Judicial punishment.
Have you ever seen one of those "interesting dilemmas" party books? You know, the kind that pose these silly and weird imponderables like "Would you rather be poked in the eye with a fork or have a limb cut off with a hacksaw?" or "Which is worse: giving a five minute nationally televised speech nude or running the Boston marathon naked?"
Of course the obvious answer is neither, but that's not an option, is it. The whole idea is that you are forced to chose. I used to see those books and laugh along with everyone else. It was silly nonsense and none of us took it seriously.
But that's exactly the situation I'm in now. I've got a horrible decision to make. Both choices are awful and I don't know what to do. I made a terrible mistake, see. To celebrate our graduation from university a few of my girlfriends and I decided to take a trip through Asia this summer. Money was tight, however, and I foolishly leapt at a chance to have our travels paid for. It wasn't supposed to be anything dangerous or i*****l -- just carry a package for some guy. But it turned out there were d**gs in the package and my friends and I were busted.
We've been in jail for nearly two weeks and it's been hell. The place is filthy, with raw sewage on the floors, and cockroaches and rats for company. The guards are mean and the food is barely edible.
We are desperate to get out and return home, but our U.S. embassy lawyer says our trial isn't for another four months. Even worse, we have no chance at winning and the punishment for our crime is extremely serious. In some of these countries it's actually death, but here they are slightly more forgiving -- it's a mere twenty years in jail.
However, we have been given an option. Instead of going to trial and taking whatever prison sentence the judge hands down, we could plead guilty and opt for corporal punishment instead. This latter consists of a severe beating of the nude buttocks with a rattan rod. It is said to be agonizing, with the flesh likely to be wealed to bloody stripes before it is over. But once it is over, it is over: we'll be expelled from the country and able to return home with only the lingering stripes as memory of the punishment.
So which is worse? Twenty years in a hell-hole or a few minutes of agony? At first glance the answer seems obvious -- twenty years of your life is an expensive price. But apparently the beatings here are horrendous. We're not talking about a kitchen spanking from mommy or a belting from daddy. This is serious, adult punishment. We're looking at least a hundred strokes.
Apparently they actually keep a doctor there -- not to ensure that we're okay, but to make sure we stay conscious and are feeling the full effect of the pain! The doctor's got the authority to administer d**gs to revive us if we faint.
We've been told that we'll probably be scarred for life as well. These canes they use, they literally take the skin off your ass. Our lawyer showed us pictures of men and women who've been beaten and I wanted to throw up. It was sickening. One guy was an old man but his skin was all mottled with ugly wounds from his caning some forty years earlier. I don't want to look like that. But what choice do I have? Would twenty years in misery be better?
We asked our lawyer a lot of questions. We wanted to get as much information as we could before made our decision. What, exactly, would happen? How would they beat us? How many strokes? How would they be administered?
He explained that if we accepted the plea bargain, it was the judge who'd decide our exact sentences. The law specified a range: at least a hundred strokes of the cane up to a maximum of 350 strokes, solely at the judge's discretion. We would not know the exact count until the sentencing and by that time it was too late to back out and change our minds. We had to decide first and whatever punishment was awarded we had to take.
Even more galling, the punishment could be extended if we didn't cooperate. Fighting with guards, cursing, or any show of anger could provoke the judge to increase the sentence. He could declare us in contempt of court and award as much as an additional hundred strokes or further prison time. We were expected to merely nod and accept his decision with courtesy and grace no matter how unfair it might seem.
Our punishment might be administered in a single thrashing or spread out over two or three sessions. If if was multiple sessions, we'd have to stay in prison in the meantime, but for no more than three months. By law each corporal punishment session had to be at least three weeks apart, though usually a full month of recovery was given, so it couldn't be more than four sessions.
The bottom line was that if we took the corporal punishment we'd be out in anywhere from a week to 90 days, but if we didn't, we'd be in jail for at least twenty years.
The day of beating would be known to us at least 72 hours in advance so we'd have time to contemplate our fate and perhaps change our mind.
The morning of the punishment we'd be awakened at dawn and taken to the prison's medical facilities where we'd be examined by a doctor and prepared. We would be given no food, only water. Enemas were standard procedure: usually several of them, to ensure we were properly clean. Apparently without this many prisoners would shit themselves during their beating and the guards disliked having to clean it up. Extra strokes could be awarded for pissing or shitting during the punisment, though our lawyer told us it was nearly impossible to avoid either, so be prepared for uncontrollable bowels.
As to the beating itself, it was administered outdoors in a prison courtyard. There was a grandstand there where spectators could watch. This was fortunately not open to the general public, but consisted of government officials, special guests, selected media, families of the victims (if applicable), families of the criminals (if granted permission), and other prisoners, there to learn from your "lesson."
However, our lawyer pointed out that there were dozens of loopholes to this system and sickos often bribed their way to watch floggings. "Normally there aren't many to watch these, maybe fifty or a hundred. But I would expect a full crowd for you girls. Four western white girls are sure to bring out the curious." That meant there might be several hundred people watching our torment.
