(Editor’s Note: A hundred days after President Duterte declared an all-out war against illegal drugs, cash-strapped communities are scrambling to address a phenomenal number of drug users and pushers who have answered calls to mend their ways or die. In this series of articles, the Inquirer takes a hard look at how authorities are struggling to give them a new lease on life.)
(Conclusion)
Suddenly the once-neglected Department of Health Treatment and Rehabilitation Center (DOH-TRC) has become important.
That’s because the authorities are hard-pressed to find shelter for more than 700,000 drug users who have surrendered for rehabilitation rather than be killed in President Duterte’s brutal war on drugs.
The DOH-TRC in Bicutan, Taguig City, is the biggest government-owned rehabilitation center. Formerly under the supervision of the Philippine National Police, it has five dorms for male adults, a dorm for boys aged 14 to 18, and a dorm for around 130 women.
Most of the patients—regular and heavy drug users—come from the cities of Taguig, Pasay and Manila and Cavite province.
Majority of the resident adult males came from detention cells, said Dr. Alfonso Villaroman, an addiction specialist and director of the DOH-TRC.
Bert, 41, an ex-convict, is one of them.
He killed at least five people, and robbed countless victims. He and a companion roamed the streets on board a motorcycle, looking for people withdrawing money at ATM stalls.
Then they spend their loot on illegal drugs, mostly “shabu,” or methamphetamines.
Bert started doing drugs at 17 and was imprisoned at 21 for breaking drug laws.
“Literally, I was hopping from one detention cell to another since I was 21. It was my way of life,” he said.
After serving his sentence in New Bilibid Prison in Muntinlupa City, he went right back to drugs, was caught in Caloocan City and sent back to jail.
His next stop after jail was the DOH-TRC.
PATIENTS of the Department of Health’s Treatment and Rehabilitation Center in Dagupan City gather inside the center’s covered court for an activity. RAY ZAMBRANO/Inquirer Northern Luzon
Crushing kindness
“In the prison system, there is no change. Because it’s where all the bad things are: drugs, beer, violence and gambling. The rehab center taught me about goodness, that nothing is impossible. Here, they will not hurt you, or treat you violently. I’m bad, but their kindness crushed my heart … Believe it or not, I know I changed here,” Bert said.
When he arrived at the center seven months ago, he refused to eat. Now, he said, he has learned to value eating and taking care of himself.
The DOH-TRC was built for 500 patients. At present, it houses 1,550. Overpopulation causes patients to suffer from common illnesses and diseases like scabies, eczema and tuberculosis.
To help them, they are made to take a bath at least twice a day. “They should be comfortable. Remember, a rehab center is not a jail. It’s a place of healing,” Villaroman said.
For Villaroman, keeping patients clean is part of healing. But the cleansing could be something beyond physical.
“Now I’m fair. I was sun-burned when I came in. I don’t want to be under the sun again. This is the real me,” Bert said.
He’s looking forward to seeing his 17-year-old daughter in Romblon province after his release.
“She’s my reason for living. I could have died like my friends without the rehab. I can’t say I’m totally changed, but I am sure I can now manage,” he said.
Another patient at the center, Brother Joey, is being treated for alcoholism.
Unlike Bert, who first struggled with fumbles, as mistakes are called at the center, Joey, 37, is well-behaved. He is a deacon from the Archdiocese of Manila.
He used to consume a great amount of alcohol to be able to sleep. He started becoming an alcoholic after his mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Alone, he would contemplate life and solitude, his mission and purpose.
God’s call
Joey’s plan was to keep his identity a secret while under treatment. He discreetly learned from other patients as they confronted him with his limitations.
But his identity was exposed after a fellow patient recognized him.
In two months, Joey said he would be ordained, bringing with him to the priesthood lessons learned from fellow substance abusers.
Deciding to undergo rehab, he said, was “God’s call for change” and his way of cleansing.
Six other priests have undergone the same rehabilitation program at the center and are now assigned in different parishes.
“Humans err,” Joey said. “But not doing anything about it is a different thing.”
In a dorm for young males, around 15 boys, whose heads are shaved and who wear white shirts and shorts, are also undergoing rehabilitation.
Their world for six months is less crowded and fresher. A floor up their dormitory is a library where they can study or just read.
Most of the boys started with their adult friends teaching them to smoke, then take shabu. They used to steal money or sell their family’s belongings to finance their addiction.
“When Mr. Duterte became President, I was frightened. People told me the police will get us if they caught us. That’s why I went to rehab. I miss my family. I don’t want it here,” said Mike, 13, the oldest in the boys’ ward.
Mike tried shabu out of curiosity and due to peer pressure But he was hooked and he started lying about cutting classes and stealing money from his mother to buy shabu.
“I don’t want to go to a rehab facility before. It looked scary. But now, I told my mother I would go to a rehab facility so I could go out before New Year,” he said. “I think that’s the best time to change.”
Peter, 12, a former heavy shabu user, thinks he is much safe inside the center, but admits he misses his family. He was turned in by the social welfare department after he was imprisoned for robbery.
“When we didn’t have money, we stole from our parents or robbed people using knives,” he said, referring to his gang.
Peter’s life at the rehab center was far from his life in prison. He and the other boys are neat, take a bath four times a day and never go hungry. But they crave for freedom.
“I want to go home. I know I have changed. I will not come back here, I promise,” Peter said.
“I want to be a policeman. I am not a bad kid, like what some think of me. I think I can still prove to my family that I can still do right things when I come home,” he said.
For Villaroman, half of the battle is lost if the institution will not work with the family.
“We have to fit the program to the patients’ needs. It’s not putting them in a place and waiting for six months and leaving everything up to God. You help them have a form of insight. Develop a thinking there’s hope for them,” he said.
The DOH-TRC has a success rate of 70 percent, according to Villaroman.
“Many of the patients here, if you look at their eyes, they tell you, they’ve given up on everything. The challenge is to put them back on their feet, to build again their self-esteem, their shattered egos. This is what our job is,” Villaroman said.
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