Reentering society can seem an unsurmountable hurdle for those formerly deprived of liberty, but they remain persistent of a more accepting future. For many, freedom is an inherent right. But for persons deprived of liberty (PDLs), like Emilio Divinagracia, it ebbed away until she had to fight for freedom.
After serving three years in Baguio and another three years in the New Bilibid Prison for simple theft, she was finally released on parole. “I was happy because I was finally with my family,” Divinagracia reminisces in Filipino. It’s the liberation from the world beyond the metal bars that PDLs yearn for. But another struggle immediately came her way: societal reintegration.
“Paglabas mo, parang meron ka nang tarpaulin sa likod mo na ito na ‘yung tingin sayo [ng ibang tao],” she shares. This invisible sign proved more apparent when she started looking for jobs, and her fear of being stigmatized took over. It wasn’t until she was assisted by the Philippine Jesuit Prison Service Foundation, Inc. (PJPS) that she found some semblance of stability.
(When you’re released, it’s like there’s a sign behind you telling how other people should look at you.)
As one of the people helping ex-PDLs get back on their feet, PJPS Advocacy Program Coordinator Matthew Delgado advocates, “Walang taong walang kakayahang magtrabaho nang maayos.”
(No one is incapable of working properly.)
Realities changed
Divinagracia experienced hardship upon hardship, leading up to untimely betrayals: of found family, of the justice system, and of God. She risked her job at a pawnshop just to help a trusted confidant. “Kasi that time, kailangan niya ng pera kasi ‘yung mother niya nabagok, so kailangan ma-operahan.” she shares. Using her knowledge of the pawning industry, Divinagracia made a deal to increase the actual value of every item her friend pawned, just enough to pay for the surgery bills.
(At the time, she needed money because her mother hit her head, so she needed to undergo a medical operation.)
But the pawned items were taken away, all left unpaid by her friend. Even if she desperately tried to recuperate the damage done by her friend, her bosses had to report the embezzlement to the authorities. A month after the charges were filed, Divinagracia was represented by a lawyer from the Public Attorney’s Office who didn’t allow her to speak in court. Despite their agreement, she wasn’t able to defend herself at the final hearing before her sentence was sanctioned.
At the time, she had a negative impression of Philippine jail and those who had time to serve. What she did not expect to find was an array of stories that she now stood witness to. “Nakita ko doon ‘yung mga tao na niloloko lang sila…May mga tao na pinaglaban lang nila ‘yung mga sarili nila, parang kung hindi sila lalaban, sila ‘yung mamamatay,” she reveals. Amid the questionable and often unsanitary conditions of these cells, Divinagracia realized she had not met criminals but victims like her. There were crimes in the cells she was in that were forged not by wicked steel, but by the necessity for holding—a life surviving.
(I saw people who were just conned. There are others who fought for themselves because if they didn’t, they would die.)
Upon her release from jail, reintegrating herself into the workforce was one of her goals. But it came with multiple rejections; not skill-based, but a testament to her past records, “Dati, ‘yong [worry] mo lang kung tatanggapin ka or hindi sa trabaho,” she admits. How employment differed after time in jail was made clear to Divinagracia: “Ija-judge ka din na ganitong klase ka pala na tao kasi galing ka sa ganitong institusyon.” Despite the attempts of employers to make it unapparent, the message of exclusion was always well-expressed.
(Then, your only worry was whether or not you’ll get accepted into work. But now, it’s also whether or not they’ll judge you for having come from that institution.)
She learned to find hope in frequent landings back to square ones. Divinagracia says that people like her were bound to look for opportunities in small gaps to show their capabilities. PJPS, she reminisces, was her first employer post-jail. She took the opportunity to work as a house helper, from which she built herself up once more. Now, she works as a job order staff at the Baguio City Parole and Probation Office in hopes of helping more people like her who have undergone the same trials.
Work to be done
Divinagracia’s is not an isolated case of the noble work that the PJPS is responsible for. At its inception in 1994, it centered mainly on reformative recollections for the inmates. As time passed, their work also included empowering incapacitated children and destigmatizing second chances. PJPS has helped ex-PDLs start anew by what Delgado describes as “linking them to companies” ready to take them in. Today, their mission is threefold: to rebuild lives, rekindle hope, and restore dignity.
For example, they help ex-PDLs attain proper documents for their reentry into the formal economy. Government IDs and papers are what Delgado claims are “primary needs” for ex-PDLs. Through the document assistance program of PJPS, the organization provides its beneficiaries with transportation and a budget to produce the necessary documents that companies are looking for.
The organization also offers socio-pastoral sessions that also become a sanctuary for the ex-PDLs in dispelling fear of what the job market may be like outside. Testament to this hesitance is Divinagracia, whose first instincts upon release were to feel reduced. “Because how do I even present myself,” she raises in Filipino. However, PJPS’ reintegration program has bridged the public community with the formerly convicted; after all, as Delgado claims, “[It’s really] the community who would really enable the
ex-PDLs to have a successful reentry into society.”
Tidal as their work may be, PJPS does not stray away from its mission. “Patuloy [kaming] tumataya because the hope is what keeps us alive as an organization that someday, everyone will see that everyone is capable of change,” Delgado beams. Even after five years of working with PJPS, Delgado still encounters setbacks like repeated patterns of old habits. Amid all of it, however, Delgado continues to take the gamble.
(We continue to take the risk…)
When the island opens
Truth is, liberation is not granted once the foot is set out of jail. In a successful reintegration, companies and employers hold a role in it more vital than they think. “They (employers) need to get rid of that fear,” Delgado says. Imprisonment records do not paralyze the skills, talents, and capabilities of ex-PDLs; they simply allow for rediscovery and opening of opportunities.
The reality for these people isn’t controlled by the chasing of redemption or the premise of its non-existence. In every case that PJPS puts its stake on, Delgado hopes, “Someday…society…will see the beauty or the wonder that those [on] the inside are actually capable of loving, capable of change.” When freed, let communities not only accept ex-PDLs but welcome them back.
Despite what Divinagracia had to go through, she persists in living freely, and to those like her, she makes it known that their struggles are not borne alone. “Kung may mga taong tumanggi sa’yo, hindi ibig sabihin wala nang taong tatanggap sa’yo,” she reminds. “Tuloy lang. Tuloy ka lang.”
(If there are people that rejected you, that doesn’t mean there’s no one willing to accept you. Keep going. You keep on going.)
