"Magsuot ka ng kahit na ano, wag lang brown, blue, or orange."
"Puwede bang mag-shorts?" I asked.
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| Image from DefinitelyFilipino.com |
Last Saturday, I went to the Correctional Institute for Women (CIW) in Mandaluyong. I was ordered asked to go there to do ministry to the inmates, along with some other people who are also in music.
To be honest, I wasn't really expecting much with the visit. At the very least, I wished that it wouldn't be hot, and that it will be uneventful (i.e. no encounters of the weird kind). Prior to this I haven't been inside a prison before, and everything I knew about prison life I've seen in Mission: Impossible movies and the like.
The first thought that came to mind the night before was what I was supposed to wear. Given the heat, I'd rather be wearing shorts, but I was advised not to, along with the very helpful tip of not wearing anything brown, blue, or orange (which was what the inmates wore, color-coded according to the gravity of their offense).
I wore purple. With leggings.
I asked if I could bring a camera, and I was told I couldn't because the identities of the women inside should be protected. That seemed reasonable enough, but it would have been awesome to have had one though. For one, this post would have been written much easier.
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Our group was led inside without much fuss. We were advised to leave our cellphones behind at the car, which we've already done before going inside the facility. We were body searched (always a very unpleasant experience for me, even if it's a woman doing it) after our hands were stamped. Then, we were led inside the complex.
Everyone was very courteous. There was a good morning thrown my way every 30 seconds or so for the first ten minutes I was in there. I quietly took in everything - the obvious abundance of orange shirts and dresses with the occasional blue and brown, the long queue of the telephone booths which was their major connection to the outside world and loved ones, the beauty salon (I was tempted to try it out, to be honest - they had nail art!), and the impeccable surroundings that made littering seem like a mortal sin.
We made our way to a few flights of stairs until we reached the covered roof deck which had an amazing view of the Makati, Mandaluyong, and Ortigas skyline. There were also two keyboards in one end, with an overhead projector (is this real life?!). There were also chairs neatly arranged in rows.
After a while, there was some prayer done, and some talking. Soon there was singing, reading, even laughter, and then everything became solemn again, and then tears.
And then my heart was full.
It was such an eye-opening experience to have been a small part of these women's lives even for a few hours - to have hugged them in spite of every rule I've placed on myself regarding personal space, to have shared in their tears as they prayed for breakthroughs in their cases, for forgiveness, to rejoice in every season of their lives, especially in this season of isolation from the outside world.
I found myself crying at times during that morning. How often have I complained about things not going my way, or how hard life is ... what are my difficulties compared to these women who have been separated from family and loved ones - some even carry their pictures along with their IDs as a reminder. The food inside, I've heard from their own accounts, was so awful - a can of tuna was shared by three people. And through all this, they still have hope - a wild hope, if you will - that it could only get better.
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It was rather timely that in my various searches made through the Internet, I (re)learned something about "compassion". Compassion, from its Latin origin, actually meant to suffer with another. It's far from an act of kindness, though it is slightly close to empathy - to understand and share in the feelings of another.
When I was doing ministry there (and believe you me, I am hardly ever prepared for these things, but when push comes to shove, I somehow get a grip of what is expected of me), from the moment my hand touched one's shoulder, I felt compassion at that instant, and I found myself crying with them. I remember learning from somewhere that while you're doing ministry, you're not supposed to close your eyes, and you shouldn't be fazed with the showing of any emotion (i.e. crying) - for very good reasons, I must add. In the case of last Saturday's, however, it was close to a knee-jerk reaction, if you will. To explain it would look rather weird, cause I would do it this way: it's like the other person's emotions penetrate and swirl inside you, and as they swirl they hit you where it hits them at that specific moment in time - chest heaving, eyes tearing, teeth gritting. It can only be compassion, cause I could think of no other explanation.
Aside from this, I was also reminded that everyone is capable of great good and great evil. These women, who may have done evil in different shapes or forms, are also capable of shedding tears or becoming vulnerable. They're no different from me, or you.
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So, there you have it! I got into prison, and I got out.
If the family learns about this, it will be long before I hear the end of it. ("Buti na lang hindi ka napagkamalang preso!" or "Buti na lang nakalabas ka!". Hay, family.)
