Commentary
Camp Bagong Diwa Massacre: A Reflection of
U.S. Prison, Criminal Justice Systems
The Bagong Diwa massacre
has exposed the extreme overcrowding, institutionalized corruption,
administrative and staff incompetence and insufficient facilities that
permeate the fledgling post-martial law Philippine national prison system.
The treatment of prisoners at Camp Bagong Diwa is also comparable to that
of prison facilities in the U.S.
BY DYLAN RODRIGUEZ
Contributed to Bulatlat
Last March 15, the
Philippine National Police (PNP) reportedly killed 22 Muslim captives of
Camp Bagong Diwa in Bicutan (15 kms from Manila).
Aided by US-trained
Philippine paramilitary and SWAT-style units, the PNP responded quickly
and fatally to a day-old prison rebellion with tear gas and machine gun
fire, snuffing out an uprising of over 100 prisoners. According to
Philippine officials, Alhamzer Manatad Limbong and Kair Abdul Gapar (both
well-known political prisoners and leaders of the Abu Sayyaf) disarmed and
killed three prison guards last March 14.
|
Prisoners wave a white flag during the police assault on Camp Bagong
Diwa in Bicutan, Taguig that killed more than 20 prisoners, most of
them unarmed. |
This particular
rebellion reflects a profound—and arguably unprecedented—political
opposition to the institutionalized dehumanization of the Philippine
prison regime in the “post-martial law” period.
Resonating a recent
and global lineage of anti-authoritarian and counter-state prison
insurrections from Attica, New York, to Robben Island,
South Africa,
the Bagong Diwa uprising quickly swelled beyond the immediate
proclamations of Limbong and Gapar.
The more than 100
prisoners revised Limbong’s and Gapar’s original demand of a speedy trial
and a cessation of hostilities in Sulu and reissued four demands: freedom
from bodily harm in the resolution of the standoff; timely and fair
hearings of their collective cases; respect for human rights; and access
to media in order to air long-standing grievances with the prison
administration.
Recent historical
context gives credence to these demands. In 2004, the Commission on Human
Rights (an independent office established by the 1987 Constitution) named
the PNP as the nation’s most consistent and flagrant abuser of human and
civil rights. The November 2004 slaughter of a dozen striking sugar
plantation workers in Tarlac province (central Luzon, north of Manila)
capped a touchstone year of state-conducted and state-sanctioned political
killings, including the open assassination of several progressive and
radical activists, human rights workers and journalists.
Moreover, the
Philippine government’s intensified campaign against drug users has
resulted in a dramatic increase in the jail and prison population, as only
3.5 percent of those detained can afford to post bail, and most are forced
to wait extremely long periods for their day in court.
Recent assessments by
a number of state and non-governmental organizations have resoundingly
revealed that Philippine prisons and jails lack basic infrastructure, and
are extremely overcrowded. Manila jails are operating at more than 300 percent capacity,
while the nation’s primary prison in Muntinlupa is nearing 500 percent of
operating capacity. These institutions consistently fail to provide
imprisoned people with basic nutritional sustenance. Most facilities lack
potable water, and poor ventilation spreads sickness, causing an unknown
number of preventable deaths.
According to a 2005
report issued by the US Department of State, people imprisoned in the
Philippines are most often forced to depend on their families for food
because of “the insufficient subsistence allowance and the need to bribe
guards to receive food rations.” Finally, as implied by the demands of the
Bagong Diwa rebels, the Philippine judicial process is inordinately slow
and inefficient, and contributes greatly to the endemic possibility of
prison and jail insurrections as well as individual escape attempts.
In the light of such
a veritable state of emergency, the four-point Bagong Diwa platform is
rather sober and tame. The insurrection itself, which refrained from a
large-scale killing of prison guards in exchange for a short-lived
negotiation with the state, is most appropriately understood as a
collective and politically principled response to the daily atrocities
that have been normalized in such profoundly dehumanizing fashion by the
Philippine prison system.
