This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on February 4, 1999.
Upon returning from a four-day New Year’s vacation with my family in Bicol, I started working again a day before the scheduled execution of rape convict Leo Echegaray. With no sleep and little time for eating, I helped in the preparations, mounting placards and tying black ribbons around the trees in front of the Maximum Security Compound of the New Bilibid Prisons. I remember mumbling to myself “This is D-Day,” and anticipated a tough fight and a sad ending. Almost all of us in the Coalition Against Death Penalty knew we were at the losing end. Majority of Filipinos, the masses (although in times like these, I prefer to call them the mob) were crying out for blood.
That day, Jan. 4, was the longest morning of my life. The waiting was killing me. It was not until 12 noon when things took a different turn. By God’s Providence, the Supreme Court issued a temporary restraining order stopping Echegaray’s execution. I couldn’t believe it. It was as if rain had fallen on a burning field, except that this time the rain was not saving a harvest but the lives of more than 800 men and women on death row. It was a great joyous feeling. God’s presence must have been hovering over our tents at that time. While the crowd sang, “This is the day that the Lord has made,” Arsing, our volunteer paralegal officer, asked me to help the family of Leo Echegeray and bring them safely to our camp.
Again we had a long wait. We sent our companions to lunch. Only Arsing and I were left to wait. All of the vehicles coming out of the Execution Chamber entered Gate Four as we waited at the Main Gate for the family’s exit. Then they finally came: four women. We hugged them briefly, smiling. We asked the two aunts of Echegeray to go ahead. Arsing escorted Tessie, Leo’s sister. That left one more and I took her under my care without even thinking who she was. All I knew was that she was a member of the convict’s family. I held her close as she sought my protection. The moment we went outside the gate, a mass of reporters, photographers and cameramen came rushing toward us. I saw two of them trip and get trampled upon in the mad scramble, their cameras crashing to the ground.
The five meters we had to negotiate became a kilometer as we tried to force our way through the rampaging horde. Arsing and his companion had an easier time because the media did not recognize the person he was escorting, or maybe they did but they were more interested in the woman with me. As they continued to pursue us, they asked her questions about the execution.
Only then did I realize the trouble I had gotten into. “Uh-oh, Zeny, the wife of Leo?” I went cold with the realization even as the media went crazy, jostling for position like vultures feeding on carrion. We almost made it to the stairs leading to our headquarters before they overwhelmed us. Then they shoved me backwards as I tried to force our way through. “Huwag na kasi,” they shouted. All the time, cameras were flashing and the reporters were shouting their questions, trying to get Zeny to answer them. I felt trapped and helpless.
Finally, Zeny began to respond to their questions. But we could hardly breathe. I knew we needed to get out of there. Looking over the crazy horde, I saw Martin, a senior co-worker at the Philippine Jesuit Prison Service. I called to him for help. Then Zeny fainted in my arms. I panicked. I awkwardly grabbed her as her grasp loosened. She probably weighed 140 lbs. I could hardly carry her. Luckily, Martin was able to break through the unruly crowd and he helped me.
No one from among the media people came to our aid. They just continued to take pictures and refused to move back so that Zeny could have some fresh air. We were boxed in and they were growing rowdier by the second. We kept shouting for help. “Tumulong naman kayo,” we pleaded. “Maawa kayo.” Zeny was having seizures (I later learned from a doctor that her blood pressure had shot up to 200/120, and she could have had a heart attack). Just holding her was proving difficult. We almost dropped her as news photographers kept pulling at us to get clearer shots. Relief came when some of her relatives and fellow volunteers caught up with us.
Long after we had already moved her out in a van, the members of the media were still at it. When Tita Ludy, a volunteer whose van was used as Zeny’s getaway vehicle, came back, a reporter from this paper asked her, “Sister, pareho naman ho tayong babae. Saan niyo ho dinala si Zeny?” Tita Ludy, although piqued, still managed to answer, “Sa heaven.” After that ordeal, I felt like crying in disappointment, anger and frustration over my inability to protect Zeny from the media. She could have died back there, I kept telling myself. I was breathing hard, feeling sick and cold. This was not the first time I felt disgusted with the media. More than a month earlier, the CADP had a vigil and Mass at Our Lady of Mercy Parish Church in the NBP reservation. As we were solemnly praying the Our Father, a photographer shamelessly kept on fiddling with Martin’s shirt to take a picture of his back which had the message: “Execution is not the Solution.”
The picture made it to the front page of the Inquirer. On the same occasion. another photographer waited for the moment when tears fell from the praying Zeny’s eyes to take his shots two feet away from her. The flash bulb exploded right in front of her face and the photographer did it three times. I wanted to hit him on the head, but then we were praying in front of the altar. Now I know that what I see or read could have been taken in such callous or disrespectful ways.
Whenever I see Baby Echegaray on TV with a handkerchief covering her face, my heart bleeds for her. The media are killing her soul and reopening her wounds with their constant attention, forcing her to recall her traumatic experience. I wanted to write to her but I was afraid she might misunderstand me. I guess the only one enjoying all the media attention is the barangay captain who really has a talent for projecting himself well in front of the camera. Maybe he will win election as Quezon City councilor or even mayor in 2001. I have read that FLT Films has already paid Baby a six-figure down payment for her story. God have mercy on those who make money from the tragedy. Their crime is just as bad the rape committed by Leo.
My experiences have forced me to watch TV and read newspapers from a different perspective. I detest that part of me which is voyeuristic and insensitive. I am ashamed of the media as much as I hate people who want to put Echegaray’s head on every family’s dinner table to stop the rise of criminality. If I didn’t look good during my debut on national television, that is beside the point.
