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risoners are not solitary cases as these individuals also have backgrounds that intersect with other vulnerable groups. At only 11 years old, Jerry was sent to a youth detention center for breaking curfew because he was trying to escape from his abusive parents. He endured incidents of sexual abuse while inside the detention center. Nearly 10 percent of all prisoners are women and children. Some have been imprisoned at the age of sixteen, some have grown past sixty in prison. Many live below the poverty line, and countless families experience the difficulty of having a convicted family member. In extreme cases, prisoners also find themselves abused and mistreated by the same people who are supposed to guide them to rehabilitation. The moment detainees enter prison, many of their basic human rights are either lost or suspended; one of which is that they lose their right to mobility because our jails hold way beyond its capacity. Inside the Manila City Jail, 500 prisoners are packed in an area meant only for 170 individuals. Prisoners have to take turns in resting in this cramped area, let alone sit down. The governmentâs lack of support prevents prisoners from accessing needed medical services and proper nutrition. They are allotted a maximum of P35 for three meals a day. However it is projected to be lower due to overcrowding and the so-called âbureaucratic red tape.â Detainees depend on donations that often overflow during the holidays and not much more after. Prisons in the Philippines rarely follow the global standards set by the United Nations (UN); current protocols donât even obey the standards mandated by our national government. According to a report by the World Prison Brief (WPB) in November 2019, there are 215,000 inmates nationwide. The Bureau of Corrections (BuCor), in its 2020 budget, allocated roughly P19,000 for each inmate. With the ongoing pandemic, it is expected that the government should further assist inmates and jail aides but the proposed budget for BuCor was capped at P3.7 billion for the year 2021 from its previous budget of P4.24 billion in 2020. This means that for 2021, the budget for every prisoner is at P17,200 maximum. In comparison, the cost of living for one individual in Quezon City, assuming they do not pay rent, is P24,000, monthly. âBahala silang mamatay. Pabayaan mo lang sila,â were the words of a prison guard to a medical aide after the latter informed him of a sick detainee. This was from an account by an elderly man from the Quezon City Jail. Even before the pandemic, prisons already had a large death rate, nearly three dead persons per day. Many prisoners were elderly with histories of tuberculosis endemic in most prisons in the country. These cramped spaces are a hotbed for COVID-19 transmission and the health protocols imposed outside, in compliance with RA No. 11332, are nowhere to be found inside. No mass testing was implemented even after nine deaths were attributed to COVID-19. Many prisoners have a history of lung and heart complications but they are kept in very enclosed spaces with inadequate resources. No medical aid, no mass testing. Lowering the budget of the BuCor is a death sentence not only for prisoners, but also for employees who are exposed to the virus and are in dire need of financial and medical assistance. If even before the pandemic, prisons across the country, especially those located in the National Capital Region (NCR), already have increasing death rates due to overcrowding and lack of basic necessities for its inmates, how about now that we have a pandemic that could kill even those who are equipped and healthy?
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ABANDONED GUESTS OF THE STATE Our society consists of several vulnerable groups: women, youth, farmers, workers, and the poor to name some. They are considered at risk due to exploitation and discrimination committed by the elite. Among these groups, there is one that is less discussed. By Giancarlo Morrondoz
