FIFTY-seven-year-old Charito Corazon Manglapus, who has cerebral palsy and moves around in a wheelchair, knows how difficult it is for persons with disability (PWDs) to exercise the right to suffrage. She herself voted for the first time only in the 2010 elections.

In a high-pitched voice that sounds almost like a child’s, she said, “Karamihan ay mahirap ilabas. Katulad ko po, naka-wheelchair. Yung iba nahihirapang umintindi (It’s difficult to bring most of them out of the house. Like me, they use a wheelchair. Others have difficulty in comprehension).”

Manglapus, who heads the Cerebral Palsied Association of the Philippines (CPAP), which, along with the Persons with Disability Federation of San Mateo, Rizal, conducted last Saturday the seminar “Voters’ Registration Campaign for the 2013 Elections,” simultaneous with the special Commission on Elections registration for PWDs in the town.

CPAP registration records show that there were 112 PWDs who went to the San Mateo Comelec office to attend the seminar, register for the first time and to have their voter’s registration reclassified and updated and some to validate their biometrics.

The number was less than the 150 expected but was a feat nonetheless, because it took not only the will on the part of the PWD to be there, but also support from family members, since many of the PWDs needed assistance in moving around and filling up the forms.

In Manglapus’ case, someone had to hold the microphone while she spoke. Three family members also accompanied her, a common practice every time she attends meetings and speaking engagements.

A nonprofit organization, CPAP helps support the formulation and implementation of PWD policies and programs. It will organize a similar seminar in Valenzuela in April, San Juan in May and Marikina in June. The schedule for Pasig still has to be decided on.

Part of her group’s advocacy is to erase the negative misconception about PWDs, who dislike being pitied and can be productive members of society.

PWDs, according to Article 1 of the United Nations Convention on the rights of PWDs, include those who have long-term physical, mental, intellectual or sensory impairments which in interaction with various barriers may hinder them full and effective participation in society on an equal basis with others.

Dr. Monalisa Dungca, who specializes in pediatric rehabilitation, explains that cerebral palsy is a nonprogressive injury that affects the part of the brain that controls movement, posture and coordination. The injury happens in the developing brain anytime from conception and up to the age of two to four.

Cerebral palsy varies in severity and in some cases can result in seizures and visual and hearing impairment but is not hereditary and noncommunicable, Dungca said.

Manglapus, who was adopted at birth, was told by her foster mother’s sister that her biological mother had worn a girdle during her pregnancy. This, she said, is the suspected cause of her cerebral palsy.

Manglapus experienced voting for the first time during the 2010 national elections and knows the challenges PWDs face in order to vote.

She had always wanted to vote during national and local elections, “but I had difficulties which made it hard for me to register and vote,” she said. Her primary consideration then was the accessibility of registration centers and voting precincts and the inconvenience of people who would have to accompany her.

“Noong araw, hindi ko pa nakikita yung karapatan ng may kapansanan (Back then I did not see that people with disability had rights), Manglapus added.

A recent Social Weather Stations survey of PWDs and Filipino adults shows a drop in the participation of PWDs in elections. The number of PWDs who voted decreased from 60 percent in 2007 to 54 percent in 2010.  Those who registered but did not vote rose from 14 percent to 21 percent. PWDs of voting age but did not register also increased from 20 percent to 22 percent, the survey showed.

SWS found that among those who did not vote in the 2010 elections, 17 percent were ashamed to vote because of their disability, another 17 percent because of mobility problems, 16 percent because they were either sick or bedridden, and 10 percent because nobody would shade or read the ballot for them.

Other reasons include visual impairment, not wanting to vote, difficulty in reading and writing, being away on election day and disinterest in politics or elections.

Parish Pastoral Council for Responsible Voting (PPCRV) chairperson Henrietta de Villa said around nine million Filipinos are PWDs, and an estimated 2.6 million to three million are qualified to vote. As of January 2012, however, Comelec only has 742,228 registered PWDs in its records.

However, not many are able to because of the different and difficult circumstances they face.  Indeed, Manglapus’ experience shows that for a PWD, the process of voting is not an easy one.

On Feb. 29, 2009, her mother accompanied her when she registered at the Comelec office in Marikina. The office was located at the second floor and there was no provision for easy access, she said. So personnel of the Department of Social Welfare and Development carried her wheelchair to the second floor of the building.

That year, Manglapus said Comelec did not yet have the PWD registration form that would have identified her type of disability and the form of assistance she needed for the upcoming elections.

The modified form for PWDs would be promulgated as Minute Resolution No. 11-0708 only on July 5, 2011. Manglapus had to register again in the July 18-23, 2011 special registration for the reclassification of her voter’s registration and so she could fill up the new Comelec form for PWDs.

The 2010 national elections was a “moment of truth” for Manglapus. She was assisted by her sister who shaded the ballot for her.

Manglapus learned to write and read having completed elementary although she did not finish her secondary education. However, because she requires a special table to write legibly and does so at a very slow pace, she asked her sister to help so as not to inconvenience other voters in Barangay Fortune Elementary School in Marikina.

“But I already had a list of my candidates before we went to the voting precinct,” she said.

Manglapus was among the earliest voters to arrive in her precinct. She credits barangay officials for providing assistance. The voters however, showed mixed reception. Some let her wheelchair pass while others blocked her way.

