The scent of fresh paint. A single bed. A ceiling fan. Sen. Leila de Lima was greeted by these in the morning of Feb. 24, 2017, the first day of her “unjust detention” that has gone four years and counting. Now, definitely, the paint enveloping her 5×8 square-meter detention room has become dried and odorless.
A reading by actress Angel Aquino of de Lima’s memoirs closed the Philippine Center of International PEN’s (Poets and Playwrights, Essayists and Novelists) “Free the Word” event last May 15.
In her memoirs, de Lima recounts her first memory of detention in Camp Crame, describing an “entire world of limited physical space” where she was prevented from doing human activities like going to the marketplace or bonding with her children and family members.
“Not even a gateway into the infinity of cyberspace was made available to me,” de Lima said, as voiced by a sorrowfully straight-faced Aquino.
“Everything that almost every person takes for granted has been denied to me,” she added.
The senator was arrested on Feb. 24, 2017 for her alleged involvement in the New Bilibid Prison illegal drug trade when she was the secretary of justice during the Aquino administration.
De Lima maintains that the charges were trumped up to silence her criticism of the Duterte regime.
De Lima, a former Commission on Human Rights chairwoman, said her arrest came at the height of her public career and at the hands of the justice system no less, which she said has been “malevolently weaponized to silence dissent.”
In an interview with the Varsitarian last 2017, she called Duterte “the worst president” the country has ever had, citing the extrajudicial killings and fake news that marred the first months of his term.
READ: Q&A: Detained Senator de Lima finds company in God, Grisham, Game of Thrones
Now, four years later, De Lima hopes that her life can serve a “greater narrative” in upholding the rights of ordinary people and the struggle against social injustices.
“We have all been given only one life to live, one country to love and defend, and one humanity that we all belong to and must respect and protect—those are exactly what I will continue to do for as long as I have breath,” she said.
Free the Word, hosted by the Philippine PEN in partnership with the Cultural Center of Philippines, is an afternoon of public literary readings and performances by the country’s best writers and performance artists.
The virtual event featured the works of contemporary authors Edgar Calabria Samar, John Iremil Teodoro; indigenous writers Richard Hangdaan Kinuud, Nelson Dino; and celebrated playwrights Rody Vera, Guelan Luarca and Anton Juan Jr.
De Lima’s memoirs
The room was newly painted. I can still remember the smell of fresh paint when I was brought in my detention cell in the morning of Feb 24, 2017. It was my first memory of what would be my continuing unjust detention that has thus far 4 years 2 months, 27 days. And counting.
Around 5 by 8 square meters, Spartan by standard, with a single bed and a ceiling fan. My entire world pretty much consisted of that limited physical space in the last four years. Not even a gateway into the infinity of cyberspace was made available to me. Everything that almost every person takes for granted has been denied to me: the ability to say good morning to my loved ones the moment I wake up, even by just sending a simple seven-character text—good a.m.; the ability to walk out of the door unhindered; the ability to go to the market and haggle good-naturedly with the vendors; the ability to open the stove and cook; the ability to hold my grandchildren; the ability to kiss my mom on the cheeks; the ability—simple ability—to praise my son Kuya Israel, who has autism, on his latest, beautiful artwork; and even the ability to feed and walk my dogs.
I am Leila M. de Lima, former chair of the Commission on Human Rights, former DOJ secretary, lawyer by profession, incumbent senator of the Republic. Daughter, sister, mother, and grandmother. They also called me a drug queen among many other names. The daughter molded into principled public service by her lawyer father is also the most vilified woman in Duterte’s time.
My siblings and I were raised in Iriga city in Camarines Sur. I graduated valedictorian in elementary and high school under the tutelage of the Augustinian sisters of La Consolacion Academy. Salutatorian of Batch ‘85 San Beda College of Law. Placed eight in the 1985 Bar Examinations. I went on to become the chairperson of the CHR, the DOJ secretary, and in 2016 was elected as senator on my first electoral run.
