Leila de Lima: The Unbreakable Spirit

Some mornings, as I sit with my cup of coffee, I wonder how much a person can endure before they break.

Leila de Lima’s story makes me think about that.

She spent nearly seven years behind bars — unjustly accused, locked away from her family, and denied the chance to say goodbye to loved ones. They called her a criminal, but the evidence was weak, the testimonies shaky, and the motive clear. She had spoken out against a brutal war on drugs, and for that, they tried to silence her.

Inside her cramped cell, she lived with the constant threat of violence. She was once held hostage at knifepoint — a blade pressed against her chest by a desperate man who had nothing to lose. She could have died that day, and no one would have been surprised.

Yet somehow, she refused to crumble.

Instead, she found a way to hold on — to her thoughts, to her faith, to the quiet belief that the truth would win out in the end.

I imagine her holding on to that belief like someone gripping a hot cup of coffee on a cold morning — drawing warmth from it, steadying herself, willing herself not to let go.

What kind of strength does it take to survive something like that?

The Ordeal Begins: Arrest and Isolation

The moment they took her away, Leila de Lima knew what it meant.

I think about what it must have been like — that moment when they took her away.

Leila de Lima had always known the risks. Speaking out against Duterte’s war on drugs was dangerous — the kind of dangerous that doesn’t just threaten your career but your life itself. Still, she spoke.

And when they came for her, it was as if the world had been waiting for it. Cameras swarmed to capture her face — the face of a woman they called a criminal. Never mind that the accusations were weak, built on shaky testimonies from convicted criminals desperate to save themselves ( Al Jazeera ).

Inside her cell at Camp Crame, the noise stopped. No cameras, no voices — just silence and the cold walls that closed in on her.

Her family couldn’t visit. Her friends were kept away. Even her mother — 91 years old — was left believing her daughter was on a study leave in the United States. It wasn’t just a lie. It was protection — a way to spare her the heartbreak of knowing her daughter was locked away.

In those first days, de Lima barely slept. Anger kept her restless — the kind of anger that leaves you pacing, staring at the walls, unable to focus on anything except the injustice of it all.

But anger wasn’t enough.

She needed something stronger — something to keep her from falling apart.

So she gave herself a rule:

“Don’t Trust, Don’t Fear, Don’t Beg.”

It became her armor — a whisper in her mind that reminded her to stay still when her thoughts raced, to stay calm when fear tried to creep in.

In a place designed to break her, she chose to hold on.

And she refused to let go.

Survival in Detention: Lessons in Endurance

Some people say you get used to anything if you live with it long enough.

But I wonder if you ever really get used to being alone — not just physically, but in a way that leaves you feeling like the world has forgotten you.

That’s what Leila de Lima faced, day after day, for nearly seven years.

She learned quickly that time inside a cell doesn’t pass the way it does outside. There’s no rhythm to it — no rush of morning, no calm of evening — just hours stacked on top of each other, too quiet to ignore.

So she built her own rhythm.

Mornings were for prayer. Afternoons were for reading. Evenings were for writing — letters filled with thoughts she refused to keep bottled up. Each day was carefully planned, not because she wanted structure, but because she needed it.

Without it, she knew her mind would drift — and that was dangerous.

She refused to eat the food they served. It wasn’t paranoia — it was survival. After all, what’s to stop someone from slipping something into your meal when you’re a prisoner with powerful enemies? ( Amnesty International )

But even with routine, even with purpose, there were moments when no amount of mental discipline could hold back the weight of it all.

When PNoy died, she wasn’t allowed to attend his wake. When her close friends Dinky Soliman and Mon Jimenez passed away, she was kept away again ( GMA News ).

Not being there — not being able to say goodbye — crushed her.

Her 91-year-old mother never knew about any of it. Her family kept her mother believing that de Lima was still abroad, on a study leave in the United States. That lie — painful as it was — spared her mother from heartbreak.

But for de Lima, it was another kind of grief.

There’s something cruel about losing people while you’re locked away — knowing the world is moving on without you and all you can do is sit with the ache.

Still, she refused to fall apart.

Instead, she wrote.

Letters. Essays. Pages filled with thoughts that needed somewhere to go. Writing became more than just an outlet — it was an act of defiance. Each word was proof that her mind still belonged to her.

They could keep her body locked away.

But her voice? That was hers. And she refused to let it die.

A Brush with Death: The Hostage Crisis

There’s something terrifying about danger when you can’t see it coming.

For years, Leila de Lima had adjusted to the rhythm of prison life — the silence, the isolation, the constant weight of being forgotten. But on October 9, 2022, that silence was shattered.

That morning, an inmate named Feliciano Sulayao — a man linked to the Abu Sayyaf Group — forced his way into her cell. He was holding a knife.

He grabbed her, pressed the blade against her chest, and pulled her close.

One move — one twitch of his wrist — and it would have been over.

“I honestly thought that was it,” she later admitted, recalling the moment she felt the cold edge of the blade against her skin ( BenarNews ).

Sulayao had nothing to lose. He had already killed another inmate moments earlier. Now, holding de Lima hostage was his desperate attempt to escape — and she knew it.

Still, she stayed calm.

In that terrifying moment, when fear could have taken over, de Lima kept her composure. She didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She held her breath and waited.

Moments later, her captor was shot dead by responding officers.

It was over. But the fear lingered.

De Lima later described it as a “near-death experience” — one that left her body aching and her mind racing long after the knife was gone ( Amnesty International ).

But what made it worse was what came after.

Authorities didn’t investigate how Sulayao had managed to reach her cell — no inquiry, no accountability. Instead, they offered to transfer her to another facility. As if moving her would somehow erase the fact that they had failed to keep her safe.

For de Lima, it was yet another reminder that she wasn’t just forgotten — she was vulnerable.

