Gang leaders keep peace, order in undermanned, underfunded jails
TOO MANY INMATES, TOO LITTLE SPACE The Bureau of Jail Management and Penology is struggling with a 612-percent congestion rate in jails throughout the country. The picture above was taken at Quezon City Jail on July 16. —NIÑO JESUS ORBETA
(Last of two parts)
The woes hounding the Bureau of Jail Management and Penology (BJMP)—including a congestion rate of 612 percent, jail guard shortage of 55,270, and measly budget of P60 to feed each inmate three times a day—are warnings of disaster.
But while the lack of funds and personnel could lead to a breakdown of order in the overcrowded jails, the inmates themselves try to keep the peace through a gang system with the blessing of jail officials.
The “mayores system” is often run by gang leaders but relied on by BJMP officials to keep the peace in jails.
The system functions like a community, mimicking the normality outside and providing a means to cope with the emotional and mental anguish of being imprisoned.
More practically, this shared governance between inmates and jail officers is also a way to keep the wheels turning in an institution that is scrambling to cope with a population explosion that has been exacerbated by President Duterte’s unrelenting war on drugs.
Peace and order
But it would be a mistake to think of the gang system as a hotbed of criminality.
Prison gangs in the Philippines more closely resemble “a social structure born out of a need to survive,” according to Senior Insp. Jayrex Bustinera, public information officer at Manila City Jail.
The mayores system is also a colonial-era holdover from the time of the Americans, who imported their “Building Tender System (BTS),” in which inmates essentially policed their fellow inmates, into Philippine jails, Bustinera said.
Under BTS, “inmate-guards” had ranks such as private, sergeant, lieutenant, etc.
The highest was major, which ultimately evolved here into “mayores”—the overall head of a cell who maintains a direct line to the jail warden.
“In their social structure, the mayores is the most privileged mammal inside the dormitory. When he walks around, he is even accompanied by bodyguards,” Bustinera said.
“These inmate-leaders are very important to us, given the lack of personnel needed to keep watch,” said Ermilito Moral, Quezon City Jail warden.
The mayores, he said, helped in everything, from head count to food rationing.
Without the mayores, Moral said, “there would be no discipline, no guide.”
Cell hierarchy
But the mayores is only one of several inmate-leaders in the cell, all of whom have separate, distinct roles in ensuring smooth operations in their dorms.
The extent of these leaders’ responsibilities is a stark illustration of how much the mayores system has evolved—from simply being a means of ensuring order to essentially making up for everything the government is unable to provide.
For example, the “mayor” (not to be confused with the mayores) is second in command, and helps to maintain general peace and order in the dorms.
Each cell also has its own “kulturero,” or secretary, who keeps track of his fellow detainees’ records, ensures they are prepared for court hearings, and is in charge of the daily head count.
The “bastonero” is chiefly tasked with ensuring cleanliness in the cells.
Inmates who have previously done time at New Bilibid Prison are referred to as “time men.” They often take the role of advisers because they are believed to have developed the “wisdom” that could come only from having spent years in the national penitentiary.
Jury
Each cell also has its own jury, which is in charge of running a nuanced, unofficial justice system unique to each dorm.
The jury decides the punishment to be meted out to erring inmates, and the bastonero is tasked with ensuring that sentences are carried out.
The nature of the offenses that the jury tackles ranges from the minor (small scuffles between cell mates) to the serious transgressions (harboring drugs and other contraband).
As long as a dorm’s inmate-leaders believe the misdeed can be dealt with without having to bring it up to jail officers, anything is fair game.
“Jails have a formal disciplinary machinery that’s written in the manual. But there’s also an informal system that we don’t recognize, but we know it’s happening, within the dormitories,” Bustinera said.
According to Titus, a mayores in a Manila City Jail dorm, inmates can come to him to appeal their sentence—which is usually “takal” (paddling)—with a thin piece of wood—if they feel that it’s unfair.
“If I can absolve them or lessen their punishment, I will. Instead of being hit 10 times, for example, I’ll downgrade it to five,” Titus said.
The juries are often widely respected, and pay unexpectedly painstaking attention to ensuring a level of objectivity.
For instance, the four prison gangs—Commando, Sputnik, Batang City Jail and Bahala Na—often each have their own representatives in these governments, and erring inmates can only be paddled by members of the same gang.
“It’s to avoid discrimination, because if you’re paddled by someone from another gang, they might purposely make it more painful,” Titus said. “There would be malice.”
Fundraising
The efficiency of this underground justice system may be rivaled only by the inmate-leaders’ prowess at fundraising—perhaps their most important function.
Although the strategy differs at every dorm, the Inquirer learned that the leaders have certain ways of raising money, which usually translates to better food, medicine and facilities for their constituents.
In the Manila City Jail dorm supervised by Titus, the primary sources of income are large, often one-time, donations from affluent inmates, which are not unlike buying top-tier membership at an exclusive club.
Inmates in the dorm who donate at least P20,000 are automatically granted “VIP” status, and are entitled to benefits that seem downright luxurious.
These include use of a VIP-only bathroom, which is not bedeviled by long queues and a limited water supply.
VIPs are also exempted from paddling for minor offenses, excused from daily chores, and given their own sleeping quarters—a true indulgence given that sleeping in the common area, where hundreds of inmates contend for the smallest sliver of space, is itself a nightly battle.
Other dorms collect funds from inmates’ visitors, who pay a “visitor’s fee” of P10 to P20.
The collection is recorded in a logbook by a designated treasurer, and the cash is typically kept in plastic containers hung from the dorm’s ceiling—a simple but effective measure against corruption.
Bustinera said the fundraising was not sanctioned by jail officials, but this helped augment the insufficient budget for food and medicine, and can even cut operational expenses.
Helping others
At Quezon City Jail, Daniel often steps beyond his duty as a mayores by helping inmates who get no visitors, who are considered the detainees’ lifeline, as they bring them food and medicine and serve as their crucial links to life beyond bars.
“Visitors are like gold to us,” he said.
As mayores, he takes the unfortunate inmates under his wing to ensure they don’t fall into depression and hotheadedness. Gang leaders pool their resources to provide them with necessities—soap, clothes, food—that no one brings in for them.
It’s these small but striking gestures of caring, according to Bustinera, that have convinced the authorities that the gang culture runs deep, and goes far beyond instilling mere discipline and order in jails.
“From the precinct to the city jail up to your conviction, there is this social structure that watches out for you,” Bustinera said. “You have a support system. As long as we’re unable to provide for all their needs, they’ll adapt. They’ll find ways to cope.”
