Community Journalism
She Will Rise: Stories of the Inmates
by Kiana Cardeno and Kristel Limpot
Drugs were the irresistible escape that left them locked behind bars.
85% of 171 female inmates in the Marikina City Jail were detained for drug-related crimes.
Since President Rodrigo Duterte came into power in 2016, the inmates have had a surge in their population. A total of 89 detainees in 2014 has almost doubled in number.
For the inmates, the case of 5-11 or drug use and drug dealing has a familiar ring to it—it led most of them to their imprisonment. Other common drug-related crimes include possessing, synthesizing, and trafficking drugs.
Many of the women reportedly turned to drugs as they struggled to get by. They were the providers for their family. For their children; for their grandchildren; In other cases, drugs were their reprieve from the harsh reality of poverty that circumstance entailed. It was through drugs that most of them found power.
The women behind bars share their stories of struggle and heartache; of how a livelihood with drugs led to temporary opportunities for better living, but inevitably caused their downfall.
Now, in the confines of their cell, they share how they remain empowered.
Drugs were the irresistible escape that left them locked behind bars.
85% of 171 female inmates in the Marikina City Jail were detained for drug-related crimes.
Since President Rodrigo Duterte came into power in 2016, the inmates have had a surge in their population. A total of 89 detainees in 2014 has almost doubled in number.
For the inmates, the case of 5-11 or drug use and drug dealing has a familiar ring to it—it led most of them to their imprisonment. Other common drug-related crimes include possessing, synthesizing, and trafficking drugs.
Many of the women reportedly turned to drugs as they struggled to get by. They were the providers for their family. For their children; for their grandchildren; In other cases, drugs were their reprieve from the harsh reality of poverty that circumstance entailed. It was through drugs that most of them found power.
The women behind bars share their stories of struggle and heartache; of how a livelihood with drugs led to temporary opportunities for better living, but inevitably caused their downfall.
Now, in the confines of their cell, they share how they remain empowered.
Like the majority of those detained in the female ward of the Marikina City Jail, Nanay Amalia had been charged for drug-dealing.
Money has been a powerful variable for her in the sense that it basically didn’t exist, and it was in the business of selling drugs that she found a precarious means to keep the grandchildren left to her care from starving.
Now, deprived of the presence of the grandchildren she tried her best to provide for, she is vocal in expressing her regret and eagerly awaits the day she gets to leave her prison walls.
Amalia
The 56-year-old has been detained for the past six months. Her situation, however, is still considered among the more fortunate ones, especially since she still receives regular visits from family and friends.
Besides the habitual kamustahan, visitors would also sometimes bring her food. And these two commodities – meals from home and time spent with loved ones – are coveted in the environment she now belongs to, wherein friendships aren’t so easily formed, and the quality of the food served is often tolerable at best.
Needless to say, her relatively more fortunate situation may draw envy from those who have been left without. But Nanay Amalia, a mother to 13 children and the sole provider of her family, has never been the selfish type.
“Laging nag-sh-share ‘yan ng pagkain niya sa’min,” said Kim, an inmate who hasn’t been visited by family members in the past 11 months.
In such a setting wherein finding a friendly face can prove to be a challenge, Nanay Amalia’s graciousness has allowed her to become a sort of motherly figure.
“Ang akin lang, basta’t lapitan mo ako, bibigyan kita,” she said.
One thing that has helped her to cope with, if not to completely overcome, her homesickness was the weekly visits of various religious groups.
For Nanay Amalia, the chance to have her faith in God restored has been a blessing in disguise – something she has fiercely clung to in the past months.
“Nung nasa laya pa 'ko, ‘di ko naranasan magbasa ng bible,” she shared. She fondly added how now, in contrast, learning what the Bible says has given her something to become excited about.
These quiet moments of reading the Bible, embedded as they were within her dismal days inside the jail, gave her a sense of comfort, some sort of assurance that all will be alright in time.
“Malaki talaga tulong ni God sa’kin dito. Pagkalabas ko, may maituturo na ako sa mga apo ko.”
In the rear compartments of her mind, she could already visualize it: a renewed life with her grandchildren, a life away from that which she became entangled with.
This image is still grainy. Sometimes, she doubts if it will ever be actualized. But the resolution becomes sharper and more detailed with every second she spends hoping to someday begin making things right.
Like the majority of those detained in the female ward of the Marikina City Jail, Nanay Amalia had been charged for drug-dealing.