Comelec Commissioner Rene Sarmiento, said there should be efforts to have accessible polling stations, ballots printed in Braille, sign language interpreters, a party-list representative for PWDs, and a PWD commissioner in the Comelec for PWDs to be able to exercise their right of suffrage.

There is also a need to campaign among lawmakers to push the rights of the PWDs as voters, to nurture contacts with international agencies concerned with PWDs, establish regional networks, to have an ASEAN committee on PWDs and for the agencies and groups to exchange best practices, said Sarmiento, who is Comelec’s “focal person” in the Inter-Agency and NGO Network in Empowering PWDs.

Manglapus welcomes the initiatives of both the government and nongovernment agencies to make voting in the 2013 elections PWD-friendly.

She recalls how she herself felt the first time she exercised her right of suffrage in the 2010 elections: “Sabi ko sa sarili, Filipino na ako (I told myself, I am now a Filipino)!”

(VERA Files is a partner of the “Fully Abled Nation” campaign that seeks to increase participation of PWDs in the 2013 elections and other democratic process. Fully Abled Nation is supported by The Asia Foundation and the Australian Agency for International Development.)

The NCMH WCPU tries to comply with the letter of the law – if only through the physical setup of its office.

By ADELLE CHUA

(Conclusion)

NORMA Escobido, family health officer of the Department of Health, has been with the agency for 35 years but has only been working with its Women and Children Protection Unit (WCPU) for two years. This has been her toughest assignment. She goes around the country, visiting WCPUs in DOH-administered hospitals.

She talks to rape victims and tells them about their option to pursue their attackers in court. “Only roughly 10 percent of them file cases,” she said. These few women find that government agencies are unable to use the evidence they have collected.

Instead of encouraging victims of violence to submit themselves to the criminal justice system, state agencies do the opposite—they frustrate the victims and confirm that it is so much easier to leave the matter to fate and divine retribution.

Lawyer Ricardo Sunga III, Free Legal Assistance Group coordinator in the  National Capital Region of the and a law reform specialist at the University of the Philippines Law Center, said there are two roadblocks to the use of DNA evidence to prosecute guilty parties, and even to defend those accused who insist they are innocent.

First, not all trial courts are open to the use of such evidence. Older judges are specifically hesitant to use physical evidence that can be processed by high-tech equipment.

Second, not all lawyers are willing, or even aware, that physical evidence can be used to bolster their cases. This is true especially for those in the provinces whose only recourse is the testimony of the victims.

Dr. Raquel Fortun, forensic pathologist from the UP College of Medicine, has an even stronger opinion. “We need an overhaul of the entire criminal investigation system,” she said.

She describes police efforts to deal with crime scenes, much less DNA evidence, as “shallow.” She said, “We cannot even solve cases that are piling up every day. How can we even begin to look into cold cases?”

Fortun has been lending her expertise to the government, working with the police and the National Bureau of Investigation, from as far back as the Ozone Disco fire in 1996, and from as recently as the Sendong flooding which hit Northern Mindanao last December. “You would think much has changed. But nothing has. They still only go for the obvious,” she said.

Rizza Pamintuan, a ward assistant detailed to the Philippine General Hospital’s Women’s Desk, keeps telling rape victims to tell their prosecutors that the kits are available and can be used for the case. Why the prosecutors do not have that initiative in the first place is mind-boggling.

The WCPUs, especially in the provinces, expose the employees to the hazards of going against powerful politicians, soldiers or policemen, or tribe elders who want to protect their erring members. They would go to great lengths to stop the victims from haling them to court.

More than dangerous, the job is frustrating. “Many times, the victims of violence decide not to file cases even though we have advised them that this is what they should do. Some of them appear ready to file cases. Then, almost always, they change their minds,” Escobido said.

This is because the aggressors are the husbands, fathers, uncles and grandfathers who beg the victims to just forgive them. Said Escobido: “We Filipinos place so much value on keeping the family honor and avoiding shame. We also feel powerless when faced against influential people. Rape is deeply personal and shameful. It is in our culture to keep the shame within the family.”

In the absence of anything solid on which to pin their case against their attackers, the victims almost always choose to forgive, and “move on.”

Luningning Banocia Banocia, who has been a social worker with the Rizal Medical Center since 1982, said the law is good but the implementation is poor. For instance, social workers face a dilemma when they send the victims back home when the aggressor is a family member living in the same home. “We do not have a shelter here for women who do not want to return to their houses,” Banocia said.

Sometimes, the attackers themselves bring the victims to the hospital and lurk around the corridors as if to make sure their victims will not bring them to the police.

Crucial to the decision are the mothers in the family, Banocia added. Unfortunately, they are “much too in love with the fathers, or they worry about who will bring home the money. They do not want to be talked about by the neighbors. So they would rather stay silent and keep it to themselves,” she said.

This is why cases of abuse, despite the laws that seek to prevent them from happening, are still underreported, Escobido said.

Indeed, Fortun said many Filipinos are fond of saying, “Ipagpasa-Diyos na lang natin ang lahat (Let’s just leave everything to God).” This results in no cases being pursued when the aggrieved party decides not to fight, when in fact it should be the state that files a case against the perpetrator—regardless of how forgiving the victim is.