Our lawyer also warned us that though the official video recording was supposed to be just for court records, excerpts of such tapes often ended up on the Internet, especially if the criminal was a pretty girl.
"If I was you, I would just assume that your naked floggings will be public," he said. "Factor that into your decision."
"But what about the whipping itself?" I asked. "How is it done?"
He explained there was a wooden whipping frame, something like a giant rectangle. We'd be stripped naked and our wrists and ankles would be tied by ropes to the four corners of the frame. We'd be standing with our arms pulled high and apart and legs wide, utterly vulnerable and unable to do anything to prevent the punishment.
Our skin would be oiled to help protect it, and the doctor would give us one final inspection. Then the flogging would begin. The strokes would mostly be across the fleshier parts of the body: the buttocks and thighs, but depending on the number of strokes ordered, we might be whipped across the bare back as well. The lawyer warned us that bare back floggings were the worst for women: often the long cane would wrap around the torso and catch the side of an exposed breast, which was hideously painful. All four of us shuddered as he explained this.
The caning would be administered by two "executioners," men in masks who were trained experts at inflicting pain. One would stand on either side of us and flog in different directions so the stingy tip of the cane would dig evenly into both sides. They would cane us slowly, deliberately, making sure we were feeling and appreciating every stroke. The first fifty or so would be about one stroke per minute, so about an hour of continuous torment. The second half of the whipping would gradually be faster, perhaps eventually to four strokes a minute.
"By that time, the pace doesn't make any difference," said the lawyer. "It'll still feel like forever between strokes."
Since there were four of us, we'd be beaten as a group. Four frames, four canings. They'd alternate, giving us 25 strokes at a time, so we'd each have a break while the others were suffering. You'd get to hang there, your body on fire, and listen to the screams of your friends. Then, eventually, it would be your turn again.
During the breaks the doctor would examine you and provide any required medical attention. This would consist mostly of disinfectant poured into the open wounds. Ever get lemon juice in a cut? It would feel like that, only a thousand times worse, and all over the back of your body. But it would help prevent you from getting seriously sick, and they'd work in more oil, occasionally, to keep your skin lubricated and help keep weals from splitting open.
They'd wash off the blood, too. That wasn't for you, but for the benefit of the floggers: too much blood obscured their vision of your naked body and they wouldn't be able to see where to hit you next.
The whole punishement would take a long time. As I mentioned, the pace would be slow, and there'd be breaks for the whippers as well. It would take at least six hours if all four of us accepted the proposal.
Six hours.
Twenty years.
What a dilemma.
Of course the obvious answer is neither, but that's not an option, is it. The whole idea is that you are forced to chose. I used to see those books and laugh along with everyone else. It was silly nonsense and none of us took it seriously.
But that's exactly the situation I'm in now. I've got a horrible decision to make. Both choices are awful and I don't know what to do. I made a terrible mistake, see. To celebrate our graduation from university a few of my girlfriends and I decided to take a trip through Asia this summer. Money was tight, however, and I foolishly leapt at a chance to have our travels paid for. It wasn't supposed to be anything dangerous or i*****l -- just carry a package for some guy. But it turned out there were d**gs in the package and my friends and I were busted.
We've been in jail for nearly two weeks and it's been hell. The place is filthy, with raw sewage on the floors, and cockroaches and rats for company. The guards are mean and the food is barely edible.
We are desperate to get out and return home, but our U.S. embassy lawyer says our trial isn't for another four months. Even worse, we have no chance at winning and the punishment for our crime is extremely serious. In some of these countries it's actually death, but here they are slightly more forgiving -- it's a mere twenty years in jail.
However, we have been given an option. Instead of going to trial and taking whatever prison sentence the judge hands down, we could plead guilty and opt for corporal punishment instead. This latter consists of a severe beating of the nude buttocks with a rattan rod. It is said to be agonizing, with the flesh likely to be wealed to bloody stripes before it is over. But once it is over, it is over: we'll be expelled from the country and able to return home with only the lingering stripes as memory of the punishment.
So which is worse? Twenty years in a hell-hole or a few minutes of agony? At first glance the answer seems obvious -- twenty years of your life is an expensive price. But apparently the beatings here are horrendous. We're not talking about a kitchen spanking from mommy or a belting from daddy. This is serious, adult punishment. We're looking at least a hundred strokes.
Apparently they actually keep a doctor there -- not to ensure that we're okay, but to make sure we stay conscious and are feeling the full effect of the pain! The doctor's got the authority to administer d**gs to revive us if we faint.
We've been told that we'll probably be scarred for life as well. These canes they use, they literally take the skin off your ass. Our lawyer showed us pictures of men and women who've been beaten and I wanted to throw up. It was sickening. One guy was an old man but his skin was all mottled with ugly wounds from his caning some forty years earlier. I don't want to look like that. But what choice do I have? Would twenty years in misery be better?