One could say that it was indeed a life destined for greatness. But at the height of my public career, I was politically persecuted and thrown in jail through the very thing that I have fought for—our justice system, which was malevolently weaponized to silence dissent. Many would say my persecution began when I launched a senate inquiry into the EJKs in 2016. But I can say it was charted way before that when I entered public service upholding the values of integrity, honesty, and competence that were instilled in us by our father and of humanity by our mother.
The early days of my detention were marked with indignation and disbelief. I recalled being sleepless on my first nights inside Camp Crame, thinking of my children and grandchildren, whom I wasn’t able to see before my arrest. And my mother, whose dementia shielded her from knowing the cruel fate that has befallen her eldest daughter.
Slowly I established a daily schedule. Nowadays, I wake up at 4:30 a.m. and go to bed between 10 and 11 p.m. I begin the day with prayers and end it with reading some books. In between, I write my dispatches from Crame and instructions for my staff. Most of my day is dedicated to senate paper work, drafting bills and resolutions, perusing my daily briefing reports, etc. As I am not yet allowed to participate in senate deliberations even via teleconferencing. I also attend to some chores such as sweeping my quarters, feeding my adopted stray cats roaming the facility, and watering my plants. By 8:30 a.m., I’ve already exercised and taken a bath. By 5 p.m. I pray the Holy Rosary, read the Bible, and write in my journal.
My faith has never faltered. As I always remind my staff and my family, surrendering our fears, our doubts, our anger to God does not mean consenting to the abuse and suffering—no, never. Rather it’s accepting the painful struggle in the promise that nothing lasts forever. And that good will always prevail. And indeed, it is. Last Feb 17, a few days before the fourth year of my detention, I was acquitted by the Muntinlupa Trial Court in one of the three “Conspiracy to commit drug trading” charges. But more than this acquittal and the crumbling of fabricated evidence against me, it is the courage of ordinary people that inspires me to believe that vindication is near.
I remember the mother who just lost her child to the drug war, telling me how she felt the hands of her only son slowly grew cold, as he lay in the bloody pavement. She said she knew her son wasn’t going to make it, but she wanted to soothe her son’s pain like she always did when he was little and had fever. We were there in the receiving area of the detention center with only the monotonous hum of the electric fan to break the silence between us. Two mothers, both longing for their sons. I will never forget what she said, “We will fight, Sen. Leila. We will fight.”
I have always considered myself as a strong-willed person in both my private, professional and public life. And when I entered public service I do believe that I displayed the courage to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. But it wasn’t until I became a victim that I learned and experienced firsthand just how immensely and potentially soul-crushingly difficult it is to continue fighting for myself against the most overwhelming of odds. And yet that too has been a gift of opportunity for it is only when we ourselves are experiencing personal troubles that we can only ever prove that it is possible to fight for yourself and without surrendering the commitment to continue fighting for others. It is only then that we truly know the depth and power of collective struggle.
I first saw this in women who first came to my rescue when I was first being publicly shamed in Congress and the relatives of EJK victims who vow to seek justice not only for their kin, but for other victims. And the messages of hope young people send to me, their maturity and courage defying their youth in scribbles.
My story now belongs to a greater narrative of the struggle of ordinary people against social injustice. I can say now that I am learning life’s greatest lessons from them. And as we fight together, we also wait in anticipation for the day we will all be vindicated and freed.
So, yes—my life has indeed remained on the track of fulfilling its destiny for greatness. It has so far proven to be great, even exceeding expectations, yet not in the way that most people would have guessed and not in the way they would’ve hoped for themselves. It has been a life of great achievements made greater by the unimaginable challenges and yes, sadness. But such is the way of life. It is indeed a box of chocolates. The trick is not to question the will of the Giver, but to make the most of what you have been given. We have all been given only one life to live, one country to love and defend, and one humanity that we all belong to and must respect and protect—those are exactly what I will continue to do for as long as I have breath and how I hope my life, so far and going forward, will be defined.
Live. Love. Defend. Respect and protect for life, for country, for humanity.