Further, the
substance of the Bagong Diwa demands shatters the state’s claim that this
rebellion was concocted by Bin Laden-affiliated terrorists in cahoots with
simple (and apparently, incorrigibly Muslim) criminals. In fact, for those
of us in the US informed by the recent domestic historical record, the
Bagong Diwa demands echo the seminal communiqués penned and voiced by
imprisoned liberationists (overwhelmingly of African, Mexican, Native
American, and Puerto Rican descent) in the Folsom Manifesto (1970) and
Attica Rebellion (1971), as well as the current generation of political
discourse emerging from such places as the Lexington (KY) Women’s High
Security Unit (1988-1989), Central California Women’s Facility (1997),
Pelican Bay (CA) Security Housing Unit (2001), and the Guantanamo Bay
detention facility (2002-present), among other sites of human captivity.
We must recognize, in
other words, that the Bagong Diwa rebels are part of a contemporary,
living history of rebellions by imprisoned women, men, and children
against prison regimes—including that of the Philippines—that have been
formed, inspired, and otherwise influenced by the expansive
institutionalized violence of the US state.
Human expendability and
Philippine prison expansion
The Philippine
national government has apparently learned valuable lessons from the
contemporary emergence and astronomical expansion of the US prison
industrial complex. Most important among these is that prison rebellion is
not the furtive and illicit violence of the “prisoners,” but rather the
self-justifying deadliness of a militarized domestic force acting under
full state sanction.
The strong advisory
and supervisory roles exerted by US military and government officials,
along with the increasingly international presence of American prison
administrators and “correctional officers” (prison guards) in and beyond
the Philippines suggests a particular historical accounting last March 15.
This massacre implicates far more than the contained violence of the PNP
or even the Philippine national government (although both must be indicted
as co-conspirators in this atrocity).
I am suggesting that
the emergence, expansion, and everyday functioning of the US prison
apparatus, in other words, offers both a historical and institutional
framework through which other national governments—in particular those in
(neocolonial) political alliance with American global hegemony—may
conceive, modify, and deploy new modes of political repression, social
control, and domestic warfare.
There are thus
several, tightly entwined common threads that link Bagong Diwa to the
emergence of the US prison regime as the preeminent global matrix for
large-scale human immobilization and punishment.
First, Bagong Diwa
entailed a coordinated and public slaughter of imprisoned human beings by
a domestic police force under the open sanction of a national government.
President Arroyo minced no words when she averred in the hours after the
killings that the dead Muslims (“terrorists”) deserved their fate, and
that the massacre “exemplified the best of the criminal justice system.”
While the scenario of the prison massacre is neither new nor unique in the
Philippines, what happened in Bagong Diwa showed that the state-proctored
slaughter of prisoners is neither cause for scandal nor is it concealed
from public view. In fact, it introduced the collaboration and
corroboration of the mass media as well as the mobilization of a popular
(and global) consensus that draws from the sturdy ideological toolboxes of
“law and order,” “national/Homeland security,” and “anti-terrorism.” Such
is the common language of the
US prison regime writ global.
Second, Bagong Diwa
demonstrates how the state’s organized killing of its own captives—whether
by siege, individual assassination, medical neglect, or other means—can
pronounce and perform a logic of human expendability, often defined
through the overlapping categories of “race,” region, and religion. In
the case of Philippine prison and criminal justice system, the poor are
clearly primed for social liquidation, while in the US, poor people of
African, Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Native American descent are most
frequently targeted for group-based punishment and periodic elimination.
Third, Muslims
constitute a captive political bloc, often taking the lead in challenging
prison guards and administrators in moments of crisis or insurrection. In
the Philippines, a complex and mass-based struggle for religious freedom,
national democracy, and sovereignty has been thriving among Muslims in the
southern islands for at least several decades. Thus, there is all the more
reason for imprisoned Muslims (including and beyond members and affiliates
of the Abu Sayyaf) to embody the leading edge of insurgency against
proliferating state terror and institutionalized dehumanization.
The aftermath of
March 15 entwines the fourth thread connecting Bagong Diwa to the global
expansion of the American prison regime. It is wholly possible that the
legacy of this rebellion and state-conducted massacre will be a new era of
Philippine “prison reform” and prison expansion, both of which will
undoubtedly be informed, assisted and politically supported by the US
government and military, as well as its expansive prison establishment.
There is a clear
historical precedent for this possibility. In the immediate aftermath of
the Folsom Manifesto, Attica rebellion, and a number of other early 1970s
insurrections by politicized imprisoned people in the U.S., the foundation
was laid for the industrialization and astronomical multiplication of the
prison apparatus as a primary method of political repression and social (dis)organization.
