Jhenelle (not her real name) calls her Nini.
All day, Nini sits by her bed. Jhenelle smiles at her.
Jhenelle stares at her. Sometimes she strokes Nini’s hair.
At night, she wraps her arms around her.
Jhenelle sleeps at the top bunk, made of steel covered with a green sheet and a threadbare beige blanket.
Nini is her only companion.
She leans beside small rectangular pillows covered with unfolded clothes.
Nini is a lifeless soiled pink teddy bear.
Jhenelle is one of the 3,304 Persons Deprived of Liberty (PDL) at the Correctional Institution for Women (CIW) in Mandaluyong City. Eighty-five percent of the women here are serving sentences from illegal drugs. Many are in prison for theft, fraud and human/child trafficking. Jhenelle is 20 years for human trafficking of women.
She suffers from depression. Sitting on the edge of her cot she counts the beds inside the dormitory. “42” she says, “times 4, 168.”
About 60% of the women at the CIW come from the provinces outside Metro Manila, including foreigners.
The CIW officer in charge, J/Insp. Angie Bautista estimates more than a thousand women at the CIW have not had a visitor in the last one to five years. Families either refuse to visit them or do not have money or time to make the trip to Manila.
Bautista says this remains the top cause of Depression. For the last three years Jhenelle started serving her sentence, not once was she ever visited by her husband or kids.
Data from the Philippine Health Department shows, 3.3 million Filipinos suffer from depression. Incarcerated women get little to no help.
The Doctor is out
The CIW has one physician to attend to the 3,304 women – Dr. Henry Fabro.
He sees patients at the CIW, at least twice a week, and is responsible for seven correctional facilities as director of the National Bilibid Prison (NBP) Health Services under the Bureau of Corrections (BuCor).
He says it’s normal for a person to experience sadness over a period of two weeks from the time of incarceration. Anything beyond he says will merit a consultation with a psychologist for depression. Jhenelle, has never seen a Psychologist herself.
Depression however remains largely undetermined for PDLs. Bautista estimates about close to a thousand women at the CIW suffer from the condition, but not a single one has been diagnosed.
Fabro admits mental health care and treatment is not a priority for the PDLs.
“Sad to say the BuCor, does not have any psychiatrist. Dalawa lang ang Psychologist and hindi pa full time. Well, there’s two in BJMP nationwide,” (Sad to say the BuCor does not have any psychiatrist. There are only two part-time psychologists. Well there’s two psychologists for BJMP nationwide.) Fabro explained.
Fabro said few health practitioners want to work in prisons as it’s not a path to career growth, so that’s why there is a terrible ratio of doctors to PDLs.
The BuCor has only 13 doctors attending to 47,326 prisoners nationwide. Four of them are retiring soon.
This means women serving time at CIW, like Jhenelle who suffer from mental illness, are not getting the treatment they need to get well.
“Ideally siguro, dapat 300 health practitioners per facility. But that’s wishing,” (Ideally, there should be around 300 health practitioners per facility. But that’s wishing.) Fabro said.
A full-time psychologist in the BuCor has a starting salary of P80,000 ($1,600) a month and will be enlisted as an officer equivalent to a Captain. Even though the salary is much higher compared to doctors practicing in private institutions which range about P35,000 to P50,000, Fabro said, only three doctors have expressed their interest to apply since January 2019.
What is your name?
Jhenelle’s journey to prison started 33 years ago.
November 19, 1986. It was a Wednesday.
Jhenelle was born and abandoned by her mother at the Amang Rodriguez Memorial Medical center in Marikina City. This was the story told to her by Rodel the maintenance person who took her home late that afternoon. He became a father to Jhenelle.
Rodel died when Jhenelle was 12. His family sold her to relatives in Paete, Laguna where she was forced to sand wood all day. She never knew her name.
“Dun ako nakatira sa bahay ng aso, pinapakain nila sakin, yung pagkain ng aso. Dumating sa point na pinapaluhod nila ako sa asin, binibitin ako, nilulublob sa drum,” (I lived in a dog house and ate what the dogs ate. It came to a point where they made me kneel on salt. They hung me upside down and drowned me in a large drum), Jhenelle said as she broke in tears.
She soon fled the abuse with P150 in her pocket.
At 16, Jhenelle was wild. In Manila, she got involved the illegal drug trade.
“”Red” ang tawag nila sa akin, kasi masyado raw ako matapang, di raw ako marunong matakot. Sabi ko, tatay ko nga si Satanas,” (They call me “Red”. They say I’m too brave and fearless. I tell them, I’m a child of Satan.)
As part of the drug trade Jhenelle flew around the provinces from Luzon to the islands of Visayas and Mindanao. She dressed well and had the money to hang out at high-end clubs, condominiums and hotels.
“Malakas ang kita sa illegal, more than P30M, isang transaksyon lang, drugs saka baril na yun. Bibigyan kami 500,000, papartehin ko pa yun sa mga tropa,” (At one point, our group earned P30M in an instant, for guns and drugs. I get a cut of P500,000 from my boss which I share with my men.)