We asked our lawyer a lot of questions. We wanted to get as much information as we could before made our decision. What, exactly, would happen? How would they beat us? How many strokes? How would they be administered?
He explained that if we accepted the plea bargain, it was the judge who'd decide our exact sentences. The law specified a range: at least a hundred strokes of the cane up to a maximum of 350 strokes, solely at the judge's discretion. We would not know the exact count until the sentencing and by that time it was too late to back out and change our minds. We had to decide first and whatever punishment was awarded we had to take.
Even more galling, the punishment could be extended if we didn't cooperate. Fighting with guards, cursing, or any show of anger could provoke the judge to increase the sentence. He could declare us in contempt of court and award as much as an additional hundred strokes or further prison time. We were expected to merely nod and accept his decision with courtesy and grace no matter how unfair it might seem.
Our punishment might be administered in a single thrashing or spread out over two or three sessions. If if was multiple sessions, we'd have to stay in prison in the meantime, but for no more than three months. By law each corporal punishment session had to be at least three weeks apart, though usually a full month of recovery was given, so it couldn't be more than four sessions.
The bottom line was that if we took the corporal punishment we'd be out in anywhere from a week to 90 days, but if we didn't, we'd be in jail for at least twenty years.
The day of beating would be known to us at least 72 hours in advance so we'd have time to contemplate our fate and perhaps change our mind.
The morning of the punishment we'd be awakened at dawn and taken to the prison's medical facilities where we'd be examined by a doctor and prepared. We would be given no food, only water. Enemas were standard procedure: usually several of them, to ensure we were properly clean. Apparently without this many prisoners would shit themselves during their beating and the guards disliked having to clean it up. Extra strokes could be awarded for pissing or shitting during the punisment, though our lawyer told us it was nearly impossible to avoid either, so be prepared for uncontrollable bowels.
As to the beating itself, it was administered outdoors in a prison courtyard. There was a grandstand there where spectators could watch. This was fortunately not open to the general public, but consisted of government officials, special guests, selected media, families of the victims (if applicable), families of the criminals (if granted permission), and other prisoners, there to learn from your "lesson."
However, our lawyer pointed out that there were dozens of loopholes to this system and sickos often bribed their way to watch floggings. "Normally there aren't many to watch these, maybe fifty or a hundred. But I would expect a full crowd for you girls. Four western white girls are sure to bring out the curious." That meant there might be several hundred people watching our torment.
Our lawyer also warned us that though the official video recording was supposed to be just for court records, excerpts of such tapes often ended up on the Internet, especially if the criminal was a pretty girl.
"If I was you, I would just assume that your naked floggings will be public," he said. "Factor that into your decision."
"But what about the whipping itself?" I asked. "How is it done?"
He explained there was a wooden whipping frame, something like a giant rectangle. We'd be stripped naked and our wrists and ankles would be tied by ropes to the four corners of the frame. We'd be standing with our arms pulled high and apart and legs wide, utterly vulnerable and unable to do anything to prevent the punishment.
Our skin would be oiled to help protect it, and the doctor would give us one final inspection. Then the flogging would begin. The strokes would mostly be across the fleshier parts of the body: the buttocks and thighs, but depending on the number of strokes ordered, we might be whipped across the bare back as well. The lawyer warned us that bare back floggings were the worst for women: often the long cane would wrap around the torso and catch the side of an exposed breast, which was hideously painful. All four of us shuddered as he explained this.
The caning would be administered by two "executioners," men in masks who were trained experts at inflicting pain. One would stand on either side of us and flog in different directions so the stingy tip of the cane would dig evenly into both sides. They would cane us slowly, deliberately, making sure we were feeling and appreciating every stroke. The first fifty or so would be about one stroke per minute, so about an hour of continuous torment. The second half of the whipping would gradually be faster, perhaps eventually to four strokes a minute.
"By that time, the pace doesn't make any difference," said the lawyer. "It'll still feel like forever between strokes."
Since there were four of us, we'd be beaten as a group. Four frames, four canings. They'd alternate, giving us 25 strokes at a time, so we'd each have a break while the others were suffering. You'd get to hang there, your body on fire, and listen to the screams of your friends. Then, eventually, it would be your turn again.
During the breaks the doctor would examine you and provide any required medical attention. This would consist mostly of disinfectant poured into the open wounds. Ever get lemon juice in a cut? It would feel like that, only a thousand times worse, and all over the back of your body. But it would help prevent you from getting seriously sick, and they'd work in more oil, occasionally, to keep your skin lubricated and help keep weals from splitting open.
They'd wash off the blood, too. That wasn't for you, but for the benefit of the floggers: too much blood obscured their vision of your naked body and they wouldn't be able to see where to hit you next.
The whole punishement would take a long time. As I mentioned, the pace would be slow, and there'd be breaks for the whippers as well. It would take at least six hours if all four of us accepted the proposal.
Six hours.
Twenty years.
What a dilemma.
4 年 前