Economics seems to be another root of the problem. WCPUs, according to Escobido, fall within the DOH’s gender development budget. But they compete with other units of the hospital for these funds, such that most of the WCPUs cannot even afford a regular complement of social workers, obstetricians, psychiatrists and administrative staff. The more active WCPUs—in East Avenue Medical Center, Baguio Medical Center and the Vicente Sotto Medical Center in Cebu—are all backed by international NGOs.

The WCPU of the Rizal Medical Center had to be augmented by a local Rotary Club to be functional. When the assistance stopped, the unit’s operations had to be merged with the Social Services Unit of the entire hospital.

Banocia has sought meetings with the hospital administrators, asking them to assign at least a small room to the WCPU. She has not been successful.

The Women’s Desk at the PGH is not wholly funded by the UP-PGH system either. The hospital has provided the room and pays Pamintuan’s wages. Everything else comes from donations—international NGOs and advocate-senators who prop the office up through office supplies and other operational needs. Then again, these forms of assistance are not regular, their sustainability uncertain.

At least the PGH makes use of rape kits, the improvised version of which costs P150 per box. The original idea was to collect 15 different samples and store them in Zip-lock containers. But these containers are expensive. PGH decided to do away with blood samples and use bond papers and glass slides that would be contained in small manila envelopes instead. The white boxes contain 12 of these envelopes.

But testing these specimens for prosecutorial purposes is another issue altogether. In UP, it costs P8,00 for a DNA analysis of a single sample. If the kit contains 12 samples, this translates to P96,000 per patient. In the event that the victim decides to use her kit to go after her rapist, all the way to court, she may just have to find a way to shoulder the costs.

Pamintuan believes that the use of the rape kits, as well as handling and storage, should be included in the amendments to the rape law. Who should have custody of them? What are the conditions under which they must be stored? Who decides whether they should be used in court?

But the Women’s Desk has bigger, more immediate problems. The room where the hundreds of rape kits are stored is not even assigned to it. It is assigned to the Surgery Department, which has repeatedly hinted at wanting to use the room for itself.

There are just too many boxes. Even though the prescription period for rape is 10 years, Pamintuan has had to throw boxes away as medical waste once they hit the five-year mark. Even then, the space is not enough. She recently resorted to putting some of the boxes at the top of her office shelves.

When the next victim walks into the door, Pamintuan, as she has been doing for the past 10 years, will assist her as best as she could. The ward assistant will continue to accompany her to the OB department to have her samples collected.

But the process will continue to be frustrating until these government agencies make it easier for victims submit themselves to the criminal justice system instead of just walking away in exasperation—a violation, all over again.

(The author is an editor of Manila Standard Today and a student at the Ateneo de Manila University’s M.A. Journalism Program. She submitted a version of this story for her Investigative Reporting class under VERA Files trustee Luz Rimban.)

By ADELLE CHUA

(First of two parts)

A SMALL, dark, musty room with broken windows at the bottom of one of the ground-floor stairs of the Philippine General Hospital is a treasure trove of stories. Locked up here are hundreds of white boxes—rape kits full of specimen from victims—stretching from floor to ceiling, wall to wall.

But the boxes lie idle, exposed to heat and to bugs and rats, their contents ignored and later disposed of without accomplishing their purpose.

In her 10 years as ward assistant at the PGH’s Women’s Desk, Rizza Pamintuan has never seen a rape kit being used to convict anybody. “In only two instances did the NBI (National Bureau of Investigation) and the PNP (Philippine National Police) get the boxes. We have no way of tracking what has happened to them,” she said.

The situation at PGH speaks volumes about how difficult it is to be a victim of rape in this country. A lack of coordination among medical and law enforcement personnel and ignorance and laziness of policemen and prosecutors result in crucial rape evidence rotting away in storerooms like the one in PGH. Consequently, rapists get away scot-free, their victims—especially those who muster the courage to come forward despite the stigma and cultural factors—denied justice.

Pamintuan receives victims of rape and other forms of violence, hears their stories and accompanies them as they weave their way through the various departments of the hospital. A number of the victims are referred to the PGH by the police or barangay officials. Others are brought by NGO workers. Some are called “walk-in”: They come out of their own accord, straight from their harrowing experience.

The victims are interviewed by social workers at the Womens’ Desk and referred to the Obstretics (OB) Department for an intensive physical examination. The rape kit is particularly useful if the rape occurred less than 72 hours before the hospital visit. If the victims are sent to the hospital by the police, PGH issues a standard doctor’s report—not the analysis of the rape kit’s contents—that would be brought back to the PNP station.

The contents of the kit sound comprehensive. There are oral, vaginal and anal swabs and smears. The victim’s clothes and debris from her body and surroundings. Saliva, head hair and pubic hair samples. Fingernail scrapings.

These samples sound as though they could help in pinning down the assailant. If the victim is too distraught, confused, weak or scared to stand up in court and point to her accuser, DNA that is found in the victim’s hair, nails, and body fluids will provide clues as to the culprit’s identity. However, it can only be used if there is DNA sample from suspects to compare the collected specimen with.  Alas, investigations hardly ever reach this stage.

Even the decrepit storage room is not enough. "Live" rape kits are stored inside the office of the Women's Desk, where people come and go.

The PGH Women’s Desk supposedly serves as its Women and Children Protection Unit (WCPU), a feature that should be present in all government hospitals. These units were mandated by the Rape Victims Assistance and Protection Law passed in 1998, just a year after the Anti-Rape Law amended pertinent provisions in the Revised Penal Code.

