Executioner Over almost two decades, Chaowares Jarabun executed 55 inmates in Thailand.  With his autobiography out, he’s aiming to become a strange celebrity and teacher. Words and images by Jim Algie

The hardest part of being on the execution team at Bangkok’s biggest max­imum-security prison was walking into the death-row cell to tell the pris­oner that he was about to be executed, says Chaowares Jarabun. Whatever crime the person had committed, “they were still heroes to their families,” he says, while sitting in his office at Bang Kwang Central Prison.

“The inmates had time to write a letter to their family, have a last cigarette, and a meal,” he continues. “But they usually didn’t feel like eating, so they were also given the chance to see a Buddhist monk for a final bless­ing.”

Blindfolded, and with chains around his ankles, the prisoner was led into the execution chamber by two guards. His hands were tied together so he could clutch three unopened lotus blossoms, a like number of joss-sticks, and a small orange candle, like a Thai person going to pray at a Buddhist temple. Chaowares and the guards would then tie him to a wooden cross with his hands above his head, and put a white screen between him and the HK 9-mm gun, which was bolted to the floor and pointed at his back. Finally, a doctor put a target on the screen around where the pris­oner’s heart was, so the executioner could take aim and fire.

These are the kind of tales that the 57-year-old former execu­tioner now tells to rapt audiences at Thai universities and remand centers for juvenile delinquents, as he aims to become the most unlikely of teachers and celebrities. In between shifts as the Chief of Foreign Affairs at the maximum-security prison, the former rock musician also published an autobiography called The Last Executioner (Maverick House, 2007).

What’s captured the attention of readers and audiences are the dark chapters of prison riots and his life on the firing line. As the condemned men and women were led into the death chamber, “I heard it all – crying, begging, and cursing me. But some of them just walked in without a word. They were ready to die.”

After a decade of helping the prison authorities to carry out the death penalty, Chaowares was given an official order to become the chief executioner in 1984 – a job he did not want. But with only a small salary to support his wife, and three children, he reluctantly took a shot at it. Over the next 19 years he executed 55 inmates until Thailand switched over to lethal injection near the end of 2003.

Before the executions, he would pray to a powerful spirit for absolution by explaining that he was not killing the person out of malice, he was just do­ing his duty. “I have no power in the judicial process. After the police, the witnesses, and the judge all had their say, I was just the final link in the chain,” says Chaowares, who oversees all the 700-plus foreign inmates in the prison.

Afterwards, he would go out drinking with his colleagues in order to ward off the guilt and the haunting feeling that the dead person’s spirit was shad­owing him. For each execution he was paid 2,000 baht. This money, he religiously donated to a famous Buddhist temple in Nonthaburi province, where the prison is located.

Ironically, he has also been hailed as a leading prison reformer in the coun­try. The Australian philanthropist Susan Aldous, responsible for organizing many missions of mercy at Bang Kwang Central Prison, says, “If it wasn’t for Chaowares helping me with the paperwork and dealing with all the bureauc­racy, I wouldn’t have been able to do half of what I’ve done here. You’d think the inmates here would hate him, but he’s very well liked and respected.”

One time she was visiting a group of older Thai inmates serving life sentences – many of them hadn’t had a visitor in years – and she went over and hugged a man covered in sores. “Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chaowares shed a few tears. He’s a bit more of a softie than he lets on,” she says.

Indeed, Chaoware’s wife of 30-odd years claims, “At home he won’t even kill ants or caterpillars. He has a good heart,” while they sit together at an al-fresco restaurant near the prison.

To pay back the compliment, Chaowares takes a bill out of his wal­let and hands it to her. The couple laughs. “We’re always joking around together,” he says. “That’s what keeps our marriage fresh.”

Prior to his prison career, he played guitar in a rock ‘n’ roll band which entertained American GI’s during the Vietnam War days. Chaowares hoped to make a career for himself as a rock musician but, typical of his self-deprecating wit, he wisecracks, “I wasn’t hand­some enough or too talented, and I had a family to support so I needed a stable job.”

All these years later, and he has remained faithful to his first love: rock ‘n’ roll. In the corner of his office at the prison, he keeps an old acoustic guitar. During the first part of the interview, Chaowares treats us to some fleet-fingered renditions of surf-rock standards like “Wipeout” and “Pipeline.” In a rich baritone, he also sings a few snatches of the Elvis ballad “It’s Now or Never” and Hank Williams’ sob song “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

Although he believes that capital punishment has not caused the crime rate to decrease, he insists that it’s still necessary in Thailand. Chaowares cites the example of one of the two women he executed. “She had a long history of previous offences, killed an infant, and packed its body full of heroin – the same technique some American GI’s used to use with their fellow soldiers to export the drug into America – and then she tried to carry it across the border to Malaysia. What can we do with people like this?” he asks rhetori­cally.

Asked if he’s happy about the death sentence being executed with needles rather than bullets, Chaowares said, “Yes, very happy. It’s more merciful, and I’ve always hated guns and never had one at home.” Then he cracks a grin and laughs. “And besides, I’m going to go down in Thai history as the last executioner.”