Money has been a powerful variable for her in the sense that it basically didn’t exist, and it was in the business of selling drugs that she found a precarious means to keep the grandchildren left to her care from starving.
Now, deprived of the presence of the grandchildren she tried her best to provide for, she is vocal in expressing her regret and eagerly awaits the day she gets to leave her prison walls.
The 56-year-old has been detained for the past six months. Her situation, however, is still considered among the more fortunate ones, especially since she still receives regular visits from family and friends.
Besides the habitual kamustahan, visitors would also sometimes bring her food. And these two commodities – meals from home and time spent with loved ones – are coveted in the environment she now belongs to, wherein friendships aren’t so easily formed, and the quality of the food served is often tolerable at best.
Needless to say, her relatively more fortunate situation may draw envy from those who have been left without. But Nanay Amalia, a mother to 13 children and the sole provider of her family, has never been the selfish type.
“Laging nag-sh-share ‘yan ng pagkain niya sa’min,” said Kim, an inmate who hasn’t been visited by family members in the past 11 months.
In such a setting wherein finding a friendly face can prove to be a challenge, Nanay Amalia’s graciousness has allowed her to become a sort of motherly figure.
“Ang akin lang, basta’t lapitan mo ako, bibigyan kita,” she said.
One thing that has helped her to cope with, if not to completely overcome, her homesickness was the weekly visits of various religious groups.
For Nanay Amalia, the chance to have her faith in God restored has been a blessing in disguise – something she has fiercely clung to in the past months.
“Nung nasa laya pa 'ko, ‘di ko naranasan magbasa ng bible,” she shared. She fondly added how now, in contrast, learning what the Bible says has given her something to become excited about.
These quiet moments of reading the Bible, embedded as they were within her dismal days inside the jail, gave her a sense of comfort, some sort of assurance that all will be alright in time.
“Malaki talaga tulong ni God sa’kin dito. Pagkalabas ko, may maituturo na ako sa mga apo ko.”
In the rear compartments of her mind, she could already visualize it: a renewed life with her grandchildren, a life away from that which she became entangled with.
This image is still grainy. Sometimes, she doubts if it will ever be actualized. But the resolution becomes sharper and more detailed with every second she spends hoping to someday begin making things right.
Kim
She walked into the room with an aura of confidence coursing through her. Once she took her seat, she greeted those around her with a toothy grin.
Her jolly behaviour was infectious and pleasant, but Kim’s life story was far from a happy one.
At the age of 9, Kim’s father was murdered by one of his relatives. The crime was borne out of jealousy over a coconut plantation inheritance.
Her mother, who had seen pictures of his chopped body, was driven mad and rendered incapable of supporting her children. Kim and her three brothers were taken in by their aunt, but they were unable to continue schooling due to financial problems.
Now, Kim is a mother to four children, all of whom are able to go to school. She and her husband were able to earn a living for their children through selling drugs.
“Naengganyo kasi kami. Konting puhunan, lumalaki,” she said. It was the ease of earning money that excited her. She never had a job that could provide her with so much in such a short span of time.
According to Kim, one plastic of drugs can be bought for P10,000 and resold at P20,000. Her main customers were her neighbors and group of friends.
“Kapitbahay naming iba, napatay na. Tinotokhang. [Pumapasok ang pulis] ‘pag alam nila may nagbebenta,” she recalled, her mood suddenly dropping.
With the money, she had her home cemented and tiled, lent money to her neighbors, and even contributed to her barangay’s basketball league.
Kim was a friendly face in her community who never hesitated to financially aid neighbors who need it.
However, in the end, it was the very people she helped who turned her in.
“Pinahuli ako dahil sa inggit,” she said. Her life was greatly improving in stark contrast to the slums around her.
Kim has been detained for a year, but she received her last visit 11 months ago. Her kids had been taken in by her in-laws and her husband resides in the cell below hers.
“Yung mga tinutulungan ko, bakit ngayon, di ako maabutan ng sabon, ng noodles,” she said.
Because she has no visitors, Kim has to work in order to buy hygiene supplies for her husband and herself. She washes dishes for a week to earn a meager amount of Php 20, and she usually has enough to buy a bar of body and detergent soap — the body soap goes to her husband, while she resorts to using the cheaper detergent soap to bathe.
Kim is one of the inmates who participated in the Alternative Learning System (ALS). She is currently waiting for the results of her exam.
