DAMMAM, 18 February 2003 — At first sight Ahmad Rezkallah is a pleasant man with a nice, broad smile. He expresses himself with the confidence of the professional man he is — Saudi Arabia’s most senior executioner.
Rezkallah told Al-Majalla, a sister publication of Arab News, that he drifted into the profession by chance.
“About 23 years ago the government asked for volunteers,” he explained. “I was 20 years old at the time, and the youngest in my group.”
Because of his youth, people doubted he would be successful.
“But I rose to it as a challenge,” he recalls.
He says he has no trouble sleeping prior to an execution, but he is conscientious.
“Before an execution, I wait and give the victim’s family a chance to forgive the man who is going to be executed,” he says. “I go to the family of the victim and ask them if they will forgive, or if blood money has been given. Sometimes this happens at literally the last minute before an execution.”
“My thoughts and prayers are concentrated on the fact that they will forgive the criminal. I hope they forgive him and I feel joy when they do.”
“If I get the chance, and most of the time I do, I go and ask the family of the victim to give the criminal another chance,” he adds. “It has worked many times and the family has forgiven the criminal at the last minute.”
“There is clapping and cheering,” Rezkallah recalls. “The scenes of happiness are indescribable.”
Failing that, he has to go through with the execution.
“I listen to their last requests,” he explains. “Some want to pray, some ask to call for prayer in the execution square. Since I am the one responsible in the execution square, I usually grant their last wish — as long as it doesn’t delay the execution.”
And then to the execution itself.
“The sharpness of the sword and bodily strength are the most important things,” Rezkallah says. “Also, the executioner must have the guts to do his job — and believe in it.”
Rezkallah has executed more than 300 people, 70 of them women, and says that in practical terms there is no difference between executing men and women.
“People here have the impression that women are soft and weak. But at the time of the execution, most men collapse. When they hear they were forgiven, some are paralyzed. Some go crazy. However, women in general have nerves of steel,” he says.
“Ten years ago, I was supposed to execute a woman,” he remembers. “She was down on her knees and she was ready to die. At the last minute we heard that the family had forgiven her, so police walked her back to the prison car. Then we found out that the father of the victim had said he would only forgive her if his wife did. So they took her out of the prison car and back to the execution square. Then people went to the wife to ask for her forgiveness, and she agreed and forgave the woman.
“So they walked the woman back to the prison car. She calmly went with them and sat in the back of the car. She was talking normally. If that had happened to a man, he would have had a heart attack.”
“Actually, most women I executed were strong and calm,” he adds. “In tough situations, they are much stronger than men.”
Another execution he remembers vividly is that of a man who killed his friend in a fight.
“His friend beat him, and when he got home to his mother she encouraged him to take revenge. So the man went to his friend’s house and stabbed him to death. He was sentenced to death for that crime.”
The mother did not mean for her son to go and kill his friend, he adds, “but that’s what he did. And that’s why families should never encourage violence in their children.”
Al-Majalla asked Rezkallah what consequences being an executioner has had on his own life.
“People look at me as if I was from another planet,” he smiles.
“They try to avoid dealing with me. Sometimes when I’m with a group of people, someone who doesn’t know me comes and sits next to me. When they find out what my job is, they suddenly feel uncomfortable and try to find an excuse to leave.”
“I love to meet people and I love to attend events,” he adds. “But sometimes people don’t feel comfortable around me, so I leave.”
Instead, he spends most of his time with his family.
“I love my family very much. I spend most of my free time around them. Thank God there is a lot of love and a great deal of understanding in my family. I love my children, I go through their schoolwork with them and sometimes I sit with their friends.”
Rezkallah’s two elder sons, Abdullah, 21, and Khamis, 17, welcomed Al-Majalla into his elegant living room, which is decorated with many swords.
Rezkallah says he does not want them to follow in his footsteps. “I want them to go to school and do something else,” he says.
