One of the life-affirming legacies of executed Bali nine members Myuran Sukumaran​ and Andrew Chan can be found on a crowded footpath in Kuta.

On a stool outside a jewellery shop, Billy Surya Adji sits sketching in his makeshift B​Billy gallery, oblivious to the snarl of traffic along Legian Kaja Street.

Billy met Chan and Sukumaran inside Bali's Kerobokan jail, where he was serving more than four years for possessing crystal meth and marijuana, in 2013.

Sukumaran persuaded him to join drawing classes in the BengKer (workshop), an oasis of art the man once known as the "ringleader" of the Bali nine heroin smugglers had helped establish behind bars.

"When I started focusing on painting, I stopped [taking drugs] completely, because Myuran hated drug users," Billy says. "He would get so angry he would throw stuff."

When Billy was clean, he started playing tennis, where he met Chan, who was involved in the jail's church and sport activities.

"Andrew was a jokester. He would taunt us during tennis, saying 'you will lose, you will lose, you will lose' … and then he would end up losing himself."

Billy says he would probably still be using and selling drugs if he hadn't started painting and playing tennis.

Now, he works as an artist, with commissions coming from passers-by and his Facebook and Instagram accounts.

"I believe the reason I am clean is first the painting, Myuran's influence and the tennis."

Just after midnight on April 29, 2015, Chan and Sukumaran were among eight prisoners tied to a post and shot dead on the penal island of Nusakambangan​, known as Indonesia's Alcatraz.

Nine years earlier, they had been sentenced to death for their role in a foiled attempt to smuggle 8.3 kilograms of heroin from Indonesia to Australia.

Chan's widow, Febyanti Herewila​, recalled the men died singing 10,000 Reasons (Bless the Lord), the same song they had sung at their wedding less than 72 hours earlier.

"They all managed to finish the first verse and the second halfway and then they took him," she said at Chan's memorial service. "Andrew managed to end it well."

The men's Indonesian lawyer, Todung Mulya Lubis​, would later describe it as the darkest moment of his life. "I failed. I lost." he tweeted at 4am.

Todung, Indonesia's most famous human rights lawyer, has been fighting for the abolition of the death penalty in Indonesia since 1979.

Until the bitter end, he had been hopeful President Joko Widodo​ would grant mercy. "My clients changed … they did not deserve to die," he says.

"I noticed Andrew became a very religious person, preaching, giving sermons in Kerobokan, and then you see how Myuran did all his paintings, sharing his knowledge with the other inmates.

"They did not do any drugs. There are other inmates who still do drugs, but not Andrew, not Myuran, they are clean. That's why I thought they deserved to be pardoned."

Late in 2015, a draft bill for a new criminal code was submitted to Parliament.

Under the draft, which is yet to be debated, Todung says someone given the death penalty could have their sentence commuted to life or 20 years if they could demonstrate they had changed.

"That's the third way, the Indonesian way, in solving this problem," he says.

"[Indonesia] wanted to find a way to answer the criticism from the human rights and international communities. I think Andrew and Myuran contributed to ... this whole process. That is the legacy, that is the contribution of Andrew and Myuran."

The last ghastly days before the executions will be forever etched in my mind. The anguished wailing of Raji Sukumaran​ as she begged the President for her son's life. Chan's brother, Michael, holding back tears, as he said no family should ever have to experience this.

Sukumaran entrusted his beloved art room and T-shirt printing business in the jail to two Iranian prisoners serving life sentences at Kerobokan.

He asked Denise Payne and Tina Bailey, who taught yoga, art and dance classes at Kerobokan jail, to help the Iranians.

"He told us to remind them that when he was gone his ghost would come back and haunt them if they didn't make sure the programs continued," Bailey recalls.

Walking back into Kerobokan jail after the executions was incredibly difficult. The loss of the men is still felt viscerally there.

"The first yoga class was so painful. Everyone was teary-eyed the whole time. It was such an obvious void," Payne says.

"But even if I didn't want to, it was like Myuran was pushing me: 'Come on Payne, you made a promise."

The latest T-shirt design from the jail's workshop features a striking image of Sukumaran releasing doves of peace from a map of Australia.

Ali Reza Safar Khanloo, who was asked to take over the T-shirt printing studio, is sending the design to Sukumaran's family to commemorate Myuran's birthday in April.

"I want to show to his family we are here and we are always thinking of you," he says.

Ali's relationship with Sukumaran was like that of a father and son.