And even after everything she had endured, her life still wasn’t hers to control.

Strength Through Advocacy: Standing Firm Against Injustice

They wanted her silent.

But Leila de Lima refused to stay quiet.

Even in detention — cut off from the world, denied her freedom, and surrounded by walls meant to break her — she kept speaking.

From her cell, she wrote letters — sharp, unflinching words that called out Duterte’s war on drugs and the violence that came with it. She condemned the extrajudicial killings that had claimed thousands of Filipino lives. She warned that silence, no matter how tempting, only strengthens those who abuse power.

They thought they could erase her.

Instead, her voice traveled farther than ever before.

Her words reached supporters, journalists, and human rights organizations. Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, and the European Parliament all called for her release, denouncing her imprisonment as politically motivated and unjust ( Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International ).

Even in Washington, her name was spoken.

Five U.S. Senators, including Marco Rubio, Edward Markey, and Richard Durbin, filed a bipartisan resolution urging her release — a rare move that showed her case had become more than just a local issue ( Philippine Senate ).

From her tiny cell in Camp Crame, de Lima became a symbol — not just of resistance, but of how truth refuses to die.

When asked if she could forgive Duterte, her answer revealed how much the years had taken from her:

“Not yet… That’s why I said, God forgive him… He has practically ruined my life. It’s immeasurable.” ( Time )

But forgiveness wasn’t her focus — accountability was.

Even after her release, she vowed to assist the International Criminal Court (ICC) in gathering evidence against Duterte’s bloody war on drugs ( GMA News ).

Nearly seven years in detention — and still, she refused to let her voice be buried.

They locked her away, but her words kept finding their way out.

And people kept listening.

Finding Freedom: Vindication After 2,454 Days

Freedom shouldn’t feel unfamiliar.

But after nearly seven years behind bars, stepping outside wasn’t as simple as walking through an open door.

On June 24, 2024, a Philippine court finally cleared Leila de Lima of the last remaining charges against her. The accusations — built on coerced testimonies and lies — had collapsed under their own weight. The judge’s words were clear: the prosecution had failed to prove her guilt ( Al Jazeera ).

It should have been a moment of celebration. But for de Lima, it felt heavier than that.

“I am now completely free and vindicated. It’s very liberating,” she told reporters outside the courtroom. Yet there was no joy in her voice — only quiet relief.

It’s hard to celebrate when you know the truth all along.

She had spent 2,454 days in detention — nearly seven years away from her family, her career, and the life she had worked so hard to build. Those were days she could never get back.

When her mother — now in her nineties — finally learned the truth, it wasn’t in the way de Lima had hoped. Her family had kept her in the dark to spare her the pain, telling her daughter was studying abroad. The reunion that should have been filled with relief instead felt like a reminder of how much time had been lost.

De Lima went back to teaching law — a quiet return to what she once knew.

There was no dramatic speech, no loud declaration of victory. Instead, she chose to focus on what remained: her family, her faith, and whatever pieces of her old life she could still hold on to.

And somehow, after everything, she kept going.

Not because she forgot what happened.

But because she refused to let it define the rest of her life.

A Legacy of Courage: Turning Loss into Purpose

Freedom wasn’t the end of Leila de Lima’s story.

When the cell door finally opened, she didn’t just step back into her old life — because that life didn’t exist anymore.

Nearly seven years had been taken from her. Seven years where friends passed away, milestones came and went, and her mother — now frail and aging — had spent her final years believing her daughter was somewhere else.

That kind of loss changes you.

But de Lima didn’t return as someone broken by those years. Instead, she returned as someone determined to make them mean something.

In October 2024, standing before graduates at De La Salle-College of Saint Benilde, she shared the wisdom she had carried through her darkest days ( Benilde ).

Her words weren’t about endurance — they were about living with purpose after the storm has passed.

“Life isn’t just about surviving,” she told them. “It’s about finding your reason to keep moving forward.”

She spoke of how grief — if left unchecked — can become a prison of its own. How anger, no matter how justified, can consume the very person who carries it.

“I refused to let bitterness take hold,” she said. “Because when you let bitterness win, they take more from you than your freedom — they take your future too.”

Instead of dwelling on what she lost, de Lima chose to focus on what remained.

She returned to teaching law — a quiet step toward normalcy. She spent time with her family, piecing together the moments that had slipped away.

And she spoke — not just about her suffering, but about what comes after suffering. About how life doesn’t return to what it was — but how it can still move forward.

De Lima’s story isn’t just about defiance or survival.

It’s about what you do once you’re free again.

And somehow, despite everything, she found a way to live.

Conclusion: Finding Strength in a Cup of Coffee

Some mornings, as I sit with my coffee, I think about Leila de Lima.

I think about what it means to hold on — not just in the loud moments when courage demands to be seen, but in the quiet ones when no one’s watching.

For nearly seven years, she endured the kind of suffering that breaks most people. They tried to silence her, isolate her, and make her forget who she was. But somehow, she held on — not through rage or bitterness, but through something quieter.

Routine. Discipline. Faith.

I imagine her sitting alone in her cell, morning after morning, whispering the words she clung to:

“Don’t Trust. Don’t Fear. Don’t Beg.”

Not because she believed those words could change her situation — but because they kept her steady when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

That’s the kind of strength that doesn’t always make headlines — the strength to survive one day, and then the next, and the next after that.

When she was finally set free, there was no victory speech. No fist in the air. Just a woman who had been broken down, rebuilt herself in silence, and walked out determined to live again.

Some mornings, when I take that first sip of coffee, I wonder if strength really is like that — not a sudden burst of power, but the quiet decision to keep going, no matter how impossible it feels.

And somehow, despite everything, she kept going.

And maybe that’s what strength really looks like.