By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

WE used to visit a loved one in a temporary detention facility. In this place, a visitor can only see their friends or relatives through a picture on the mobile phone, which they can look at for less than a minute before the image was erased. This fleeting image costs fifty pesos, and another twenty pesos for the person who shot the photos and brought whatever food and letters were delivered. If you bring a “donation” of a sack of rice, two buckets of fried chicken, a little sum of money every now and then, you may be allowed, upon the instance of the little gods who bear upon their lives, to hold their hands and meet face to face, behind bars, with at least four individuals listening to every word exchanged in between. And he gets to sleep in a narrow bed, where he can at least rest his injured head. For his continued safety, another detainee trusted by the gatekeepers tell you what to bring. You can bargain your way to the last integer your pocket can afford or cannot afford.

Fear is written on the walls, which we tried to reduce somehow by complying with a donation of white paint. We cooked nutritious food and provided extra servings for the others who did not have the luxury of a visit. There were over a hundred of them cramped in a small space, where others sleep, standing. In our visit to this station, there were very few visitors, a maximum of ten, and maybe, another ten, in the afternoon. For most of them, no one seems to care. I could see the longing in their eyes, ogling from behind bars, craning their necks to see a glimpse of humans from the outside world.

He had asked for our forgiveness and understanding. His eyes would well in tears, even if he promised not to cry and control his emotions, as he expressed hope to be free and be with his dog, whose birthday he knew by heart. He reminded us to take care of him, and to celebrate his day, with a box of spaghetti and chicken from Jollibee.

“Sana makalanghap na po ako ng fresh air. Namiss ko po talaga ang sariwang hangin” (I am hoping soon, to breath fresh air. I deeply miss the fresh air.)

There was air inside this facility, but it smelled of human sweat, an odor of desperation, and leading, for most, to a highway to hell.

Last Sunday, we visited him in another facility where offenders were transferred. It was not a perfect place to reform or rehabilitate, but it allowed inmates one day to be with their loved ones. There was a swing too, for children, where fathers can become fathers, and join their visitors with a quick meal, using their bare hands, for a maximum of twenty minutes.  This was a better arrangement considering that the place where they were held before did not allow them these things. In fact, we found out, that where he came from, he was barely allowed to eat the food we brought, the cookies sent by a neighbor to thank him for feeding their dog, and the sheets of papers and notebooks where he should have written his thoughts were all taken away from him by the bullies, after the little gods had taken their share.

And yes, here, he got his wish, there was fresh air for twenty minutes, extended a little more for another twenty, based on the “benevolence” of the little gods, who chose to protect him, based on their “educated” assessment.

 

The visit

coming face to face
with the devil
ruler of the kingdom of the damned
armed with faith
and the smile of an angel
and the toll fee to view
a glimpse of a life
a life, now with longer hair
fuller beard, a weary smile
a thread of hope
hanging on the shadow
under hidden curves
of fear

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