A Unique Community Behind Bars: Life in Barrio Libertad at Iwahig Prison

In the heart of Palawan, within the sprawling 28,000-hectare expanse of the Iwahig Prison and Penal Farm (IPPF), a five-year-old boy named Buboy plays outside a humble bamboo hut, oblivious to the fact that his home lies within the boundaries of one of the world’s largest open-air correctional facilities. Here, in a small enclave known as Barrio Libertad, a remarkable experiment in rehabilitation unfolds: a community where persons deprived of liberty (PDL) live alongside their families, tending farms, raising livestock, and preparing for life beyond the prison walls.

Established in 1902 and transformed into a “free-living” penal institution by 1906, IPPF in Puerto Princesa City is a unique relic of correctional history. Today, it houses around 5,000 inmates, nearly half of whom are serving minimum sentences or have fewer than 10 years left on their terms. Among its many initiatives, Barrio Libertad stands out as a beacon of hope and reform, offering a semblance of normalcy to those who qualify to live there with their loved ones.

A Home Within Walls

Barrio Libertad, revived in 2023 after a period of dormancy since its inception in the early 1980s, is a tightly knit community of 10 families. Only PDLs who have served at least 70% of their sentence—or have 10 years or fewer remaining—and who maintain a clean record under the Good Conduct Time Allowance (GCTA) scheme are eligible to reside here. Each qualifying inmate is allocated a plot of land to build a traditional bahay kubo (a house made of bamboo and palm leaves) and cultivate a small farm in the backyard.

The construction of these homes is a communal effort, often led by PDLs with prior skills, such as carpentry. Natural resources within the prison’s vast grounds are readily available for building, and if a house is vacated by a released inmate, it is reassigned to the next eligible applicant. Once settled, families receive weekly rations of four kilos of rice, seedlings to start farming, and even native chickens known as parawakans to raise for additional income.

“Native chicken is very expensive here,” explains Teddy Martin, a technical inspector at IPPF. “A lightweight parawakan can be sold at P250 per kilo, but once roasted, it can fetch up to P600. This is very helpful to our PDLs.” For many families, such small-scale farming and livestock rearing provide a vital source of income and sustenance.

A Semblance of Freedom

Life in Barrio Libertad mirrors that of a typical rural Filipino family, albeit with strict limitations. While PDLs are confined to the prison grounds, their spouses are permitted to leave to work or sell produce in nearby markets. Buboy’s grandmother, for instance, handles external errands while his grandfather, serving a life sentence with 20 years already completed, spends his days fishing and tending to their newly established backyard farm. “We only started tending to our backyard farm because we have just moved in,” she shares.

For many residents, the arrangement offers a profound improvement over the traditional prison visiting system. “It’s better here than going back and forth for visits with limited time,” Buboy’s grandmother reflects. “Here, we can make a living and be together.” Her husband echoes this sentiment, saying, “It seems like we’re not in prison.”

Beyond family plots, other PDLs at IPPF contribute to larger agricultural initiatives, working in rice paddies, cashew and corn farms, coconut plantations, and livestock rearing, or crafting handicrafts. Each earns a daily wage of P500, a modest but meaningful income. Superintendent Gary Garcia notes that partnerships with the Department of Agriculture (DA) and the National Food Authority (NFA) allow the prison to sell its produce, further supporting inmate livelihoods.

Education and Reintegration

Barrio Libertad is not just about providing shelter and work; it is a deliberate step towards reintegration. Children of both PDLs and prison officials attend school within the facility, sharing classrooms in a rare egalitarian setting. Deputy Superintendent for Operations Renante Anas, a native of Iwahig who studied alongside such peers, recalls, “Many of them now have a good life.” The integrated schooling system fosters a sense of community and normalcy for the children, like Buboy, who grow up in this unusual environment.

The ultimate goal, however, remains clear: preparing PDLs for life after release. Anas emphasizes that lingering in Barrio Libertad indefinitely is not permitted. “We should give others a chance to live within Barrio Libertad,” he says. “We are for correction and reformation. We prepare our PDLs for their reintegration into society.” To support this transition, prison officials coordinate with local government units to assist released inmates in finding livelihoods and rebuilding their lives.

Challenges and Aspirations

Despite its successes, Barrio Libertad faces challenges. The lack of electricity is a significant drawback, with solar-powered lamps providing the only lighting along communal posts. Yet, the gratitude among residents is palpable. The one-hectare community, complete with its own irrigation system and access to nearby forests and rivers, offers a level of autonomy and dignity rare in correctional settings.

Looking ahead, the Bureau of Corrections (BuCor) sees Barrio Libertad as a model worth sharing. During the upcoming 2nd Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) Regional Correctional Conference, delegates will visit IPPF to observe its innovative programs. BuCor Director General Gregorio Catapang Jr. expresses hope that other nations might adopt similar systems. “Hopefully, they will adopt the system in their own country,” he told reporters.

A Model for Reform?

Barrio Libertad represents a bold experiment in penal reform, blending rehabilitation with family unity in a way that challenges conventional notions of incarceration. While it is not without flaws—limited infrastructure and strict boundaries remain hurdles—it offers a glimpse of what correctional facilities could become: spaces not just for punishment, but for rebuilding lives.

For Buboy and his family, Barrio Libertad is more than a prison plot; it is a home where daily routines of fishing, farming, and play unfold against a backdrop of barbed wire and guarded perimeters. As the sun sets over Palawan’s lush landscape, the laughter of a child echoes through this unlikely community, a reminder that even within confinement, life finds a way to flourish.