Bilibid or not – A glimpse of life in prison

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger, and you invited me in; I was naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you visited me; I was in prison and you came to Me.

– Matthew 25:35, 36

If you hitched a ride on the wings of a bird flying a thousand feet high in the sky, Muntinlupa would look like a tree-lined expanse of rolling hills and verdant plains shaded by leafy mango trees, the swathe of green broken only by cubic figures that must be houses or buildings. But when the bird swoops down, you will see that the tiled and shingled roofs of the Mediterranean-style mansions on one side of Muntinlupa are set off by the rusty galvanized iron roofs of several three-story buildings on the other side.

You see, Muntinlupa is home to two major gated communities. One belongs to the rich, the famous and the free, and the other, just as well-secured, is home to the poor, the punished and the persecuted. The lines between life’s castes are very clearly drawn in Muntinlupa. Not far from posh Ayala Alabang is the New Bilibid Prisons (the national penitentiary), and if the world had a scale model of life’s painful divisions – both fair and unfair – Muntinlupa could be well its glass-encased model.

I used to think that if I were to reach out to the less fortunate, I would reach out to orphans and street children, rather than provide moral support to prisoners.

I must thank Fr. Raymond Holscher of the Ateneo High School, who has been leading outreach programs for the juvenile offenders confined in the Medium Security Compound, for a change in my perspective. Father Holscher invited my son Carl to join one such outreach activity early this schoolyear and he came back insightful rather than repulsed. His class, 3-J, thus initiated a school-wide drive for soap and toothpaste for the juvenile inmates. The next time he and his classmates were scheduled to go, I asked Father Holscher if I could join them.

I told Father I wanted to bring some soda in cans, but was afraid the juvenile prisoners would throw them at each other. Father Holscher shook his head, and asked me, "Is that what you imagine them to be like?"

* * *

Bilibid is really a piece of hell in a wide expanse (450 hectares) of heaven. The property is really so lush and verdant, just take out the prison cells and you have a real estate agent’s dream. Two sets of barbed-wire fences are what one has to go through to enter the medium security compound. Males are stamped with something that says "visitor." If someone can fake this stamp, similar to those you find in movie houses and carnivals, you’ll have an exodus out of Bilibid. Females are waved through.

A wooden makeshift community hall that doubles as a chapel is the first building you see to the left. On the Sunday we visited, it is packed with inmates, aged 15 to 92, and students from various Catholic universities who were there for some social work. I asked the frail and emaciated 92-year-old man what he was in for. "Rape," he mumbled.

The youngest ever sent to the medium security compound was 11, and he was also convicted of rape. He was later transferred to another facility.

The head of the choir is Alex, 27, from Samar. With his crew cut and wide smile, Alex looks more like a supervisor of a fast-food outlet. In prison for 11 years now, he was sentenced to a 20-year term for robbery and homicide. He says it was bad company that led him to prison.

A casual talk among the other teenaged prisoners brings out a glaring fact: All of them were hooked on drugs, particularly shabu, at the time they committed their crime. Most come from broken homes, with both parents married to, or living in, with other people.

Toto, who was raised by his lola, hardly ever gets visits from her. He understands. "Ang pamasahe mula sa bahay namin sa Cavite, one way, P200. Hindi niya kaya yan linggo-linggo."

* * *

We are then taken to a huge field with flowers the color of raspberry. Since it is visitors’ day, the place looks like a town square. There is a videoke hut and there are several tiny sari-sari stores that sell almost everything from vegetables to slippers.

Each building in the compound houses several brigadas. Each brigada, composed of 60 prisoners, is assigned to a cell the size of a classroom. Inside the cell are rows and rows of makeshift multi-deck beds. The more senior you are, the higher and the more private your sleeping space is. You can install makeshift sliding doors or curtains around your bed. During visiting hours, you can even have your partner (of whatever sex) stay with you there.

James and Toto, who "toured" us around the compound, have no complaints about the food.

"We have pork, chicken and beef!" they said. That Sunday, their food was brought in a big plastic pail. It consisted of bulky slices of pork swimming in pale adobo broth.

In one corner of the room is a toilet and shower. They proudly showed to me the brand-new, gleaming shower head.
"Next week, may tubig na kami," they said excitedly. It is the first time in Bilibid’s history that inmates will get to bathe under a shower with running water.

Some cells have electric fans, mostly donated, others don’t. The "mayor" of each cell is a much older prisoner, much like a cell headmaster.

These mayors are usually in prison for murder, and they say they were provoked not by drugs but by money.

One of the mayors is actually a licensed civil engineer. He claims he was cheated by a business partner, and so the crime was committed. While serving time in jail, he is teaching math to the younger prisoners.

"The most painful punishment of being in prison," says Jomar, one of the teenaged prisoners, "is emotional, not physical."

* * *

After our "tour", Father Holscher, my son Carl and his classmate Raffy Esguerra drove back to the home of the prison chaplain, Father Bob Olaguer. On the way, Father Holscher pointed out to me the lethal injection chamber, which from afar looks more like a cheerful green house. Outside the chamber are three cages, each with a police dog. They, too, are not free, but every death convict probably envies them for being alive.

In the home of Father Bob, we notice a makeshift workshop. We enter and lo and behold! Candles of every shape, size and scent awaited us. These are made by ex-convicts who have a hard time finding employment outside Bilibid. So the Philippine Jesuit Prison Service came up with a project, Pag-Asa sa Paglaya: Kandila, to make them more productive. I bought candles in the shape of bamboo stems and trunks, which smelled like Spanish baby cologne. Each cost me only P30. Father bought coffee-scented candles. (For inquiries, call 807-7979 or 850-3975.)

So why go to prison to offer comfort to inmates? Don’t they deserve their lot?

Perhaps, they do. But looking at the juvenile offenders, who will have served their full sentence before they reach the age of 40, one realizes that if you don’t help in these kids’ rehabilitation now, you will be letting loose an army of confused and angry adults when the time comes.

When you help these juvenile offenders now, you are also helping yourself. They are young. They will be in your midst one day. It is not too late to make a difference in their lives now.