Sharing, not Blaming: A Conference of Persons Restored of Liberty

On May 22, 2026, something unusual quietly happened in the Philippines. There were no fireworks, no political tarpaulins stretched across highways, no marching bands, and no politicians raising their fists for the cameras. Yet in many ways, it was more historic than many of the loud spectacles we often celebrate and quickly forget after the photographs are taken.

For the first time in the country’s history, around forty Persons Restored of Liberty, or PRLs, gathered in a national conference where they themselves became the center of the discussion, not as research subjects, not as statistics in annual reports, and not as objects of pity, but as speakers, facilitators, organizers, and contributors to the conversation on criminal justice reform. Present in the gathering were representatives from the Supreme Court, the Department of Justice, the Department of the Interior and Local Government, NAPOLCOM, PNP, BJMP, BuCor, the Public Attorney’s Office, Parole and Probation Administration, prosecutors, judges, jail officers, prison officials, parole and probation officers, and other criminal justice stakeholders. They did not come primarily to lecture. They came to listen.

And perhaps that was the most important part of the entire event.

For a very long time, people who passed through the criminal justice system were constantly talked about but rarely listened to. They became numbers in congestion reports, names on court dockets, bodies inside overcrowded detention cells, and entries in accomplishment reports. Policies were crafted around them. Programs were implemented upon them. Research studies were conducted about them. Yet very rarely were they treated as individuals capable of offering insight, analysis, and knowledge about the very system that consumed years of their lives.

This is why the concept of lived experience matters. Modern scholarship increasingly recognizes lived experience as a legitimate and valuable form of knowledge. In medicine, cancer survivors are consulted to improve cancer care systems because clinical data alone cannot fully explain the human consequences of illness and treatment. In mental health, former patients are consulted because therapeutic interventions often look very different on paper than they do in real life. The same principle applies to criminal justice. If we truly want to understand prisons, jails, parole systems, and court processes, then we must listen to the people who actually survived them.

That was precisely what this conference attempted to do.

This was not simply a gathering of former prisoners sharing painful memories. It was an effort to connect formal policies with lived realities. It was an opportunity to confront institutions with the actual consequences of their procedures, delays, and practices on human lives. Because many policies look excellent in manuals, memoranda, and legal frameworks, but become cruel when translated into actual implementation. Due process sounds noble in constitutional law textbooks, but for many detainees it becomes ten years of waiting inside an overcrowded jail cell. Anti-crime campaigns may be framed as public safety initiatives, yet they sometimes produce overcrowding, prolonged detention, broken families, and entire communities trapped in fear and uncertainty.

Research on jail congestion and prolonged pretrial detention in the Philippines has repeatedly shown these patterns. Thousands remain incarcerated not because they have already been convicted, but because the machinery of justice moves painfully slow. Court hearings are postponed repeatedly. Public defenders are overwhelmed. Prosecutors carry enormous caseloads. Judges struggle with congested dockets. Many detainees cannot afford bail even for minor offenses, while those with money, influence, and powerful lawyers often regain their freedom quickly. As criminologists and sociologists have long argued, the criminal justice system is never just a legal institution. It is also a reflection of social inequality.

Those inequalities emerged clearly in the testimonies shared during the conference.

Some PRLs spoke about their arrests, describing how they felt transformed into statistics meant to improve arrest accomplishments. Others talked about court hearings repeatedly delayed over many years until detention itself became the punishment. Many described life inside jails and prisons where overcrowding was not merely inconvenient but physically and psychologically exhausting. They talked about sleeping in shifts because there was not enough space to lie down simultaneously. They described violence, extortion, gang structures, drugs circulating within detention facilities, and the constant need to negotiate survival inside environments shaped by deprivation and uncertainty.

None of these realities are unfamiliar within prison sociology. From the work of Gresham Sykes to modern studies on prison subculture, scholars have consistently shown that overcrowded and resource-starved detention facilities create informal systems of governance. Gangs emerge not merely because individuals are inherently violent, but because people seek protection and stability in environments where institutional control becomes weak or inconsistent. Violence becomes a survival mechanism. Informal economies flourish because deprivation creates demand. Human beings adapt to confinement, but often in ways that deepen the very social problems prisons are supposed to solve.

Yet despite the pain contained in many of the testimonies, another theme emerged strongly throughout the conference: resilience.

Many of the PRLs who spoke had spent more than twenty or even twenty-five years inside jails and prisons. Some lost their youth behind bars. Some lost marriages, relationships, and opportunities to raise their children. Some lost parents and loved ones while incarcerated, unable even to attend funerals or say goodbye. Yet despite all of this, many of them emerged carrying not only scars but also an extraordinary determination to rebuild their lives.

That may have been the most powerful aspect of the conference. The participants did not speak as people begging for sympathy. They spoke as individuals determined to contribute to reform. They talked about accountability, but they also talked about healing. They discussed suffering, but they also discussed dignity, redemption, and hope. They spoke not only about what destroyed them, but also about what allowed them to survive.

And that is precisely what made the event historic.

For the first time, formerly incarcerated individuals themselves organized, facilitated, moderated, and directed discussions on criminal justice reform. They were not token participants invited merely to provide the “human side” of a conference dominated by professionals and officials. They became central actors in the dialogue itself.

To the credit of the judges, prosecutors, jail officers, prison officials, parole and probation officers, and other stakeholders who attended, the discussions remained respectful, thoughtful, and sincere. The event did not deteriorate into institutional defensiveness or mutual hostility. Instead, it became a healthy and meaningful dialogue about how to create a criminal justice system that is not only effective but humane.

We are also deeply grateful to the organizations and institutions that made this historic gathering possible. We thank the PRESO Foundation, the University of the Philippines National College of Public Administration and Governance (NCPAG) through the Center for Leadership, Citizenship and Democracy (CLCD), the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC), El Proveedores Foundation (ElProF), the Humanitarian Legal Assistance Foundation (LAF), the Medical Action Group (MAG), and the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines Episcopal Commission on Prison Pastoral Care (CBCP-ECPPC).

These organizations did not merely provide logistical support. They shared their time, resources, expertise, prestige, and credibility so that the voices of Persons Restored of Liberty could finally reach institutions of power. They helped bridge the painful distance between those who experienced the criminal justice system from the inside and those tasked to administer it from the outside. In a country where formerly incarcerated individuals are often treated with suspicion and stigma, these institutions chose instead to listen, accompany, and create space for dialogue.

This is the kind of conversation the country desperately needs.

Real reform does not happen only through new legislation, executive orders, or administrative memoranda. Real reform begins when institutions develop the courage to listen to those most directly affected by the system. Real reform begins when feedback from Persons Restored of Liberty is treated not as mere complaint, but as valuable knowledge capable of improving policy and practice.

Hopefully, this conference will not be the last of its kind. Hopefully, more spaces will emerge where lived experience becomes part of policy-making rather than an afterthought. Hopefully, the voices of those who survived detention and incarceration will no longer remain at the margins of criminal justice discussions, but become essential to the design of laws, procedures, and correctional programs. Because if the criminal justice system truly exists for people, then people must also help shape it.

And perhaps, in that modest gathering on May 22, a small but important door finally opened. It was a door long kept shut by stigma, silence, and institutional distance. It may yet lead not only toward a better criminal justice system, but toward a more humane society altogether.