"When he left, I understand why he was pushing me. Sometimes when I need help and I am stressed about the work or the guards, I think: 'What would Myuran do?' Suddenly people come to order a T-shirt and I feel Myuran has sent someone to me."

Rouhallah Series Abadi also still feels Sukumaran's presence. Rahol​, as he is known, was entrusted with the art room.

"Please help people in here; they need some colour," Sukumaran told him.

"I get goosebumps every morning I walk in here," Rahol says. "His body is dead, but still his soul is here."

Keeping the rehabilitation programs going inside Kerobokan has not always been easy.

"Myuran had funding from sources we never knew about," Payne says. "Tina and I had to figure out what to do. How to organise lunches, how to keep people motivated to keep going. There was a lot of trial and error, a lot of cash out of our own pockets."

A generous donation meant Payne was able to buy 20 yoga mats. However, within months, they had been stolen or commandeered as mattresses in the jail. "We need new mats always."

But somehow everyone has pulled together. Ali is experimenting with producing skateboards and bags, as well as T-shirts, in the prison workshop.

Former inmates – including Billy Surya Adji – return to Kerobokan jail to attend Bailey's art classes.

"I miss Myuran and am committed to keeping his story alive and the story of the power of art to transform people's lives alive," Bailey says.

"I saw it in him and I see it in others. That is why I keep doing what I do, believing it will make a difference."

Bailey served communion to Sukumaran and his family on Nusakambangan two days before he died. The day of the executions, she prepared his last paintings – still wet to the touch – to be sent back to Australia.

"So, in a way, I was surrounded by Myu that day."

Seven months after his death, GQ Magazine named Sukumaran artist of the year. His mentor, Archibald Prize-winning artist Ben Quilty​, is not yet ready to speak about his friend and student.

He says he will have more to say next year, when a show of Sukumaran's work tours Australia. It will open in Sydney, about the 50th anniversary of the death of Ronald Ryan, the last man legally executed in Australia.

Meanwhile, Febyanti Herewila told Marie Claire magazine she hoped to open a youth centre on Sabu Island near West Timor in honour of Chan.

It was something the couple, who were both pastors, dreamed of doing together; holding music classes and providing a place for young people to play sport and learn.

Julian McMahon was the longest-serving member of Chan and Sukumaran's team of Australian lawyers, working for the two men pro bono for almost a decade.

Death penalty cases have been part of the Melbourne barrister's work for 13 years – he also represented Australian drug trafficker Van Tuong Nguyen, who was hung in Singapore in 2005.

He believes Chan and Sukumaran's legacy in Australia has been a calm level of acceptance at both the public and political level that the death penalty is unacceptable.

"I think it's been a developing idea basically since the execution of Van Nguyen, which many people rightly thought was an appalling outcome," McMahon says.

"The public consciousness was awakened to the reality of executions, which hadn't really featured in public life for a long time. It was on a slow burn until the lead-up to the executions of Chan and Sukumaran. Their case led to such intense analysis, discussion and political input, it is now beyond dispute that we simply understand as a nation the death penalty is unacceptable."

McMahon is the president of Reprieve Australia, dedicated to eradicating the death penalty worldwide. Historically, it has sent young legal interns to assist with death penalty cases in the United States, but it is refocusing its advocacy to the Asia Pacific region.

The fight against the death penalty is like other long-term human rights battles, such as slavery or sexual abuse, McMahon says.

The voices opposing the death penalty in Europe and the Americas have never been as strong. (German Chancellor Angela Merkel tackled the Indonesian President about the thorny issue during his trip to Europe last week.)

At the same time, Amnesty International reported a 54 per cent increase in executions globally in 2015. Indonesia is preparing for a fresh round of executions.

"Simultaneously there are gains and losses," McMahon says.

But he is buoyed by the Australian government's activism.

In September, Foreign Minister Julie Bishop told the United Nations General Assembly that Australia would use a seat on the UN's Human Rights Council to wage a tireless campaign to end the death penalty around the world.

Australia, France and Norway will co-host the Sixth World Congress against the death penalty in Oslo in June.

"The Australian government has clearly stepped up its focus and willingness to fight the death penalty," McMahon says.

"If we were sitting having a beer three years ago, would Australia have been one of the major sponsors of an anti-death penalty conference, with someone as senior as Philip Ruddock leading the delegation? I wouldn't have said: 'Yeah, that would happen'."

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