Under these laws, rape has become a crime against persons, and not only a crime against chastity. The Anti-Rape Law also expanded the definition of rape to include several other acts that may not necessarily be considered sexual intercourse but are performed against the will of the victim nonetheless.

The Department of Health also issued Administrative Order 1B outlining the requirements for setting up WCPUs. The response team will be composed of representatives from the Department of Social Welfare and Development, Department of the Interior and Local Government, Department of Justice and the Department of Health.

But PGH is lucky. Other hospitals don’t even have fully functioning WCPUs, much less use a rape kit, or perform a thorough physical examination on victims of rape and violence.

The laws do not specify the use of rape kits. The Women’s Desk of the PGH uses them on its own initiative.

At the Rizal Medical Center in Pasig, a DOH-administered hospital, the WCPU is built into the Medical Social Services Unit. The office is busy the whole day with charity cases: If a rape victim walks in and seeks help, she would have to tell her story to the social worker within earshot of everybody in the room.

“It was not always this way,” said social worker Luningning Banocia, unit supervisor. “Years ago, we were sponsored by the Rotary Club of Pasig.”

In those better times, the WCPU had a room of its own in the hospital premises, painted in pastel colors. But the funding ran out and the hospital underwent a renovation. It has been two years, and nothing has been the same.

In fact, senior OB resident Ria Rachelle Almoneda said they only see rape victims for medical purposes. Last year, for instance, a 16-year-old lesbian was raped and had gotten pregnant as a result of the incident. She tried to abort the baby. When complications arose, it was only then that she was treated at the hospital. Almoneda has no idea what has happened to the victim.

Storage is not a problem here. This is because no rape kits are even used—patients are “referred” to the PNP hospital in Camp Crame if they want themselves examined for purposes other than medical treatment.

“Referral” is a big word even among the staff of the PNP Women and Children Protection Center.  Civilian social workers Nora Gibote and Rowena Mateo Gatus said they normally advise victims to go to the police stations in their districts.  The police stations, in turn, tell the victims to have themselves examined in government hospitals nearest them. (Private hospitals will have none of the trouble of having their doctors go to various courts to testify on their findings.)

At the PNP Crime Laboratory’s medico-legal division, physical and genital examinations are performed on the rape victim. Gibote and Gatus, however, said these procedures are merely to test for trauma, depending on the lacerations on the victim’s vagina.  Taking DNA samples for the victim would entail “a different request” altogether.

But Senior Superintendent Elimer Catabay, chief of the Crime Lab’s Operations Management Division, said their team gathers everything from latent prints, fingernail scrapings, hair samples and sperm specimens from victims. Catabay, however, provides no specifics as to how the gathering of samples is conducted.

Asked whether the evidence is stored properly, he pointed to an ongoing construction site at the PNP compund—the DNA building that will be operational in June this year.

In the meantime, where and how are the evidence stored? “This is why we are building a new structure that will have proper storage,” he said.

Banocia said only four rape victims were assisted in 2011.

In Mandaluyong City, the National Center for Mental Health’s WCPU is a spacious room with pastel-colored walls and inviting chairs. But this WCPU specializes in psychological trauma to victims of violence. Physical examination is referred to the Camp Crame, the PNP headquarters.

“Of course, our aim is to have our own people here in the WCPU who will do everything so that the patients do not have to go from one place to the next,” said Dr. Beverly Azucena, WCPU head of the hospital. “That will happen soon.”

If the DOH were to be asked, it would confine itself to what the ideal situation is. Dr. Honorata Catibog, head of the DOH’s  Family Health Services Unit, said her office is concerned about policy—what the units should do, how they could upgrade their standards.

Catibog’s team has, in fact, collaborated with the Philippine Commission on Women (formerly the National Commission for the Role of Filipino Women) in drafting a performance assessment tool for all WCPUs in government hospitals all over the country. The tool acts as benchmark: It is supposed to guide the operations of WCPUs for it to meet objectives as envisioned by the law.

The DOH’s administrative order outlines the requirements for setting up WCPUs.

The PNP guidelines are also clear in the step-by-step process in assisting victims of sexual assault. The process flowchart is specific to the steps taken for histopathological and serological examination, the office and person responsible and the expected processing time for each step: Submission of letter-request, processing of payments, relaying to the victim of the procedure, actual examination, evaluation of results and release of results.

These steps, however, do not include the extraction of DNA specimen from the victim, any form of psychological counseling or legal advice.

In October 2007, the Supreme Court laid down the Rules for the use of DNA evidence in court cases. The issuance was a landmark move, signifying the court’s recognition of the probative value of DNA evidence in criminal proceedings. If the samples are collected and stored properly, they could hold the key to identifying the perpetrator without exclusively relying on testimonial evidence.

According to Dr. Maria Corazon de Ungria, head of the DNA Analysis Laboratory at the University of the Philippines National Science Research Institute, at least four entities can now perform DNA analysis in the Philippines: UP, NBI, PNP and the St. Luke’s Medical Center.

Despite the technology, DNA analysis cannot be performed if samples from the crime scene are not available.

(To be concluded)

(The author is an editor of Manila Standard Today and a student at the Ateneo de Manila University’s M.A. Journalism Program. She submitted a version of this story for her Investigative Reporting class under VERA Files trustee Luz Rimban.)