She carried bundles of cold hard cash in bags, always kept underneath her bed. No bank transactions and no identification cards. She and the gang hopped from one city, one province to another, getting on buses and planes in varying days and hours. Jhenelle felt invincible.
“Hanggang dumating one time na raid yung laboratory ng boss ko, shabu lab, pinatakbo ako ng boss ko sa Nueva Vizcaya,” she said. (It came to a point, the police raided my boss’ shabu lab, he gave me an address and told me to escape to Nueva Vizcaya).
Jhenelle then met her soon to be husband in Nueva Vizcaya. But after five years of abuse, she escaped with her 3-year-old daughter. A little food, milk and teddy bear, Nini were all they had when they boarded a bus for Metro Manila. She and her daughter lived in the streets of Parañaque City. Jhenelle sold cigarettes, candy, coffee and biscuits to feed her daughter. She was 7 months pregnant.
On the eve of January 7, 2016 it all came to an end. The members of the National Bureau of Investigation (NBI) suddenly arrested Jhenelle for selling women, she was later convicted of human trafficking. Jhenelle insists she is innocent. She gave birth to her second child while in detention but she never got to hold and see her baby.
“Tulala lang ako, ayoko lang na may kausap, ayoko lahat. Halos isang linggo ako hindi kumakain, wala akong pagasa kasi nakakulong na ako, iniwan ako ng asawa ko, mga anak ko, wala na. wala nako babalikan, magpakamatay nalang ako,” she recalled (I would stare, I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t want everything. I did not eat for almost a week, I was hopeless in jail, thinking, my husband left me, my children were taken away from me, I have no one left in my life, I might as well choose to die,”)
She clings to what’s left of her past life, Nini, her daughter’s teddy bear. She later learned both her children were sent to an orphanage, while her husband re married.
“Pangarap ko magkaroon ng buong pamilya, wala kasi ako nun,” (I still dream of having my own family which I never had,”) she said.
Help from the inside
Last August, Jhenelle met “Ria,” (not her real name) a fellow inmate serving time for fraud.
Ria has been in jail for 11 years and is now part of the deliverance ministry of the Women of Faith. The group offers spiritual formation for the women.
“Deliverance, healing ba yung ginagawa namin, yung pakiramdam naming nakakulong pa sila sa nakaraan nila,” (Deliverance, healing, that’s what we do. We want to help women be released from their past,”)
Ria meets with about two PDLs each day and listen in an effort to help ease their depression.
“The word is therapy anak, okay lahat ng therapy, basta someone willing to listen with no judgments,” (The word is therapy, all therapies are okay so long as someone is willing to listen with no judgment,.) Ria said in her gentle voice.
Jhenelle recalled how she cried buckets of tears, pouring her heart out to Ria. They spoke for four hours.
“Pag wala kang dalaw, parang wala ka.. pag wala kang dalaw, hindi ka importante, hindi ka special,” Jhenelle said. (When no one visits you, you feel unimportant, like you’re no one, not special.)
Ria and the team spent six months to a year training in therapeutic communication for PDLs. She says all must be done in love coupled with prayers and it’s confidential.
“Dahil sa kanila, narealize ko, hindi pala ako pwede mabuhay mag isa. Dito ako nagkaroon ng buhay ulit, ng pag asa, sa mga taong tumanggap sakin,
di ako hinusgahan ng ganun ganun lang… hindi ko naramadaman na mag isa ako,” (I realized I cannot live alone. This is where I found life again. I found hope in the people who accepted me, they never judged me for who I am, I never felt alone again.)”Jhenelle said.
E-visits
“The visit schedules have been extended for another day, instead of Wednesday, it will now be from Tuesday to Sunday, from 9:00am to 3:00pm,” Bautista announced. The women cheered.
Bautista targets to launch soon the electronic visits or e-visits.
A call center type set up is being prepared for the women where they will be allowed to call their loved ones for 5 minutes a day.
There will be 20 units of telephones equipped with intercom and jail guards will also monitor computers. P1 per minute will be charged for video and phone calls.
Bautista believes the project will alleviate homesickness and depression among PDLs. But even with the lifeline, Jhenelle is still left an orphan, until she finds a permanent contact with her two kids.
For now, the women keep busy and earn money through projects such as bag making with beads and plastic. Women, especially the older inmates, garden. They grow vegetables and medicinal plants.
The CIW also has allotted 30M for the repairs and another P30 M for a a new building. Bautista say plans to add a table tennis, volleyball games, a gym and a mini library are now in the pipeline.
Jhenelle is now part of COPs or Cleanliness, Orderliness and Peacefulness brigade. She goes on a daily 8-hour duty to assist in managing the dormitories. She has 20 more years to spend inside the prison.
Jhenelle cleans the water tank. In an orange dress and slippers, she suddenly stops and walks to the edge of the pavement on the sixth floor. She looks at the skyline of rusty rooftops. The wind blows on her face. She stands there. Looks down. Pauses. Then collapses and weeps. She hugs Nini and gets on with her chores.
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