by Kathy Duan | Special to the Courier

Los Angeles County sends more people to death row than any other county in the nation, responsible for 229 of the state’s 736 currently condemned inmates among approximately 2,100 nationwide.

The last execution in California took place in 2006, but new District Attorney Nathan Hochman supports the death penalty in “extreme cases,” and it remains closer to home than we may think.

But the death penalty is riddled with hypocrisy. It attempts to punish murder through another act of murder. And the state’s murder is even more dehumanizing. Carried out through a series of legalities and with bureaucratic speed, the death penalty deliberately removes any individual involved from the reality of the act: the cold-blooded murder of a living person.

It is, in fact, absurd.

According to French Nobel laureate philosopher, author, and journalist Albert Camus, human beings search for meaning, but the universe is silent in its response; there is no inherent meaning. The absurdity arises from this conflict.

Just as we search for meaning in a meaningless world, we wish for an explanation when acts of violence occur. But violence is often chaotic, messy, and horrific, offering no explanation or resolution for survivors.

Thus, we resort to the death penalty to impose meaning, particularly the narrative that those who commit murder are inherently different from the rest of us, evil in nature and beyond rehabilitation. Only with this distance can we come to terms with the senseless act.

But the truth is often messier. Risk factors for homicide are found in individual, relationship, community, and societal levels, including demographic structures, economic inequality, and poor governance, just to name a few. The line between “us,” law-abiding citizens and “them,” criminals, can be blurry.

And people on death row have been rehabilitated. Karla Faye Tucker is one of them. In 1983, Tucker broke into an acquaintance’s home and killed him and another woman with a pickax. But while awaiting trial, she took responsibility for her crime, quit using illegal drugs, attended Bible classes, and focused on her education. She was still sentenced to death, but people like Tucker show that people on death row can change.

And if they can manage these transformations in jail, where violence and limited resources can create a climate hostile to rehabilitation, what possibilities might arise if the criminal justice system actually prioritized rehabilitation?

Beyond the acceptance of the “lost cause” narrative, the death penalty also aims at a sense of resolution or closure, particularly for victims’ families.

Yet, the death penalty often interferes with families’ healing processes. In fact, while some victims’ families support the death penalty, others have opposed it.

Not only is this notion of finality false, but it also drives attention away from real healing. What victims need is financial and mental health support, but in California — a state that claims to stand with victims — aid is surprisingly meager.

For instance, after her son was stabbed to death, Ruby Marichalar did not have funds to pay for his funeral. She requested help from the California Victim Compensation Board, a state agency that provides financial aid for crime recovery services, but was denied twice without as much as a meeting.

Marichalar is not alone. In the last state budget year, the Victim Compensation Board denied a quarter of its applicants.

The death penalty is only a Band-Aid solution that conceals greater problems.

What Camus champions as the response to absurdity is revolt — recognition of the absurd without succumbing to nihilism or imposing nonexistent meaning, followed by a positive embrace of life and human dignity.

In this case, revolt shows up as supporting victims’ families and working to address the root causes of crime. Incoherence is all around us, but we must still act, striving for human dignity in the process.

Kathy Duan is a senior at The Webb Schools and a passionate advocate.