By BOOMA CRUZ

IN the last 26 years, Filipinos troop to EDSA to celebrate and commemorate a brief shinning moment in the nation’s history that led to the dismantling of the Marcos dictatorship on Feb. 25, 1986.

The 31-kilometer, 10-lane stretch, the birthplace of people power, has since been most identified with the Filipino. It has in fact become the Filipino.

“It’s a microcosm. Ito po ay nagpapakita ng kagandahan at minsan naman po yung hindi kagandahang aspeto ng ng ating lipunan (It shows the good and sometimes not so good aspect of our society),” said Francis Tolentino, chairman of the Metro Manila Development Authority, the agency in charge of clearing the traffic jams that have characterized EDSA today.

“Yung walang disiplina kita natin yan sa pagmamaneho. Subalit sa kabila makikita natin yung mga kababayan natin nagsusumikap—yung ating mga sidewalk vendors sa Cubao, nakikita nyo po yung mga galing ng lalawigan na bumababa sa mga bus terminals natin naghahanap ng mga bagong oportunidad sa kalakhang Maynila. Nakikita nyo po yung pagsusumikap ng ating mga kababayan, lahat po yan dumadaloy po sa EDSA (The lack of disclipine is seen in the drivers. But we also see how hardworking Filipinos are—the sidewalk vendors in Cubao, those from the provinces who get off bus terminals looking for opportunities in Metro Manila. All of them pass through EDSA),” said Tolentino.

EDSA mirrors a pronounced societal gap that is reflected in almost every section of the highway, from the expensive, handsome cars that speed past old, beat-up vehicles to the exclusive villages and dilapidated shanties that line the highway.

But EDSA is more than the bottlenecks and its reflections.

“EDSA is our main artery. It could make or break us in terms of pollution, in terms of economy, in terms of our utilization of time. It’s right in the middle of the metropolis so lahat talaga nakatuon ang pansin dyan sa EDSA. Pagkanagka-bara dyan sa EDSA (All attention is focused on EDSA.  So when EDSA gets choked) you practically choke the whole metropolis, so that’s how important it is,” said Public Works Secretary Rogelio Singson.

At least 350,000 vehicles and more than a million people crowd EDSA every day. With 17 shopping malls, eight condominiums, four hotels, 16 motels, 12 schools, 11 private and markets, 24 bus terminals, 31 gas stations, the highway that cuts through seven of 13 cities in Metro Manila—Kalookan, Quezon City, Pasig, Mandaluyong, Paranaque, Makati, and Manila—is literally bursting at the seams.

Tolentino said: “(There are) 1,200 vehicles per lane per hour ang EDSA. So more than the carrying capacity na pero hindi lang po yan ang pinag-uusapan (but that’s not the only thing we’re talking about). You talk about pollution, added fuel cost, burden to the economy, lost man man-hour productivity, ang daming problema niyan eh (There are so many problems).”

Experts and officials trace the problem to, at the very least, a failure in planning as a consequence of the absence of political will and lack of foresight, among others.

“It used to be a secondary road and all of a sudden it became the primary road,” Singson said.

The chockfull EDSA was not in the 1939 masterplan that saw the highway as a mere shortcut out of Manila and an alternate route to Quezon City, which was envisioned to be center of government that should decongest Manila.

University of the Philippines history professor Ricardo Jose said the plan did not foresee the galloping Philippine population that now stands at 101 million with no less than 12 million residing in Metro Manila.

According to architect Paulo Alcazaren, the government failed to enforce the zoning rules over time because of land speculation and development opportunities. The result, he said, is an urban planner’s nightmare that is EDSA.

“Naghanap na lang ng balanse yung lungsod. At lumabas, ang pinakamagandang lugar na magtayo at mag develop ay yung lugar sa pinakadulo o pinakafringe ng Metro Manila, yan yung dinedefine ng EDSA (The city was looking for balance. And it turned out that the best place to develop was on the fringe of Metro Manila. That’s what EDSA defines),” said Alcazaren, an urban planner.

The problem persists that somehow explains the seeming construction orgy along EDSA. Construction permits are issued by local government units, which are empowered by the Local Government Code to craft and enforce their own land use plan.

Tolentino rues the absence of a comprehensive land use plan in relation to EDSA.

“There is an ongoing competition among the LGUs involved to spur their own economic growth pero wholistically hindi natin masasabi na tama in the long run dahil iba-iba ho yung konsepto (we can’t say it’s right in the long run because different concepts are applied) in terms of integration yung sa road system, traffic system. You also have to look forward to what would happen 10 years, 20 years from now. Baka wala na tayong (We might have no) parking space,” said the MMDA chairman.

Long before the 1986 people power revolution, EDSA had already carved a niche in history as a path to freedom.

According to Jose, American and Filipino soldiers passed through what we now know as EDSA, then referred to by American soldiers as Route or Highway 54, in going to Bataan.

“Nung idineklara ni MacArthur na open city yung Manila, hindi na pwedeng dumaan sa Manila yung mga military forces so dumaan sila sa Highway 54. It served the purpose na legally hindi sila dadaan sa Manila pero sa environs ng Maynila (When Douglas MacArthur declared Manila an open city, the military forces were prohibited from passing through Manila, so they passed through Highway 54, or in the environs of Manila),” he said.

