On January 21, 2013, I photographed an execution outside Iran’s House of Artists.
I had attended the court hearing of four young men convicted of armed robbery. A viral CCTV video had captured their crime. The plaintiff, however, opposed the death penalty, stating that harsh punishment was unnecessary. Yet the court ruled for execution.
I was asked to cover the event.
I hesitated. I disliked capturing brutal scenes—they left lasting scars. I also opposed public executions, believing they perpetuated violence. But curiosity and professional duty drove me to accept.
The execution was scheduled for early morning. At first, journalists were barred, then suddenly allowed in. A barrier enclosed the execution site, creating a controlled spectacle. The condemned men stood atop a truck.
I noticed something surreal—one of them was calmly talking to an execution officer, even drinking water moments before death.
Later, I stepped back. A burly officer whispered something to one of the convicts—a quiet moment of human connection in the face of death.
Then came the final scream—a woman’s wail piercing the morning silence. It shook me to my core.
Back at ISNA’s newsroom, I urged my editor:
"This is an important image—run it with the story."
By the time I checked social media, my photo had gone viral. A man, resting his head on the shoulder of his executioner, had become an iconic image, appearing in Associated Press, TIME magazine, and global media outlets.
Despite the absence of explicit violence, the fear, helplessness, and raw emotion in the image spoke louder than bloodshed. The photo transcended mere documentation—it became a symbol.
Even today, I refuse to look at that photo.
It weighs on me.
The world saw an image of death.
I captured a moment of despair.
And I still don’t know if I did the right thing.
Amir Pourmand
For the full text, refer to the book “Entertainment in Public” Project
