Princess: Stepping Out of the Shadows, стр. 18
From what I have read, the French guillotine is the more efficient. Where a man swings a sword, mistakes are known to occur – there have been times when it has taken the Saudi Arabian executioner three or four strikes to separate the head from the neck, meaning that the death was gruesome, long and painful. The guillotine does not make such mistakes. It is a precise device built to hold a weighted and angled blade.
After the criminal condemned to death is placed in stocks with the neck positioned carefully below the blade, death comes in a matter of moments. When the blade is released, it falls fast to decapitate the criminal in one clean cut. The French were so thoughtful that they even placed a basket in a perfectly aligned position so as to catch the head. Thankfully, the French stopped displaying severed heads long before they ceased to use the guillotine in 1981, when they abolished capital punishment.
We Saudis are not quite so organized as the French.
Our criminals are taken on Fridays after the morning prayers to Deera Square, where large crowds are encouraged to gather to be reminded of what will happen to them should they commit a grave crime. The most serious crimes in Saudi are murder, rape, adultery, armed robbery and drug trafficking, all of which result in a sentence of death by beheading. Other lesser crimes include theft, which will cost a repeat offender one hand. Then if the criminal continues to steal, he or she will lose a second hand, then a foot, then a second foot – although I have never heard of a thief so persistent that all four limbs were lost to the sword.
I have heard from family members who attend these events out of curiosity that the crowd displays a festive attitude. Onlookers eagerly anticipate the arrival of the police. The criminals are pulled from the cars, one by one, at which moment those about to die will see the man and the sword, made of steel and four feet long.
The executioner, who has been known to give interviews about how he trains for his job, and how he feels fortunate and honoured to have such a career, appears eager to begin his day’s work, or so I have been told. I recall reading an article about one Saudi family who held what they believed to be a coveted position as official executioners. As the father aged, he trained his son to follow him in his chosen vocation.
In Deera Square, the condemned are placed on a fixed spot, with a drain nearby, so that the head may roll into it.
Once the criminal is in position, the executioner lowers his blade and jabs at the neck of the condemned. This is done purposely, as the one about to be executed is super tense by this time, waiting for the strike. The poke by the sword causes the prisoner to lurch. When he jerks, the executioner is poised to strike. He very quickly lifts the sword high in the air and then swings it back down with such power that onlookers hear a thud about the same time as they see spurting blood.
When the head is so violently removed, the body of the prisoner snaps up before slumping to the plaza ground. That’s when several men rush in to lift the body on to a stretcher. One of the men will grab the head and wrap it in a cloth, placing the head beside the body. Only then does an announcer on a loudspeaker tell the crowd what the criminal did to deserve the ultimate punishment of decapitation.
The executioner will then wipe the blood off his sword, sheath it and walk away, a happy man who gets satisfaction from his job.
When it comes to thieves, the prisoner lives, but if he survives the cutting off of a limb the worst of the punishment is yet to come. They say that the prisoner screams the loudest when the stump is dipped into boiling oil to stop the gushing of blood.
The bloody scene in my mind’s eye repulses me and makes my body stiffen. I am brought back to the moment, knowing that I would never allow Medina to lose a hand, even if she was so vile as to steal my treasured photograph.
When I have recovered my composure, I see Sara kneeling beside Medina. She speaks in a calm, quiet and kindly voice.
‘Medina, love, what were you trying to do?’
Medina is still weeping in pain, but nothing can diminish her defiance.
‘I came to take what is my father’s property.’ Medina glares at me with loathing. ‘She is the thief,’ she snarls. ‘Not me!’
‘I will not allow you to speak such an untruth, Medina. Sultana is not deserving of these stones you are throwing. I was there when our father told Sultana that our mother had specifically asked that her youngest daughter receive the picture. Mother knew that no one would suffer more than Sultana when she died – for she was very young and vulnerable. Mother also understood that Sultana’s love would ensure the proper handling of the only photograph that captured her likeness. All these things have come to pass, just as our mother envisioned. Your father has no right to the photograph, although he should be pleased that he can come and see it whenever he pleases.’
All those gathered around began to shout at Medina, their voices intermingling so it was impossible to understand who was saying what in the clamour. But it was clear that all were disappointed with Medina for her disrespect of my mother’s wishes.
Medina contemplated her aunties and cousins, who were furious with her actions, and suddenly she broke into loud sobs, calling for her own mother and father. In an instant, she went from being loud