“Pagkalaya ko, pamilya ko nalang aasikasuhin ko. Hindi-hindi na ako magbibisyo."
After not seeing her children for so long, she only yearns for one thing: Bubuuin ko ang pamilya ko.
She walked into the room with an aura of confidence coursing through her. Once she took her seat, she greeted those around her with a toothy grin.
Her jolly behaviour was infectious and pleasant, but Kim’s life story was far from a happy one.
At the age of 9, Kim’s father was murdered by one of his relatives. The crime was borne out of jealousy over a coconut plantation inheritance.
Her mother, who had seen pictures of his chopped body, was driven mad and rendered incapable of supporting her children. Kim and her three brothers were taken in by their aunt, but they were unable to continue schooling due to financial problems.
Now, Kim is a mother to four children, all of whom are able to go to school. She and her husband were able to earn a living for their children through selling drugs.
“Naengganyo kasi kami. Konting puhunan, lumalaki,” she said. It was the ease of earning money that excited her. She never had a job that could provide her with so much in such a short span of time.
According to Kim, one plastic of drugs can be bought for P10,000 and resold at P20,000. Her main customers were her neighbors and group of friends.
“Kapitbahay naming iba, napatay na. Tinotokhang. [Pumapasok ang pulis] ‘pag alam nila may nagbebenta,” she recalled, her mood suddenly dropping.
With the money, she had her home cemented and tiled, lent money to her neighbors, and even contributed to her barangay’s basketball league.
Kim was a friendly face in her community who never hesitated to financially aid neighbors who need it.
However, in the end, it was the very people she helped who turned her in.
“Pinahuli ako dahil sa inggit,” she said. Her life was greatly improving in stark contrast to the slums around her.
Kim has been detained for a year, but she received her last visit 11 months ago. Her kids had been taken in by her in-laws and her husband resides in the cell below hers.
“Yung mga tinutulungan ko, bakit ngayon, di ako maabutan ng sabon, ng noodles,” she said.
Because she has no visitors, Kim has to work in order to buy hygiene supplies for her husband and herself. She washes dishes for a week to earn a meager amount of Php 20, and she usually has enough to buy a bar of body and detergent soap — the body soap goes to her husband, while she resorts to using the cheaper detergent soap to bathe.
Kim is one of the inmates who participated in the Alternative Learning System (ALS). She is currently waiting for the results of her exam.
“Pagkalaya ko, pamilya ko nalang aasikasuhin ko. Hindi-hindi na ako magbibisyo."
After not seeing her children for so long, she only yearns for one thing: Bubuuin ko ang pamilya ko.
Leonora
Leonora is a 47 year-old quiet woman, a mother to seven children. Her curly dark hair was loosely tied back in a half-ponytail. She sat with her hands placed carefully on her lap, her back slightly slouched, and she smiled with an apologetic look in her eyes.
She had a heart condition, she explained. She could not afford to get stressed in any way.
Leonora has been detained in the female ward for a year for alleged drug use and selling — 5-11 as most inmates would call it.
One of her sons resides in the cell below hers. She shook her head and sadly added, “May hinahanap daw [ang mga pulis] na kalbo...eh kulot anak ko, kagaya ko.”
She claims that she and her son had been falsely accused. As informal settlers, they had been subject to prejudice. “Kapag nag-uusap [kaming mga nasa squatters], positibo agad nasa isip nila.”
One day, a police officer barged into her home, looking for a woman she did not know. Her health condition made her unable to fight back as she blacked out from the shock. She woke up at the station reeling, with her son pleading that they take him instead of his mother.
In the end, though no drugs were found in their home, the police took them both.
“Quotang hulihan, 100 sa isang lugar,” she explained.
According to her, police officers would raid settlements in an attempt to reach a quota haul of drug users or dealers without thorough investigation.
Upon seeing police within the area, she said, “Alam na ng mga bata, ‘pag may nakitang nakatakip ang mukha, tatakbo na sila.”
Until now, Leonora awaits her show-of-evidence hearing as those who apprehended her and her son have nothing to show. The officers claim to have misplaced the evidence.
Previously, she had suffered from a heart attack inside the city jail and her current condition exempts her from doing any work.
To busy herself, she often joins activities by ‘providers’, religious groups. She also keeps constant contact with her son downstairs through writing letters and receives frequent visits from the rest of her children.