Looking at EDSA today, the UP Philippine history professor, whose field of specialization is the American period, sees more than just a failure in planning. The more striking and clearest disappointment to him is the state of total memory loss of the Filipino about the man after which the country’s busiest highway was named.

“Makikita natin yung pagkukulang ng mga Pinoy, and one thing very clear there of course is nakalimutan na natin kung sino si Epifanio de los Santos (We see the shortcoming of Filipinos, and one thing very clearer there of course is they have forgotten who is Epifanio de los Santos). He was a second Rizal. Sinundan niya yung (He followed the) footsteps ni Rizal, yung trying to reconstruct who’s the Filipino,” said Jose.

A genius like Dr. Jose Rizal who excelled in every field that he ventured into, De los Santos was a journalist, historian, poet, painter, pianist and sculptor, among other things. He wrote extensively about the Philippine revolution and the biographies of Emilio Aguinaldo, Andres Bonifacio, Emilio Jacinto and Gregorio del Pilar.

“Up to that time, 1910’s ito, hindi pa natin masyadong naiintindihan yung buong kasaysayan ng rebolusyon so inukit ni de los Santos ito. Binuhay niya yung mga major figures nung revolution. Kung sino tayo parang siya ang nagbuhay ng ano ba talaga yung rebolusyon, sinu sino ba yung mga tao dun, sino ang leader so kung wala siya, we would not have the knowledge of the revolution. Kung wala yung initial foundation na yun, mawawala tayo (This was the 1910’s and we didn’t quite understand the whole history of the revolution, so De los Santos recorded it, bringing to life the major figures of the revolution. He reminded us what the revolution was about, who were the people there, who were the leaders. Without him, we would not have the knowledge of the revolution. We’d be lost without that initial foundation),” said Jose.

De los Santos was the pride of Rizal province, which covered most parts of EDSA when it was still known as Highway 54 until the early part of 1959. He died in 1928.

Today, Filipinos hardly know who is De los Santos.

Tolentino, who deals with EDSA’s daily problems, said as much: “Marami hong hindi nakakaunawa kung ano yung ginawa nya. So siguro ho dapat usisain muli yan kung ano yung kahalagahan nga nung buhay din ni Ginoong Epifanio de los Santos (Many don’t understand what he did. So perhaps we should re-examine the importance of Mr. Epifanio de los Santos’ life).”

Peter Uckung, senior researcher of the National Historical Institute, provides some food for thought for every Filipino: “Ang sinasabi ng kasaysayan dahil ipinangalan nga sa kanya, siya ay dapat tuluran. Ngayon kukwestyunin mo na paano mo tutularan si Epifanio delos Santos (History tells us the street should be named after him, he should be emulated. Now the question is, how can you be like Epifanio de los Santos).”

In knowing EDSA the man, the nation might still find the true Filipino.

By MALTE E. KOLLENBERB

(Conclusion)

WOMEN’S rights and migrant advocates in South Korea say complaints of domestic abuse are not uncommon here, and the story of Cathy Deocades is no exception.

Cathy’s story started out as a hopeful search for a better life in South Korea, whose cultural exports like K-Pop-music and Korean dramas often paint a picture of domestic harmony. Cathy met her husband, who turned to the Philippines in search for a woman he could not find in South Korea, through a marriage broker. Shortly after the two met for the first time they got married. The couple did not have time to get to know each other.

In South Korea, domestic abuse in multiethnic families is not unusual. But the incidence has gone down in recent years, says policewoman Kim Gyu-ree who works in the foreign affairs division in Cheonan, a city with a higher than average migrant population.

Cathy’s case, however, is the only one that ended in death among the estimated 8,000 Filipinas married to Koreans, said Sylvia M. Marasigan, consul general of the Philippine Embassy in Seoul. If there had been a suicide before Cathy, it was not reported to the embassy.

On Jan. 11, 2011, Cathy was found hanging from a wooden bar in an abandoned house near her home in the rural village of Tapgok-ri, Yugu-eup in Gongju-city, 150 kilometers from Seoul. The police concluded suicide and saw no need for an autopsy. But Cathy’s parents and siblings suspect foul play, and had her autopsied by a Philippine doctor, whose findings raised the possibility of homicide. The conflicting findings have muddled the circumstances of her death.

Suspicions of foul play were fueled by reports that Cathy was an abused wife. Cathy experienced domestic abuse, said her parents. Her sister went even a step further and alleged that Cathy’s husband sold her to other men. She was abused by the mother-in-law also, at least verbally, they said.

When personnel of the Philippine Embassy visited Cathy at her home in Gongju in the fall of 2010 and questioned her about the problems and hardships they heard she was facing, Cathy refused to confirm them.

In fact, Cathy and her husband, Park Heung-yong, were seen holding hands back then. Cathy admitted there were problems in the marriage, but there was nothing she could not handle herself, said Marasigan.

In the morning of Jan. 11, 2011, Cathy went missing and her father-in-law, Park Yeong-shin, could not find her, he says. “She was not around the house,” Park said in an interview at his home in January 2012.

Park said he kept on searching, walked through the snow, up the mountain where Cathy had gone every once in a while during the last months. He was alone. His son, Cathy’s husband, a truck driver, was at work and Cathy’s mother-in-law had gone to a neighboring village.

