Analysing Nerve (2016)

Interview on Death Row Myuran Sukamaran

http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/nation/grief-and-regret-unpublished-interview-with-myuran-sukumaran/news-story/310de1886f1732460c22a6c7bbacefdd

On the night of January 17, hours before the first “batch’’ of six drug convicts was executed by firing squad on Indonesia’s prison island of Nusakambangan, I interviewed Myuran Sukumaran by phone. He was terrified he and Andrew Chan would be next.

It was one of Sukumaran’s last interviews after the rejection of his clemency bid on

December 30. With Chan’s denial of clemency confirmed on January 22, their fate was sealed as they were to be executed together.

An interview published at that time would have jeopardised their legal cases and fragile bids for mercy, so the words could not then be told.

Through the earpiece that night, as we discussed his likely fate, Sukumaran’s soft voice revealed a gamut of emotions: shock, terror, desperation, grief, regret and incomprehension.

Sukumaran ruminated on how to prepare for execution — and maintain a degree of control and decorum — something he achieved in his final days, although not without a torturous journey.

“It’s really hard,’’ he said. “They’re talking about the way it’s going to be done.”

He had been reading about his fate on the internet. By the time of his execution he would know each punishing step.

Stoically, he said: “I’m allowed three choices: I can lie down, sit or stand. You can have a blindfold … I hear all these stories now.’’

He heard he would be kept naked for three days before execution.

Bizarre comments from officials did not escape him. “The public spectacle, the way that they’re talking about it ... it’s like a joke,’’ he said, reciting an aside by Attorney-General Muhammad Prasteyo: “I have to wait my turn.”

As the pair’s second judicial reviews were about to be lodged, flickers of hope prevailed. “I do have hope. Everybody is trying the best they can,” he said.

His emotions seesawed back and forth and when I asked if he had thoughts of escape, he replied: “Yeah, but don’t write that, it would get me into a lot of trouble. That would

probably get me shot.”

Yet the freshness of his ordeal was overwhelming. “The situation is so surreal. I don’t know even how I should be preparing ... sort of getting my affairs in order.

“I’m just gathering my personal things and I was introducing people to others who would

take over the project leadership stuff that’s done here.”

He was referring to his rehabilitation programs — among them English, graphic design and his pride and joy, art.

He had embarked on a degree and in February was awarded an associate degree in fine arts from Perth’s Curtin University. Sukumaran’s mother, Raji, fretted he would not complete it under the pressure of his impending execution.

“I haven’t been able to study for the last 2½ weeks, thinking about the execution, I

don’t know whether I should stop or not. I can’t concentrate,’’ he said.

Everything seemed to be crumbling. “What do I say to my family, what do I say? I just don’t know how I should be, really.’’

It was a conundrum to Sukumaran that his clemency bid was denied following his

rehabilitation and contribution to other inmates.

His rock was friend, mentor and celebrated artist Ben Quilty, who campaigned tirelessly for mercy for him and Chan.

It was coincidental Quilty had arrived on that ill-fated day. An article examining the

relationship between the Archibald Prize winner and his inmate art student had been planned for a year. Overnight the tenor of the piece changed into a chilling front-page news story.

Yet Quilty couldn’t have arrived at a better time. Doubtless Sukumaran’s soul-saving art,

which served him until the bitter end, was largely driven by Quilty.

When Sukumaran complained he couldn’t focus on his painting that day, Quilty urged him to pick up his brushes. What else are you going to do? he asked.

Sukumaran did. And he never put them down. As long as he had life in him, he painted — feverishly — about his life journey, an open book that ended in a blood-spattered killing field documented in his depiction of the Indonesian flag. Forever stained, dripping blood.

“We talked a lot about art,’’ Sukumaran told me of that day in January. “It was one of the better days I’ve had recently.”

Quilty had gifted him numerous Australian art books and Sukumaran devoured them.

Sukumaran’s spirits lifted after immersing themselves in art all day. They had also discussed the execution because Sukumaran needed to.

“Ben’s a really good friend and an unbelievable support,’’ he told me. “He’s my mentor. He taught me how to draw, how to paint. He’s helped me so much, it’s sort of changed the way I am, given me hope for the future.

“He’s actually given me a future, and I’ve changed my life so much. I’ve becomea better person and I’ve made a bigger, more positive contribution to society.

“I’m finally at that point where even if I was on a life sentence I could still make a positive contribution to society.

“Now it’s … being taken away. I don’t understand because I’ve been rehabilitated. I’ve been changed by this prison. Not just me but a lot of people have done so much to help others. People here are shocked, they see how much I’ve done.”

His dream was to be free to train under Quilty — a tantalising open offer too good to be true.

Baffled by President Joko Widodo’s hard-line stand on drug convicts, he could not

understand the sudden bloodlust. “Everybody I’ve talked to said he built in a campaign of being humanitarian, he wanted strong reforms and treatment for addicts. It’s just strange,” he mused.

“After 10 years I thought they’d give us a second chance. I thought, honestly, I would get clemency before. We’ve done so much stuff, we have truly changed. We did just one thing. After 10 years, all of a sudden it’s gone…’’.

Asked if it helped that Chan was in the same position, he joked: “It’s better than going down by yourself, I guess.”

Beyond that “he’s probably the only one who understands, he will be going through the

same (thing).

“I really, really hope there is (an after-life). You get a second chance.’’

His dream was to have a family and children. “My brother just got married very recently ... it’s actually really sad for me.’’

Reminiscing about his family and childhood, he mused: “Going back in time, it’s a scary

thing, now just waiting … how much time you have on this earth, how much time is wasted, waiting.”

A future remained tangible that night: “I still paint like Ben but in a year or two I will have my own style.’’

In the end, his longing to attain the decorum of a humble man in control was what he had painstakingly earned.

By all accounts, he achieved an inner peace in his final days and hours, even miraculously consoling his distraught family.