Reformist calls for institutional change resonated through the mid-to-late
1970s, as a fragile alliance of imprisoned activists, “prisoner’s rights”
supporters, attorneys, liberal policymakers, criminologists, judges,
elected officials and prison administrators enacted a broad agenda that
would ostensibly improve prison living conditions (for example,
alleviating the overcrowding and undernourishment of “inmates”), stamp out
the most heinous forms of institutional corruption, and “professionalize”
(and multiply) prison staff.
This generally
well-intentioned reformist agenda, however, was quickly absorbed into the
political impetus and economic drive for more and “better” prisons. In
concert with the racist and anti-poor mobilization of the reactionary “War
on Drugs” in the 1980s, the
United States increased its total incarcerated population almost tenfold
in less than a generation. By 1990, more than a million people were held
in American jails and prisons and shortly thereafter the US became the
world’s per capita leader in human warehousing. The rapid growth of
women’s prisons through the 1990s, and the more recent transformation of
US “immigrant detention” facilities (through the militarization of the
US-Mexico border and domestic War on Terror), have further extended the
scope of this apparatus.
The current yield of
the putative 1970s prison reform movement in the U.S. has thus been the
criminalization and astronomical imprisonment of more than a million Black
people (who compose 12 percent of the “free” American polity and more than
50 percent of its imprisoned population), and the disproportionate
incarceration of Latinos and Latinas, Native Americans, and other racially
pathologized and poor populations. Immigrants of color—both “legal” and
“illegal”—are increasingly and strategically subsumed under rubrics of
“criminality” (including that of the “suspected terrorist”), and their
very presence in the US is frequently challenged as a fundamental threat
to Homeland Security.
The Bagong Diwa
massacre has now, at the beginning of the 21st century, brought fleeting
attention to the extreme overcrowding, institutionalized corruption,
administrative and staff incompetence, and insufficient facilities that
permeate the fledgling post-martial law Philippine national prison system.
As such, the Philippines is poised for a dramatic prison and jail
expansion, buttressed by a state and popular mandate to “reform” the
institutional methods and enhance the bureaucratic scale of its capacities
to mass-incarcerate.
The Arroyo
administration will likely justify a commitment to Philippine “law and
order” by pointing to the Bagong Diwa insurrection as the unfortunate (and
perhaps inevitable) outcome of prison overcrowding, understaffing, and
institutional underdevelopment. These alleged insufficiencies of the
prison system will then be portrayed as an imminent threat to national and
local “security,” particularly in the long cast shadow of the globalized
“War on Terror” (which in the Philippines, is little more than an
elaboration of the decades long civil war against Muslims). In the midst
of the US prison juggernaut, which now holds about 2.5 million people
captive (including children), we must anticipate and prepare for the
reform, transformation, and expansion of the Philippine police and prison
apparatuses.
Political possibilities and Philippine diaspora
The final and most
important strand linking the Bagong Diwa massacre to the global presence
of the US prison industrial complex is the political onus it bears upon
the global Left generally—and diasporic Filipinos specifically—who are
committed to struggle for human liberation and freedom in the face of such
overwhelming state violence.
The tragedy of 15
March 2005 is an allegory of the everyday for the increasing numbers of
ordinary people who must suffer and die at the hands of the PNP, the
Philippine jail and prison apparatus, and the U.S. prison regime writ
large. There is, in other words, a kinship of captivity that is shared by
ever-increasing numbers of people in localities across the world that are
somehow touched by the virus of American-style imprisonment, an unholy
matrimony of mass-based human immobilization and acute bodily punishment.
A mounting movement
for the fundamental transformation of the American prison, policing, and
criminal justice systems has taken flight since the late 1990s, and has
begun to blossom as the resurgence of the late-19th century US
abolitionist movement. The nightmare of the American prison is now
bleeding into our very pores, as its violence is literally becoming the
way of the world—even and especially in our ancestral “homeland.”
Bagong Diwa has
abruptly called us forth as protagonists in this state of emergency. As
the soil hardens on the mass graves of the 22 prisoners killed at Bagong
Diwa, the question remains as to whether and how we will muster a
response. Bulatlat
Dylan Rodríguez
works with the Critical Filipino and Filipina Studies Collective (http://cffsc.focusnow.org)
and Critical Resistance: Beyond the Prison Industrial Complex (http://criticalresistance.org).
He is also an assistant professor of Ethnic Studies at the University of
California, Riverside.
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