Leonora used to believe in Duterte’s War on Drugs. "Maganda sana patakaran niya, kaso nawala na sa ayos. Huli ng huli, wala naman sa ayos.”
Once she and her son are free, she plans to reunite with her family, but she does not think much will change with their lifestyle.
After all, she is firm that they did nothing wrong.
Leonora is a 47 year-old quiet woman, a mother to seven children. Her curly dark hair was loosely tied back in a half-ponytail. She sat with her hands placed carefully on her lap, her back slightly slouched, and she smiled with an apologetic look in her eyes.
She had a heart condition, she explained. She could not afford to get stressed in any way.
Leonora has been detained in the female ward for a year for alleged drug use and selling — 5-11 as most inmates would call it.
One of her sons resides in the cell below hers. She shook her head and sadly added, “May hinahanap daw [ang mga pulis] na kalbo...eh kulot anak ko, kagaya ko.”
She claims that she and her son had been falsely accused. As informal settlers, they had been subject to prejudice. “Kapag nag-uusap [kaming mga nasa squatters], positibo agad nasa isip nila.”
One day, a police officer barged into her home, looking for a woman she did not know. Her health condition made her unable to fight back as she blacked out from the shock. She woke up at the station reeling, with her son pleading that they take him instead of his mother.
In the end, though no drugs were found in their home, the police took them both.
“Quotang hulihan, 100 sa isang lugar,” she explained.
According to her, police officers would raid settlements in an attempt to reach a quota haul of drug users or dealers without thorough investigation.
Upon seeing police within the area, she said, “Alam na ng mga bata, ‘pag may nakitang nakatakip ang mukha, tatakbo na sila.”
Until now, Leonora awaits her show-of-evidence hearing as those who apprehended her and her son have nothing to show. The officers claim to have misplaced the evidence.
Previously, she had suffered from a heart attack inside the city jail and her current condition exempts her from doing any work.
To busy herself, she often joins activities by ‘providers’, religious groups. She also keeps constant contact with her son downstairs through writing letters and receives frequent visits from the rest of her children.
Leonora used to believe in Duterte’s War on Drugs. "Maganda sana patakaran niya, kaso nawala na sa ayos. Huli ng huli, wala naman sa ayos.”
Once she and her son are free, she plans to reunite with her family, but she does not think much will change with their lifestyle.
After all, she is firm that they did nothing wrong.
Mary Rose
“Di ako maka-uwi na walang pera. Nag-promise ako sa anak ko na bibilhan ko siya ng xbox.”
A detainee for merely 5 months, Mary Rose tearily shared how she, formerly a practicing nurse, got into the drug trade.
Mary Rose used to work as a company nurse at a prestigious hotel in Hong Kong. Back home in the Philippines, she lived with her 13 year-old son and her mother, a police officer.
Life seemed promising for her yet it slowly went downhill once her business in the Philippines had gotten bankrupt. To make matters worse, she got involved in a scandal wherein she was accused of being a mistress.
“Di naman totoo yun... kaso naniwala nanay ko,” she said.
Hurt by her mother’s mistrust, she decided to rebel and look for her ex-boyfriend whom she was already aware dealt drugs. While involved with the man and his business, she lost P30,000 of her own money.
In fear of disappointing her mother again, she refused to go home.
“Ayokong umuwi nun. Ayoko maging palpak,” she added. More importantly, she said she could not go home without money as she has long promised her son she would buy him an xbox.
In an attempt to earn back the cash she has lost, Mary Rose became a significant player of the drug trade – its financial and marketing head. No matter how hard she worked, however, the money never seemed to fall back into her hands.
“Di nila mabalik yung pera sakin, ginagamit nila ‘yun pansugal.”
It was after surviving a rape attempt that she decided to go home to her mother.
Her boyfriend had already been arrested for selling drugs at the time, when his colleague entered Mary Rose's bedroom while she was asleep.
“'Pag gising ko, ginugupit na niya pantalon ko,” she shakily recalled.
Mary Rose, herself, eventually got apprehended for drug use and selling. Her show-of-evidence hearing was set last January 12 but was then moved to March 12; and even that time, it didn't push through. Till now, she awaits for the rescheduled date of her hearing.
Her case of judicial delay is far from being an isolated case, however.
In fact, up to 90 per cent of detainees in custody of the BJMP are awaiting or undergoing trial, according to the organization's own figures.
This makes the Philippines the Southeast Asian country with the highest number of pretrial and remand detainees and the second highest in all of Asia.
