As a photojournalist, I have witnessed many executions. In my early years, I could endure the harsh reality of these events, but certain moments stayed with me forever. The first execution I ever photographed was that of Bijeh, a notorious serial killer. Terrified, I hid behind my viewfinder, taking rapid shots to distract myself from the suffocating heat. My hands shook, my photos blurred—a battle between my instincts as a human being and my duty as a journalist.
Over time, I documented various executions: a convicted judge’s killers, trembling pickpockets, children dragged from their beds to witness death, convicts who died of heart attacks before reaching the noose. But the words of one man still haunt me—a serial killer who, moments before his execution, locked eyes with me and whispered:
"They’re executing me because of you journalists."
The last execution I photographed was that of Ali, the ‘Hunter of Girls.’ A 24-year-old man who had killed two women and injured five others. Unlike other murderers I had encountered, his eyes held no malice—he looked like an ordinary worker buying morning bread. That cold winter morning in 2012, as masked executioners prepared to kick the stool from under him, I noticed a family in the crowd—dressed in their finest, women with full makeup, laughing loudly.
They were the relatives of one of his victims. Unlike the usual masked executioners, her brother delivered the final blow, kicking the stool so forcefully that wood splinters hit the journalists' faces. Cheers erupted as Ali’s body swung amid Iranian flags, while a violent storm suddenly broke out—rain pouring like punishment from the sky.
Soaked and shivering, I crawled behind a car and, for the first time after an execution, cried. My ex-husband, also a photojournalist, approached me. The only words I could muster were:
"I want to go home."
That was the last execution I ever photographed.
Yalda Moayeri
For the full text, refer to the book “Entertainment in Public” Project
