A Good Start

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.

And the unsung heroes? Paralegal officers—those foot soldiers of justice working in the shadows of our overloaded courts, behind the tall walls and rusting gates. They deserve our loudest applause. They coordinated with the courts, pursued case folders with grit, and assisted in computing and granting Good Conduct Time Allowances. While many simply talk about criminal justice reform, they did it. Day by day, name by name.

But before we break into celebration, let’s hold the confetti. This needs some explaining and contextualizing.

Because even after all that, the national jail congestion rate is still at 298%. In some jails, the number creeps up to 1,000%—a number so grotesque it needs no explanation. One can only imagine the heat, the suffocation, the crush of limbs and stories in a space meant for one, now shared by ten.

Sure, the BJMP is building 43 new jails. A welcome move. But here’s the problem: for every PDL released, another is arrested. The math is merciless. Police arrest with fervor, prosecutors file with speed, and the jails, once again, are bursting at the seams.

Why? Because we’re still using arrest numbers as a performance metric. The more you arrest, the better you look. Never mind that the offense is petty. Never mind that the accused is poor, sick, mentally ill, or simply unlucky. It’s the quota that counts. Success measured in handcuffs.

And while BJMP reduced congestion by a few inches, it did so in part by transferring some 15,000 PDLs to the Bureau of Corrections (BuCor)—in effect, outsourcing the congestion, passing the poisoned cup to the national penitentiary.

Meanwhile, the use of alternatives like release on recognizance or community service remains abysmally low. They exist on paper but rarely in practice. It’s as if the system still sees jail as the only answer to poverty, addiction, or error.

BJMP did good. But let’s not fool ourselves: we’re treating the symptom, not the disease.

What we need is a rational criminal justice policy, one that doesn’t just react but rethinks.

First, we must minimize the input—stop measuring success by how many we can stuff into the system. Arrest should be the last resort, not the opening act.

Second, we must fast-track the throughput—build stronger coordination between paralegals and courts. No more lost case folders. No more hearings postponed to next year. Justice, if delayed, is denied.

Third, we must maximize the output—through community-based alternatives, drug treatment centers, and non-custodial measures. Many of our inmates are low-risk, non-violent offenders. They need help, not a jail cell.

And let’s not be seduced by the illusion of space. Build more jails, and they will come. Bigger jails don’t solve the problem; they only hide it. Like water, crime—and our response to it—expands to fill the container.

BJMP’s effort is a good start, but it cannot stand alone. It must be matched by restraint in policing and efficiency in our courts.

Otherwise, we are just running on a treadmill—celebrating the illusion of movement, while remaining exactly where we are.

In the end, it’s not about the number of people we jail or release. It’s about the kind of society we want to be.

Do we want to be a nation of builders—of jails?

Or do we dare to be something better?