At around 11 a.m. he found her, hanging from the wooden bar in the abandoned house. The spot where Cathy hung was overlooking the whole village, the farmhouses and the cattle in the cowshed at the foot of the hill.

Cathy had supposedly used the string of a hoodie sweater to hang herself.

If Cathy did kill herself, she would be one of thousands who do so every year in South Korea.

This East Asian nation of 50 million people has the highest suicide rate among 34 developed countries. In South Korea, suicide is the most common cause of death for people between the ages of 10 and 40. A suicide of a woman in her mid-20s would not be totally unusual.

But unlike in the United States or Germany for example, autopsies of suicide cases in South Korea are not mandatory. Relatives may ask for one, or if there is reasonable doubt about the death of a person, an autopsy is usually suggested by the police and ordered by the prosecutor.

“Cathy’s family in Korea did not want an autopsy,” said Chang Sun-ik of the scientific investigation team of Gongju Police during a phone interview. “And as there was no doubt about the suicide, we did not order one.”

In the village of Gongju people talk about Cathy as the crazy one. A Korean neighbor remembers Cathy coming over at night, opening the heater door and burning herself.

It is said she was seen outside on the street, barefoot at night, sometimes naked. Cathy was reportedly taken to a mental hospital in the fall of 2010. But doctors could not find any abnormality.

Cathy, everyone presumed, suffered from postpartum depression after giving birth to a boy.

Her in-laws said she began developing weird behavior during the ninth month of her pregnancy. She started hanging out at the mountains, her mother-in-law said. And she slept in the little church of the small village during nighttime.

“I asked her what the problem was,” said Park Yeong-shin, her father-in-law.

But even expressing herself to the in-laws was difficult for Cathy. She could not speak Korean very much. The only Filipino woman in the village beside Cathy had left to live near the city of Cheonan in October 2010. Cathy was all alone, with no one to talk to.

“We called a Korean teacher to enable her to speak with us,” said her father-in-law. “She answered that there is no problem. She said she just wanted to die.”

Cathy’s in-laws said when she began acting extremely weird and confused, even wanting to give coffee to her baby, they decided it was best for her to visit the Philippines. “We prepared for a trip to the Philippines. We thought she might get better at her home,” they said.

Cathy and her husband were supposed to go together, but Cathy cancelled the trip suddenly, they said.

Cathy’s brother in the Philippines, who knew about the planned trip, told a different version: “The mother in-law was against it.”

“Cathy was a normal person, but she became mentally ill during her first year in Korea,” said Kim-Seong Mi-kyeong, director of Incheon Women’s Hotline which investigated the case. But people close to Cathy refused to provide details about what had happened in the village. The only testimonies they got were those of Cathy’s Korean family and their neighbors.

“Filipino friends of Cathy refused to talk about the case,” said Kim-Seong Mi-kyeong. A former Filipino neighbor said to be a friend of Cathy denied they were friends, and would only provide information through a friend of her husband. Cathy was acting weird, the friend would only say.

Cathy’s story is too much for Filipino women in South Korea.

“I came home at night and the sister of a friend of mine who stayed at my house during that time told me Cathy died,” said Jolly Regacho, a Filipina who has lived in South Korea since she was 18.

Regacho is married to a Korean she met almost two decades ago in the Philippines. Her husband is living in Angeles, Pampanga permanently. But Regacho is living in her husband’s country working for a local Filipino founded organization taking care of migrants who have difficulties adjusting to life in South Korea. Every day she deals with domestically abused Filipino migrants.

When Regacho learned Cathy’s Korean husband wanted her remains cremated, she objected. “The first thing I was thinking was there is something wrong with that case,” she said. She made a few phone calls and eventually talked to Cathy’s parents in the Philippines.

The Philippine Embassy in South Korea intervened. “We do not usually cremate dead Filipinos here in South Korea,” said Marasigan.

When Cathy’s family in General Santos City requested that Cathy’s body be brought home, the cremation in South Korea was stopped. “It was her (Korean) husband who paid for the transportation of the body back to the Philippines,” Marasigan said.

On Jan. 19, 2011, Cathy finally returned home—in a box.

The author is a German journalist based in Seoul and is a student at the Ateneo de Manila University’s M.A. Journalism Program. He submitted a version of this story for his Investigative Reporting class under VERA Files trustee Luz Rimban.

The village in Gongju City where Cathy lived. Photo by Malte E. Kollenberg

By MALTE E. KOLLENBERG

GONGJU, South Korea —Two and a half hours south of Seoul by land lies the farming village of Tapgok-ri, a remote part of the city of Gongju. Here, in the middle of nowhere, is where Cathy Deocades lived. It is nothing like the glittery and glamorous world shown in Korean dramas and K-Pop music videos, which are increasingly popular among Filipino women.

Gongju is no Seoul, Busan or Daegu. The houses here are small; hardly any building is higher than two floors. Encircled by mountains, the village is blanketed in snow in winter—and becomes gloomy and depressing—when the temperature drops to far below zero. Beside a cold wind blowing and the occasional dog barking, there is only stillness.

Here on Jan. 11, 2011, Cathy Deocades, 24, was found hanging from a wooden bar in an abandoned house several meters from her home. The police came and concluded suicide. Investigations stopped and the case was closed.