Inmates’ trials can take years, with just two or three hearings a year. Sometimes, these hearings are even postponed often because the judge or government prosecutors in-charge have decided to absent themselves.
According to SJO3 Gilbert Santos, they previously had an inmate whose trial period stretched to ten years before she was released.
Due to Mary Rose's medical background, she has been entrusted to give medication to her fellow inmates after rancho or mealtime. Under her care, she ensures that elderly and sick inmates receive maintenance medicines, and that no medicines are left to expire. She is also in charge of searching those newly committed.
Infused with new resolve, she refuses to stagnate within the jail’s walls. She dreams of proving to everyone that she is still capable and worthy of success.
She receives frequent visits from her mother every Sunday but has not seen her son since she entered the city jail.
Despite her situation, Mary Rose maintains a perky and friendly demeanor. Her fresh smiling face stands out in the dull pink backdrop of the jail cell. When asked how she stays optimistic, she replied, “Kailangang magpatibay.”
Though freedom seems like a distant concept, Mary Rose is working her way towards a clean slate. Time ticks ever so slowly for her but her determination to reunite with her son and fulfill her promise keeps her going.
“Di ako maka-uwi na walang pera. Nag-promise ako sa anak ko na bibilhan ko siya ng xbox.”
A detainee for merely 5 months, Mary Rose tearily shared how she, formerly a practicing nurse, got into the drug trade.
Mary Rose used to work as a company nurse at a prestigious hotel in Hong Kong. Back home in the Philippines, she lived with her 13 year-old son and her mother, a police officer.
Life seemed promising for her yet it slowly went downhill once her business in the Philippines had gotten bankrupt. To make matters worse, she got involved in a scandal wherein she was accused of being a mistress.
“Di naman totoo yun... kaso naniwala nanay ko,” she said.
Hurt by her mother’s mistrust, she decided to rebel and look for her ex-boyfriend whom she was already aware dealt drugs. While involved with the man and his business, she lost P30,000 of her own money.
In fear of disappointing her mother again, she refused to go home.
“Ayokong umuwi nun. Ayoko maging palpak,” she added. More importantly, she said she could not go home without money as she has long promised her son she would buy him an xbox.
In an attempt to earn back the cash she has lost, Mary Rose became a significant player of the drug trade – its financial and marketing head. No matter how hard she worked, however, the money never seemed to fall back into her hands.
“Di nila mabalik yung pera sakin, ginagamit nila ‘yun pansugal.”
It was after surviving a rape attempt that she decided to go home to her mother.
Her boyfriend had already been arrested for selling drugs at the time, when his colleague entered Mary Rose's bedroom while she was asleep.
“'Pag gising ko, ginugupit na niya pantalon ko,” she shakily recalled.
Mary Rose, herself, eventually got apprehended for drug use and selling. Her show-of-evidence hearing was set last January 12 but was then moved to March 12; and even that time, it didn't push through. Till now, she awaits for the rescheduled date of her hearing.
Her case of judicial delay is far from being an isolated case, however.
In fact, up to 90 per cent of detainees in custody of the BJMP are awaiting or undergoing trial, according to the organization's own figures.
This makes the Philippines the Southeast Asian country with the highest number of pretrial and remand detainees and the second highest in all of Asia.
Inmates’ trials can take years, with just two or three hearings a year. Sometimes, these hearings are even postponed often because the judge or government prosecutors in-charge have decided to absent themselves.
According to SJO3 Gilbert Santos, they previously had an inmate whose trial period stretched to ten years before she was released.
Due to Mary Rose's medical background, she has been entrusted to give medication to her fellow inmates after rancho or mealtime. Under her care, she ensures that elderly and sick inmates receive maintenance medicines, and that no medicines are left to expire. She is also in charge of searching those newly committed.
Infused with new resolve, she refuses to stagnate within the jail’s walls. She dreams of proving to everyone that she is still capable and worthy of success.
She receives frequent visits from her mother every Sunday but has not seen her son since she entered the city jail.
Despite her situation, Mary Rose maintains a perky and friendly demeanor. Her fresh smiling face stands out in the dull pink backdrop of the jail cell. When asked how she stays optimistic, she replied, “Kailangang magpatibay.”
Though freedom seems like a distant concept, Mary Rose is working her way towards a clean slate. Time ticks ever so slowly for her but her determination to reunite with her son and fulfill her promise keeps her going.