PRESO, Inc. mourns the passing of our dear Ate Nita Silva Mangaser, who left us last December 5, 2025. Nita lived a life of quiet dignity - never loud, never seeking attention, but deeply present where it mattered most. For more than two decades, she walked with persons deprived of liberty, first as a lay volunteer in the Diocese of Novaliches and later as one of PRESO Inc.’s own. Her service was never just a task; it was a way of life rooted in compassion, patience, and love

Cambodia shows us a way out of this madness. The question is whether we have the courage to follow. Until then, our jails will remain what they are today: cemeteries of the presumption of innocence.

So many documents. Redundant documents. Paper piled upon paper, like bricks in a wall. You finish one set of clearances only to be told you need another, and another. What should be the key to freedom becomes the very chain that binds you.

There are, indeed, many alternatives to arrest and detention. The police do not have to keep implementing the same failed strategies. They do not have to be complicit in a cycle that fills our jails and empties our communities of hope. They can choose differently. They must.

In February 2023, the Department of Justice under Secretary Jesus Crispin “Boying” Remulla issued a circular raising the standard of...

The law is clear. The Department of Justice is clear. The problem is the people who aren’t. Implement DOJ Circular 11 now!

There is a quiet tragedy unfolding in the shadows of the Philippine justice system. It’s not the kind that makes front page headlines. It...

We can fix the drug problem. But only if we stop waging war on the people we’re trying to save.

Because if the Rule of Just Law is to mean anything, it must be more than a sword to protect the mighty. It must also be a lifeline for the poor who have drowned in the swamp of procedural delay.

Let no one say that the poor do not deserve justice. They deserve it most of all.

And yes, we must deal with the offenders. Not all are monsters. Some are first-time, low-risk individuals who may never offend again with proper intervention. Others are chronic, predatory, and must be kept away. A one-size-fits-all solution does not work. We need assessments. We need classifications. And we need evidence-based programs that address their behavior while safeguarding the community.

The UN has spoken. But our own people—judges who dismiss cases against the innocent, jail officers who treat inmates with dignity, parole officers who walk the extra mile—have spoken louder. These are the true Filipino heroes.

The slow trial process is not just inefficiency—it is cruelty by delay. Each postponement, each rescheduled hearing, each absent witness is a small knife twisted slowly into the gut of the accused. Judges know this. Prosecutors know this. Jail officers see this every day.

We need a law. We need legislation that recognizes that wrongful imprisonment—whether due to mistaken conviction or protracted trial detention—is a wound that deserves healing. That recognizes no one should be punished for being poor. That acknowledges the State has a moral debt to those it imprisons without cause.

Because if justice is something you have to pay for, then it is not justice. It’s a commodity. And if release comes only after extortion, then we’ve confused rehabilitation with racketeering.

Yes, three weeks isn’t much. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the courts, from the jails, from the endless back-and-forth between paper and people—it’s that real change doesn’t wait for grand legislation. It sneaks in through courtroom doors, it sits quietly in sidebars, it speaks in soft voices and small acts.

Organizationally, many police units survive on the mercy of local governments. Budgets depend on mayors. And when politics holds the purse, the badge becomes a weapon. LGUs don’t just support police—they command them. They own them. They aim them.

The Bureau of Jail Management and Penology (BJMP) has done something remarkable. From June 2024 to May 2025, it released some 68,000 Persons Deprived of Liberty (PDLs). That’s not a small feat. That’s not a statistic you sweep under the rug. That’s lives—68,000 stories unshackled, 68,000 families pieced together again, if only partially, if only painfully.

How do you stitch back a life unraveled, piece by piece, day by day? How do you find your footing when the world you knew has changed its rules, its rhythms, its face? How do you reclaim a family you left as children—now grown, with children of their own? How do you chase again the dreams that once waited patiently, only to grow old with you?

Just beyond the walls of the Manila City Jail, a quiet revolution is taking place—something that whispers of hope and second chances. It’s not the kind of story that makes headlines, but it is the kind that moves hearts.