On the afternoon of October 25, 2025, at the facility of the Bureau of Jail Management and Penology (BJMP) in Brgy. Gadgaran, Calbayog City, Samar, what felt like a simple outreach activity became something far more profound.
Together with our mother club, the Rotary Club of Calbayog, we brought books, paint, and bookshelves — symbols of education and hope for the detainees. These weren’t just objects; they represented renewal and possibility. Through educational books, the detainees may find knowledge that reshapes their thinking, guiding them toward self-understanding and rehabilitation. Within the pages of fictional stories, they may discover comfort and the rare opportunity to momentarily escape the walls that confine them — to live other lives, feel other emotions, experience love, and remember that imagination, like hope, cannot be imprisoned.
We were aware that we would be entering a correctional facility, and as students, we couldn’t help but feel uneasy. There was fear — fear of the unknown, fear for our safety, fear of what we might see. But upon arriving, that fear slowly melted away. The place did not feel threatening; it felt hopeful. We were greeted not by hostility but by humility.
We were welcomed by displays of the detainees’ handicrafts — beautiful creations made from straw vines. Some were bags, hats, and caps; others were small wallets crafted with care and patience. They were more than crafts; they were silent testimonies of redemption — proof that change, effort, and artistry still thrived behind those walls.
When we finally handed them the books, the atmosphere softened even more. The detainees watched and listened intently, their expressions a mix of curiosity and gratitude. Some smiled shyly, while others simply looked on, their eyes glimmering with something I did not expect to see — hope. They weren’t just receiving books; they were receiving reminders that the world still believed in them.
As a second-year Bachelor of Science in Psychology student, I joined the project expecting another service experience. But as I watched the detainees quietly listening, a realization dawned on me: behind every mistake lies a story — one often rooted in pain, neglect, or circumstance. In our field, we are taught to look beyond behavior — to ask not, “What did they do?” but “Why did they do it?” Society often sees only the mistake, not the reason behind it; we remember the sin but forget the story. We judge people by the wrong they’ve done rather than the good they are still capable of doing.
That day, I saw not criminals but individuals longing to be understood — people who, despite their confinement, still carry dreams and regrets. Correctional consciousness is more than awareness of imprisonment; it is awareness of humanity. Every person, no matter how broken, deserves to be seen beyond their past, to be understood rather than condemned, and to be given the chance to change — for healing begins the moment we choose compassion over judgment.
We may not undo their past, but we can help shape their future through empathy and opportunity. Every person, no matter how broken, deserves a chance to heal, to learn, and to be seen beyond their mistakes.
As I watched those detainees hold the books close, as if holding fragments of freedom, I understood one powerful truth: the only permanent thing in this world is change. And sometimes, that change begins not with judgment but with understanding — one book, one smile, and one act of faith at a time.
