Ghosts, Blood, and Stolen Shoes
A Poor Man’s Story
“Some of the men believed the execution room to be full of ghosts. More than once officers had gone in to investigate noises or were convinced that there were a couple of people walking around the room, only to find it empty.”
[Quote: Chevuret Jaruboon, ‘The Last Executioner’ of Thailand]
Thailand is proudly Buddhist — 99 percent of its people practice the faith of one of the most peaceful men to grace the planet. Those who are devout heed five simple precepts: don’t steal, lie, use drugs, engage in sexual misconduct…or kill. For most of us, this makes common sense: love the people who surround you and avoid criminal mischief.
For young Thanoochai Montriwat, the soothing teachings of the Buddha meant little. Instead of loving, he stole. He was a thief, pick-pocket, and knowingly purchased stolen goods. Thanoochai’s association with fellow culprits Sanong and Janian is what ultimately sealed his demise, depriving his young wife of a husband and his young children of a father.
May 31 of 1972 was a day like any other for the triplet pick-pocketers. Thanoochai and his gang targeted a wealthy woman with a heavy load of shopping bags, who was attempting to board bus # 76 on Rama IV Road in Bangkok. Sanong, the leader, jammed his greedy hands into one of the woman’s bags: a quick, simple snatch and an attempt to nab a few hundred baht.
No-one was supposed to die.
Boonyarid, a passenger on the bus, caught sight of the crime and, probably reflexively, called out to the unsuspecting lady: “Watch out — he’s stealing your money!”
This declaration — a righteous one — would be Boonyarid’s death sentence.
“Get him!” Sanong snarled, lurching for the man. Before Thanoochai could blink, he and Janian found themselves suddenly clinging to the back of the bus like a couple of monkeys. The driver was attempting an escape, but Sanong steadfastly held on until the vehicle made a stop some 200 yards away.
Sanong jerked his hand at a weapon; it was a knife Thanoochai had kept hidden behind his belt. Sanong used Thanoochai’s blade to slice Boonyarid in the chest, who tumbled to the ground outside of a local restaurant. Boonyarid would soon succumb to the injury, and the three criminals scattered like shifty raccoons.
Compiling this story has had both an emotional and physiological toll. Thereafter, I really had to ponder the meaning of a human life. What does a life weigh? What does a life mean? Does every life have the same value? How do people make the choices to do whatever it is that they do? And most pressing to me is the question: how can we overcome the inability we seem to have to contemplate the consequences of a particular act?
Thanoochai may not have dealt the death blow, but it was Thanoochai’s weapon, and it was Thanoochai’s choice to join the criminal trio, who that day turned into murderers.
About two weeks later, the three were finally rounded up and arrested. Chevuret Jaruboon, Thailand’s late ‘last executioner’ recalls in his memoir that they were held in Lumpini Station, and each in individual cells. At first the men laughed and cracked jokes amongst themselves, flicking rubber bands back and forth like school-kids. None seemed to realize the severity of their situation. For Thanoochai’s part, he may not have even known that bus-passenger Boonyarid had died of his injury. Although Sanong and Janian admitted to jailers that they’d beaten and even murdererd other victims that told on them before, I do not recall from Jaburoon’s biography that Thanoochai had ever killed anyone. The unfortunate man had been a petty thief, and not much else, but the price he would pay for Sanong’s murderous aggression was grave.
As difficult as it is to believe, Thanoochai’s story gets worse.
By noon the next day, a crowd had assembled at Lumbini Station, unnerving the prisoners. At 3 PM — execution day — officials materialized and formally hand-cuffed the trio. The terrified men were then led to their own individual prison vehicles. Thanoochai mustered the courage to ask his escort what was going on. As Chevuret recalled, the escort remained silent, and Thanoochai, whose voice was tremoring, turned as white as the moon.
It was obvious to the prisoners by then that a huge, black void awaited them. There would be no leniency, and no going home — ever. Adding to the somber occasion was the bustle of activity; there were six officers for each vehicle. At 3:35 PM, the convoy reached the gates of the main prison. Janian fainted at least twice during the transport. At 3:40, police and prison personnel ushered them to the prison tower. A Buddhist Chaplain arrived to provide the prisoners council. Pen and paper were also presented to the doomed trio, so they could record their final words and wishes to their grieving family members.
Thanoochai addressed his letter to his mother, writing:
“I didn’t know what was happening. I wish I could see you now. Please take care of my kids and my wife.”
When the Prison Superintendent announced the order for the summary execution, it proved to be the breaking point: Thanoochai collapsed, and then exploded.
“Please don’t kill me, sir!” were his pathetic words. “Let me see my mother first, she knows people, let her help me, please let me see her!”
On and on he wailed like this, looking about here and there like a petrified child. Thanoochai’s psychological breakdown seriously disturbed the minds of Chevuret and the prison staff. On the one hand, yes, they were present to perform a specific job (execution). On the other hand, as Chevuret related, none of them were proud or eager to carry out this task. By the end of the evening, there would be three young bodies pumped dead with bullets, left to bleed and stiffen unceremoniously in the sand-bag room. It was a bland, sober fact. Nothing else could be done.
Sullen staff members hoisted the weeping Thanoochai to his feet, or as much as he could stand, and half-carried him to the execution chamber. It was not an easy chore. Thanoochai’s pleas for his mother never ceased, even as his blind-fold was hurriedly re-applied and guards worked grimly to secure his waist, elbows and arms onto the cross, a crude structure against which condemned prisoners were tied and their arms secured spread-eagled on posts.
At about 5:45 PM, the white flag was dropped and the signal given. Twelve bullets pummeled Thanoochai’s quivering frame, silencing his voice forever.
That brings me to the conclusion of this truly dreadful tale: the morning after the execution, she arrived at the prison to collect Thanoochai’s body, but she came to Chevuret Jaburoon with her own sobering plea for help.
“Officer, I dreamt about my son last night,” she began, “and he was crying. But when I asked him why, he didn’t answer…and then blood came oozing from every part of his body.”
Pause for a moment, and try to imagine yourself having to tell this story about your own child.
“Someone took his shoes,” she went on, “and he really wants to find them. Can you please help?”
Eerily, Thanoochai seemed to have connected and spoken to his mother in the moments or hours after his execution. Jaburoon went to the local Buddhist Temple where the bodies were stored until their families could cremate or bury them, and as it turned out, a certain undertaker by the name of Mhong had seen the good-quality shoes still on the young man’s feet. Most prisoners didn’t have such nice shoes, and Mhong had thought it a shame to ‘let them go to waste’. He’d removed them and given them a good scrub, and luckily saw no problem in allowing the grieving mother to return home with the body of her son — and his shoes.
Even in death, Thanoochai was not spared the results of his criminal karma.
Even as he stole, the only pair of shoes he liked had been taken right off of his decomposing feet.
Chevuret soberly recorded the following: “A parent’s love can be the purest love there is; no matter what a child does, he is forgiven and fiercely loved.”
