Stories for Life: My Pen Pal—A Long Journey That Was Worth It—Claudia Beckers

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

I’ve been mulling over this idea for a long time: Should I start a pen-pal relationship with a death row inmate? And by “a long time,” I mean a good 25 years… Looking back: It might sound a bit cheesy, but I first really came face-to-face with the issue of the death penalty in 1995, when I saw “Dead Man Walking” at the movie theater. The movie really gripped me; it stirred up a lot of emotions. I was horrified by the idea that anyone could consider it just to respond to the killing of one person with another killing. If killing is wrong—and prohibited by law—how can it then be mandated by law? And then there’s this condemned man, who, despite his terrible crime, is portrayed as a human being capable of distinguishing between good and evil, who feels remorse. Whose family suffers just as much as the victim’s.

Back then, I was still a young student, and the internet was still in its infancy, so it wasn’t really possible to find much information. I joined Amnesty International and took part in a few campaigns, but I didn’t dare to start a pen-pal relationship. I wasn’t sure if I could handle the possibility of his execution. Today I know that was a sensible assessment, because in my early 20s I simply wouldn’t have been emotionally stable enough for that—nor, fundamentally, to be a long-term, emotionally stable pen pal to a death row inmate through all the highs and, above all, the lows.

But I never lost sight of the topic. In my mid-40s, I finally stumbled upon Werner Herzog’s documentary series “On Death Row” by chance. In it, the inmates talk about pen-pals—and that was the spark that ignited my interest. First, of course, there were discussions with my family. We discussed our reservations, concerns, and worries at length—not just theirs, but mine as well. Without my family’s support, I wouldn’t have embarked on this at all, because even at that point, it was vaguely clear to me that this wouldn’t be an ordinary pen-pal relationship—that it would put both myself and those closest to me in situations that could be quite stressful. But I wasn’t even remotely prepared for just how big an impact it would have on my life…

I searched the internet specifically for pen-pal programs with U.S. death row inmates and came straight to the website of the German Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty (GCADP). Voilà—there they were: countless requests from various states, which I read through, spellbound. I would have loved to write to every single one of them. How do you choose just one? I closed the page for the time being and let it all sink in—all the hope, longing, and wishes that had washed over me there. But the next day, when I wanted to try again, one request immediately got under my skin. I have no idea why. It wasn’t written in any extraordinary way—not really any different from the others. And yet it moved me. I asked the GCADP office for that address and, feeling incredibly nervous, started drafting my first letter. I tore it up and rewrote it.

What do you even write in a first letter like that? There’s a blank sheet of paper in front of me, and I can’t even manage to get the first line down. Can I ask, “How are you?” That’s how you usually start a letter. But to ask someone in his situation that question? Isn’t such a polite formality terribly inappropriate? “Hello, my name is Claudia, I found your request on the GCADP website, I’m 45 years old, married…”—that sounds like a cover letter. Not exactly a winner either.

To be honest, I don’t even remember today what I actually wrote to start with. And it didn’t matter at all, as I now know, because my pen pal was so happy to receive the letter that he loved every bit of it and would never have thought to find anything about it inappropriate.

In fact, my first letter was only a page and a half long, and after just five days I started checking the mailbox, waiting for a reply. That was completely unrealistic, because even by airmail it takes about a week—then the letter has to go through security in the mailroom and be delivered to his cell. And his reply takes about the same amount of time to make it back to Germany. When his letter finally arrived, I was on vacation. Of all times.

At first, I kept wondering what I could write and what I shouldn’t. His life is confined to that tiny cell—would it hurt him to hear about my colorful, varied everyday life? About vacation experiences he’ll never be able to have again? So I remained cautious. We talked about politics and religion, sports, books, and music. But as early as the third letter, he started asking questions: What would you cook for me? What would you show me in your hometown? What do you do on the weekends? Can you send me photos of all that? Yes, of course! I’d love to!

For quite a while now, our letters have consisted of us telling each other about our perfectly normal lives—he talked about his life before prison as well as his daily routine on death row. I’ve learned so much about the U.S. through this! And he’s learned about Germany, but also about other European countries, because wherever I go, I send him photos and tell him what I see and experience there.

He tells me time and again that, through me, he can see all the things he himself can no longer experience. That it makes him feel more alive again. That it always brings a smile to his face, and he imagines himself being right there. And it’s important to me to bring at least a little positivity into his life. I can make him feel that he means a lot to me and that I’m interested in his personality, his feelings, and his thoughts. That he’s not just another number who’s being kept alive until Day X, only to be killed in the end.

Now we write to each other almost every day through the prison messaging service and talk on the phone often. Since the prisons switched to these digital options, the whole thing has become significantly more expensive— all they do is make money off the loved ones, as he so sarcastically puts it—but it’s also become much more meaningful. And let’s be honest: We “loved ones” are more than willing to invest the money, because it helps our pen pals so much that they can now feel more human connection. And we feel good when they feel good.

A pen pal with whom I used to write once or twice a month has become a true friend over the years. We talk about so many things that are good for me, too. He’s an integral part of my life, someone who belongs. How often do I pull out my phone, snap a picture, and send it to him—just like I do with my other friends and family members on WhatsApp.

Oh yeah, the crime. That’s the only thing we actually haven’t talked about yet. I’ve never asked him about it, because it just doesn’t matter to me. And he’s never brought it up on his own either. Once, it seemed like he thought I already knew. I explained to him that I’ve never searched for his name online, because to me that feels like spying on him behind his back. It’s HIS right to decide what I should and shouldn’t know about him—not mine. I’d be happy if he told me about it one day, but it wouldn’t change how I see him.

A pen-pal friendship with a death row inmate—would I do it again? Yes, absolutely. Was it right to wait so long? Definitely. Is it what I imagined it would be? No—it’s so much more. A new person has come into my life who is very important to me. Someone who’s often on my mind. But it’s not always just wonderful. Being there for him in his darkest hours takes a lot out of me: enduring the hopelessness that inevitably surfaces from time to time. His loneliness, which sometimes even a phone call can’t overcome. Or my own helpless anger at the injustices that are the order of the day in prison.

My mind knows that these aspects are part of a pen-pal relationship like this, but when you actually experience it, you’re not prepared for the force with which the emotions overwhelm you. You stay strong in what you write, but you cry as you type. You offer encouragement on the phone, but when you hang up, you collapse and let your emotions run free. Sometimes you cry together, too, because that’s part of friendship as well. And there are simply situations where there’s nothing left to say, and shared tears can help.

I haven’t given any concrete thought yet to the end—that Day X. I don’t want to “plan” for it, because you can’t. Like all prisoners and their families and friends, I, too, hope for legal loopholes that might overturn the verdict, or simply for clemency and a commutation to life imprisonment, however slim the chances may be. But if it ever comes to that, I’ll be there for him. Exactly as he needs and wants me to be.

Fortunately, it hasn’t come to that yet. So I’m enjoying our friendship just as much as he does, living my own life much more mindfully, and appreciating the comforts, joys, and even the small moments of my everyday life far more than before. My pen pal on death row hasn’t just changed my life—he’s enriched it.

Claudia Beckers