Sen. Leila M. de Lima’s Memoir for PEN Congress (15 May 2021) The room was newly-painted. I can still remember the smell of fresh paint when I was brought to my detention cell in the morning of February 24, 2017. It was my first memory of what would be my continuing unjust detention that has thus far lasted four years, two months and twenty-seven days. And counting. Around 5 x 8 square meters. Spartan by standard with a single bed and a ceiling fan. My entire world pretty much consisted of that limited physical space the last four years. Not even a gateway into the infinity of cyberspace was made available to me. Everything that almost every person takes for granted has been denied to me: the ability to say good morning to my loved ones the moment I wake up, even by just sending a simple, seven-character text, “Good AM”; the ability to walk out of the door unhindered; the ability to go to the market and haggle good-naturedly with the vendors; the ability to open a stove and cook; the ability to hold my grandchildren; the ability to kiss my mom on the cheeks; the simple ability to praise my son, Kuya Israel, who has autism, on his latest beautiful artwork; and even the ability to feed and walk my dogs. I am Leila M. de Lima, former Chair of the Commission on Human Rights, former DOJ Secretary, lawyer by profession, incumbent Senator of the Republic, daughter, sister, mother and grandmother. They also call me a drug queen, among many other names. The daughter molded into principled public service by her lawyer-father is also the most vilified woman in Duterte’s time. My siblings and I were raised in Iriga City, in Camarines Sur. I graduated valedictorian in elementary and high school under the tutelage of the Augustinian sisters of La Consolacion Academy; Salutatorian of Batch ‘85 San Beda College of Law; placed 8th in the 1985 Bar examinations. I went on to become the Chairperson of the CHR, a DOJ secretary, and in 2016, was elected as Senator on my first electoral run. One could say that it was, indeed, a life destined for greatness. But at the height of my public career, I was politically persecuted and thrown in jail through the very thing that I have fought for: our justice system which was malevolently weaponized to silence dissent. Many would say, my persecution began when I launched a Senate inquiry into the EJKs in 2016. But I can say, it was charted way before that, when I entered public service upholding the values of integrity, honesty, and competence that were instilled in us by our father, and of humanity, by our mother. The early days of my detention were marked with indignation and disbelief. I recall being sleepless on my first nights inside Camp Crame, thinking of my children and grandchildren whom I wasn’t able to see before my arrest, and my mother whose dementia shielded her from knowing the cruel fate that has befallen her eldest daughter. Slowly, I established a daily schedule. Nowadays, I wake up at 4:30 a.m. and go to bed between 10:00 to 11:00 p.m. I begin the day with prayers and end it with reading some books. In between, I write my dispatches from Crame, and instructions for my staff. Most of my day is dedicated to Senate paperwork (drafting bills and
resolutions, perusing my daily briefing reports, etc.) as I am not yet allowed to participate in Senate deliberations even via teleconferencing. I also attend to some chores such as sweeping my quarters, feeding my adopted stray cats roaming the facility, and watering my plants. By 8:30 a.m., I’ve already exercised and taken a bath. By 5 p.m., I pray the Holy Rosary, read the Bible, and write in my journal. My faith has never faltered. As I always remind my staff and my family, surrendering our fears, our doubts, our anger to God does not mean consenting to the abuse and suffering. No. Never. Rather, it’s accepting the painful struggle in the promise that nothing lasts forever, and that good will always prevail. And indeed, it is. Last February 17, a few days before the 4th year of my detention, I was acquitted by the Muntinlupa trial court in one of the 3 conspiracy to commit drug trading charges. But more than this acquittal and the crumbling of fabricated evidence against me, it is the courage of ordinary people that inspires me to believe that vindication is near. I remember the mother who just lost her child to the drug war, telling me how she felt the hands of her only son slowly grew cold as he lay on the bloodied pavement. She said she knew her son wasn’t going to make it but she wanted to soothe his son’s pain, like she always did when he was little and had fever. We were there in the receiving area of the detention center, with only the monotonous hum of the electric fan to break the silence between us, two mothers, both longing for their sons. I will never forget when she said, we will fight, Sen. Leila, we will fight. I have always considered myself as a strong-willed person in both my private, professional and public life. And when I entered public service, I do believe that I displayed the courage to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. But it wasn’t until I myself became a victim that I learned and experienced first-hand just how immensely, and potentially soul-crushingly difficult it is to continue fighting for myself against the most overwhelming of odds. And yet, that, too, has been a gift of opportunity. For it is only when we ourselves are experiencing personal troubles that we can only ever prove that it is possible to fight for yourself without surrendering the commitment to continue fighting for others. It is only then that we truly know the depth and power of collective struggle. I first saw this in the women who first came to my rescue when I was being publicly shamed in Congress, in the relatives of EJK victims who vow to seek justice not only for their kin but for other victims, in the messages of hope young people sent to me, their maturity and courage defying their youthful scribbles. My story now belongs to a greater narrative of the struggle of ordinary people against social injustice. I can say now that I am learning life’s greatest lessons from them. And as we fight together, we also wait in anticipation for the day when we will all be vindicated and freed. So, yes. My life has, indeed, remained on the track of fulfilling its destiny for greatness. It has so far proven to be great, even exceeding expectations. Yet not in the way that most people would have guessed, and not in a way they would have hoped for themselves. It has been a life of great achievements, made greater by the unimaginable challenges and, yes, sadness. But such is the way of life: it is, indeed, a
box of chocolates. The trick is not to question the will of the Giver, but to make the most of what you have been given. We have all been given only one life to live; one country to love and defend; and one humanity that we all belong to and must respect and protect. And those are exactly what I will continue to do for as long as I have breath, and how I hope my life so far and going forward will be defined: Live, Love, Defend, Respect and Protect. For Life. For Country. For Humanity. ###