Stories for Life: From Hate to Humanity – Jasmin Blaß

On the World Day Against the Death Penalty, October 10, 2026

There is one moment in my life that I still remember to this day.

It’s not a specific time or place. I remember the feeling when I learned that my father had died.

He hadn’t simply died. He had been gruesomely murdered by his second wife in a country where the death penalty is still part of criminal law.

I was his daughter. Suddenly, there was a void that I could barely comprehend.

But my grief was complicated. My father and I had had conflicts in the years leading up to his death. There were things between us that we had never spoken about or resolved. I thought we still had time.

Time for one last conversation. Time to ask questions. Time to reconcile.

Then he died. Suddenly, there was no more “someday.”

There was no more chance to explain anything or get an answer. Our conflicts would remain unresolved forever. This is still part of my grief today.

Alongside this grief, however, there was one thing above all else:

Anger.

Hate.

I wanted the woman who killed my father to pay with her life. I wanted her to die. At the time, that seemed fair to me. My father was dead—why should his murderer be allowed to live?

So I began to look into the death penalty.

Initially, I wasn’t looking for arguments against it. I wanted to understand how a death sentence is handed down and what an execution entails. In the process, I came across the initiative against the death penalty. I began to read and grapple with arguments that contradicted my own convictions.

At some point, I asked myself a question I had previously suppressed:

What would her death actually do for me?

It wouldn’t bring my father back. It wouldn’t make our unresolved conflicts disappear. I wouldn’t be able to tell him one more time what I wanted to say. I wouldn’t be able to get an answer anymore. The past wouldn’t change.

The execution would achieve only one thing: another person would die. Other people would mourn that person.

That’s when my perspective began to change.

I realized that my desire for retribution stemmed from my pain. While it was human, it wouldn’t heal anything. I had to learn the difference between justice and revenge.

My father was murdered. I will never downplay or forget that act. However, I didn’t want his death to lead to another death.

That’s how I became an opponent of the death penalty.

Then something happened that I never would have expected: a man on death row entered my life. Today, I call him my best friend.

This may seem contradictory at first. To me, though, it isn’t.

I respect him as a human being. I see his humanity, his fears, his hopes, and his story. However, respecting a person does not mean accepting their crimes.

I don’t have to condone a crime to acknowledge a person’s dignity.

I don’t need to excuse a crime to acknowledge that even criminals are human.

I certainly do not have to forget the suffering of victims and their loved ones.

My own story has taught me how important this distinction is. I know what it means to lose a loved one. I know how devastating a crime can be. I also know that some wounds never fully heal. However, I also know that the death of another person would not bring my father back.

The death penalty would not have ended my grief.

It wouldn’t have resolved our unresolved conflicts.

It would have merely caused another death.

My father was taken from me. The time we could have had together was taken from me. The opportunity to resolve our conflicts was also taken from me.

However, I didn’t want this loss to determine who I would become. I could have turned my pain into hatred. Instead, I learned to live with it and choose life despite everything.

Today, my best friend is a man on death row. I am opposed to the death penalty.

Not because I have forgotten what happened to my father.

But because I know what it means to lose someone forever.

Jasmin Blaß