made in order to protect Rose, John, Sarah, and Janet from the heartbreak of losing another parent prematurely. After reading all this and taking time to listen to friends' recounts of his time spent in prison, Mr. Syriani wasn't the monster I had read about in early accounts of his crimes: he was a man, a man who had made a terrible mistake. I left that night feeling both helpless and guilty.

I wish for the magic back. Not that I wish I hadn't stumbled upon human depravity, but that human depravity would cease to exist. I wish husbands would love their wives instead of killing them. If I can't be granted that wish, I wish I could say this was my last execution vigil, that the human desire to spill blood would finally be satisfied with the death of Mr. Syriani. It wasn't my last vigil, though: I attended the next one two weeks later to protest the execution of no. 1000 in the United States, Mr. Kenneth Lee Boyd. And I will be at the likely execution of no. 1007, Mr. Perrie Simpson, on January 19. Until then, I keep wishing no. 1007 won't be called.

From someone who was there: Tommy Tomlison, a columnist with The Charlotte Observer, writes about the execution of Elias Syriani in "Look inside the death chamber..."

Want more information on capital punishment? Check out The Death Penalty Information Center.