Cathy’s family in the Philippines could not believe a devout Catholic like her would take her own life. Her parents and siblings say she was living a difficult life in a place where she couldn’t speak the language, where she didn’t know the people and where she has been a victim of domestic abuse by her husband and mother-in-law.

But proving these allegations is difficult, even as the findings in the Philippines contradict the Korean certificate of death. Korean authorities did not order an autopsy; in Korea where suicide is common, autopsies are not.

Eight days after her death, Cathy’s body arrived in General Santos City in Mindanao. Her remains, along with the English translation of the Korean death certificate finding suicide as the cause of death, were turned over to Antonietta Odi, medico-legal officer of the City Integrated Health Services Office in General Santos, Cathy’s hometown.

Odi concluded the rope marks on Cathy’s body did not result from hanging. Her finding: “Ligature mark, abraded and contused, 36.0cms., with width ranging from 0.5 cm. to 1.0 cm., neck, anteriorly above the thyroid cartilage, oriented horizontally with almost uniform depth throughout its course.”

The “cause of death,” Odi wrote, is “asphyxia by ligature strangulation.”

According to the website forensicpathologyonline.com, “strangulation is that form of asphyxia which is caused from constriction of the neck by ligature without suspending the body. Pulling a U-shaped ligature against the front and sides of the neck while standing at the back can cause death.”

In short, Odi basically wrote that Cathy did not kill herself. Which also means it must have been a homicide.

Chung Nak-eun, director at the National Forensic Service (NFS) of Korea in Seoul, insists, though, that Odi’s autopsy report is wrong. “I know the case since February 2011,” he said.

On Feb. 28, 2011, the Gongju police asked the NFS to investigate Cathy’s case, after doubts were raised in the Philippines about the circumstances of her death. The NFS report, which reaffirmed that Cathy’s death was a suicide, was issued on March 11.

Chung was then the director of the central district office in Daejon and basically in charge of a possible autopsy, if the prosecutor had demanded one. But no autopsy was ordered.

“That was a big mistake,” Chung repeatedly said as he was explaining the case.

Gongju Prosecutor in charge Ko Ah-ra declined to comment on why no autopsy was carried out.

Yoo Young-kyu, a staff reporter of the Seoul Shinmun who has published extensively on unresolved murder cases, said, however, the real problem is that autopsies are not mandatory in suicide cases in South Korea.

In South Korea, if there is reasonable doubt about the death of a person, the prosecutor orders an autopsy. In Gongju on Jan. 11, 2011, the police found a broken clay pot and surmised that Cathy clambered on to this pot and then kicked it away, hanging herself using the rope from a hoodie sweater.

“There was absolutely no proof that someone else was involved,” said Ham Woo-suck of the crime scene investigation team of the Gongju police.

Dr. Hwang Kyu-yeop of Hyundai Hospital in Gongju city examined Cathy’s body and issued the death certificate, which states suicide as cause of death. In what appears to be a translation error, the English version of the death certificate lists “accident” in the space that asks for “kind of death.”

Hwang, who certified Cathy’s death, said it could not be ascertained if it was a suicide if no autopsy was undertaken. Over the phone in December 2011, he denied writing “suicide” as the cause of death. “I did not tell that to the police,” he said. “I said I don’t know how she died.”

In a later interview for this story at the Hyundai Hospital in Gongju, Hwang explained the procedure when certifying a death. A doctor fills out a form and answers questions about the death by ticking one of several options. And from what he saw on Cathy’s body, he said, nothing he saw spoke of homicide. Everything pointed toward a suicide.

For the reinvestigation, Chung of the NFS used pictures taken after Cathy was found. The ligature marks are clearly V-shaped, he said. When a person dies of hanging, the rope marks on the neck usually form a V. That just means that the rope goes up toward the ceiling and leaves marks on the skin shaped like a V.

Hwang of Hyundai Hospital confirms that. Cathy’s body clearly shows the marks of a case of “unusual hanging” as it is called among forensic experts. The rope does not go up on the back of her head. It left aberrations on the left side of her chin. “It was a suicide. We (the NFS) think the doctor in the Philippines did not describe the ligature mark correctly,” said Chung.

To be scientifically precise, there is also a theoretical chance that a person did not die of hanging but has been poisoned or drugged, he admits. To exclude these factors, an autopsy is needed that goes beyond the one done in the Philippines, said Chung. The statement had also been made by the doctor signing Cathy’s certificate of death.

“Regardless, it was a big mistake the prosecutor did not order an autopsy here in Korea,” Chung said.

Odi would not comment on the allegations made by Chung as well as her own autopsy report despite repeated phone calls, messaging and faxing for more than six weeks. On the rare occasions she talked on the phone, the medico-legal would only say she would give a comment soon.

Despite the reinvestigation by the NFS, Cathy’s family in the Philippines still doubts the official version of her death. Philippine embassy public interest lawyer So Ra-mi had represented the family in South Korea. Last Dec. 21, she assumed the case would be closed the next few days as the reinvestigation has not led to new discoveries.

Indeed, on Dec. 26, 2011, Prosecutor Ko Ah-ra issued the final report: Case closed.

(To be concluded)

(The author is a German journalist based in Seoul and is a student at the Ateneo de Manila University’s M.A. Journalism Program and the Asian Center for Journalsim. He submitted a version of this story for his Investigative Reporting class under VERA Files trustee Luz Rimban.)