When I was a little girl I used to enjoy reading a book someone had given me about the lives of the Catholic saints. My favourites were always those who started out real disasters – Simon, Mary of Egypt, Augustine for example – but came good in the end. Their lives, and their teachings, seemed full of wisdom and humanity, and I found both much easier to relate to and ultimately more helpful than the multitudes of “prissy” saints who never seemed to do much except get cloistered away as nuns from an early age, before living out whatever (usually little) time they had left fasting, praying and waiting to drop off the twig.
Like many others, I was familiar with the story of the Bali Nine and its ringleaders, Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran. As their situation became more desperate over the last few months, I read more about the cases. As far as you can through newspaper reports, I got to know their families, their lawyers, their friends, and them.
I find the idea of the death penalty appalling under any circumstances. The fact that it persists in otherwise “developed” countries like the US where it is known to apply almost exclusively to the poor, the disabled, the otherwise disadvantaged makes it worse. However this almost academic disgust was nothing compared to the visceral reaction I had as it became more and more likely that Andrew and Myuran, these two people I’d come to “know”, were living their final days. The depth of my shock when I heard that the executions had gone ahead were a strong indicator of how certain I had been, in my heart of hearts, that there would be some intervening act to put an end to the madness - that at the last minute Indonesia, having shown its resolve in the face of international pressure, would show its fairness and its compassion.
I still feel shocked, and oddly incredulous. But as the details of the final moments of these men have been shared, this has been permeated by an immense pride that they conducted themselves with such grace to the very end.
I was so awestruck by their conduct that I found myself thinking of the saints I used to read about, and reflecting again on the idea of sanctity. The purpose of those saints, after all, was to help show us the way to God, or, if you are not particularly religious, to be examples of lives well lived. And the longer I live and the more I see of the world, the more of an affinity I feel with the broken saints I took most pleasure in when I was little. Because after all we are none of us born good or perfect – we are just empty slates, waiting for life to write itself on us. For the vast majority of us, this will mean making mistakes, learning from them, trying to better our characters, trying to become the best versions of ourselves.
There can be no doubt that this is what Andrew and Myuran did.
To be clear, I’m not saying that Andrew and Myuran were saints, in the sense of those flawless nunlets of days gone by. But I do think that their efforts to improve their lives, help others, and their courage and dignity at their end were exemplary and inspiring. Which is really what many saints are all about.
What a wonderful thing for them both to achieve. What a tragedy it had to end.