What Language Does Execution Speak?
S. Rouzbeh
2026-10-07

A shared language does not mean making every voice the same. We can expect these voices to preserve a person’s name and dignity, distinguish accusation from proven fact, make institutions’ responsibilities clear, and recognise the consequences of execution beyond the end of the news report.

From the government’s account to the voices of families: in search of a language that does not conceal people, suffering or responsibility

“He was executed.” The news ends in two words, but its consequences continue. A human being has been deprived of the right to go on living, and a future they might have had has been cut short. For their family, this ending may mark the beginning of years of grief, financial hardship and unanswered questions. What is described in the news as the end of a case does not necessarily end in the lives of those left behind. Does our language show this distance? When we write about execution, what remains of the person, and of the responsibility of those who decided their fate?

10 October, the World Day Against the Death Penalty, is an opportunity to ask these very questions. Behind the names and statistics lie different lives. Defending the right to life requires a shared language: one that can convey human suffering and the responsibility of decision-makers at the same time, without sacrificing precision.

The Persian word for execution, e‘dām, is Arabic in origin, from the root ‘adam. Dehkhoda gives its meanings as “to make nonexistent”, “to kill” and “to destroy”. In legal usage, execution refers to taking a life in the enforcement of the death penalty. But the meaning of a news report is not determined by a word’s etymology alone. “Carrying out the sentence” directs attention to the legal process; “deprivation of life” is a formal term for taking a life; “state killing” foregrounds the government’s responsibility and the speaker’s protest. These labels shape how readers understand events, but none can replace an explanation of the person, the case and the evidence.

In the language of the government and its official media, emphasis on law, security and punishment can present execution as a sign that justice has been served; within its own logic, it has succeeded in creating fear and terror. When the details of a crime or accusation are delivered in impassioned language, while the taking of a life is compressed into the brief phrase “the sentence was carried out”, the two sides of the event are not given equal weight. The government speaks of the legitimacy of its decision; the media’s duty is to examine the basis for that claim and ask about the quality of the trial.

For example, in its report on the execution of Mohammadmehdi Karami and Seyed Mohammad Hosseini on 17 Dey 1401, Tasnim emphasised that the verdict had been upheld by the Supreme Court. In a report dated 11 January 2023, Amnesty International said that they had been denied access to lawyers of their choice, subjected to forced confessions, and executed without their families or lawyers being given advance notice. The difference between these accounts is not only one of tone; they give the audience different information on which to base its judgement. An announcement that legal procedures were followed does not answer every question about whether the defendant’s rights were respected.

This is where we must look beyond the sentence: which law and article authorised the taking of a life? Which court issued the sentence? Which body upheld it, and which institution carried it out? What objections did the lawyer raise, and which authority could have halted or reviewed the sentence? The passive voice is not, in itself, a sign of concealment; it can focus attention on the person who was executed. The problem becomes serious when responsibility and the decision-making process disappear from the report altogether. Where information is unavailable, we should make that gap clear and raise the questions it leaves open.

Foreign media, too, use different language. Even a phrase such as “Iran executed” makes a difference between Iran and the Islamic Republic; yet, although it identifies the actor in the sentence, it still fails to distinguish the country and its people from the institution that made the decision. An accurate report should specify that responsibility as far as the evidence allows. It should also distinguish between reporting an accusation in the words of a judicial official and accepting it as fact. Geographical distance should not reduce a person to a figure in a report; rather, all the dimensions of the case should be made clear.

To hear the condemned person’s voice, we must turn to their letters, defence, messages and recorded words. We cannot assume that all condemned people have the same feelings, wishes or account of events. What they said before their death should not be reduced to a phrase that serves a slogan. A family’s language, too, may shift from hope that the sentence will be stopped and requests for visits to grief and a demand for justice. A family is not merely a source of news; it has the right to decide how its suffering is represented, whether images are published and how its privacy is protected.

A lawyer’s language raises questions about the opportunity to defend oneself, the credibility of the evidence and the avenues for appeal. In accounts of an execution, the phrase “the sentence became final” should not close off questions about access to a lawyer and the consideration given to the defence. Human rights organisations can also connect an individual case to the right to life. A defence that depends on the condemned person’s fame or on proving them a hero leaves unknown individuals without protection.

Foreign governments and diplomats speak in terms such as concern, condemnation and calls to halt a sentence. To assess this language, we should ask what specifically is being requested, which authority is being addressed and what follow-up there is. The existence of a statement alone does not show how effective it has been. The media should also make clear to its audience the difference between stating a position and taking action that can be examined.

In everyday conversation, the words “they deserved it” already accept that the person deserved to die; “don’t execute them” calls for the execution to be stopped, but on its own does not clarify whether the speaker opposes this sentence or the principle of capital punishment. On social media, a hashtag can rescue someone’s name from oblivion; but reposting unproven claims, humiliating the condemned person or circulating images without care may inflict fresh harm on them and their family. Empathy, too, requires accuracy.

The opposition should be judged by the same standard. Does the defence of life include political opponents? When speaking of punishment for those in power, does language protesting execution turn into a promise to execute them? Opposing the taking of life is compatible with demanding a fair trial and accountability. In murder cases, the suffering of the victim’s family must also be heard, without pre-emptively labelling their wishes as either revenge or forgiveness.

Literature and cinema can make palpable what a short news report cannot accommodate: the time spent waiting, unfinished relationships and the absence left by a person’s death. But emotional impact alone is not enough. If the condemned person becomes a character whose sole purpose is to invite pity, or the family becomes a spectacle of grief, a part of the person has still been erased. Artistic narratives, especially when they deal with the lives of real people, must maintain a clear boundary between imagination and reality.

A shared language does not mean making every voice the same. We can expect these voices to preserve a person’s name and dignity, distinguish accusation from proven fact, make institutions’ responsibilities clear, and recognise the consequences of execution beyond the end of the news report. Language cannot bring back the life that was lost, but it can prevent the person and the responsibility from being erased. When we write “he was executed”, are we merely announcing the end of a life, or showing who brought it to an end and in whose lives that ending continues?

Source: https://srouzbeh.com/en/posts/entry-1791401295621-f7d3a291
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