“Kung kinulong na lang siya, buhay pa siya ngayon.”
(“If they just had her locked up behind bars, she’d still be alive today.”)
In 2017, four men, all in civilian clothes, barged into a small home in Barangay Batasan Hills, Quezon City. Inside is the 35-year-old Cristeta Ramos. The men scanned the house and their eyes landed on her. They asked for her name. She barely had the time to respond before they pulled her and dragged her outside.
The street was dark, and gunshots came fast. Four gunshots were heard. After the gunshots, the armed men walked away, disappearing into the night toward Batasan-San Mateo Road. No one dared to follow them.
Police arrived, took notes, and marked the scene. Bullet casings were littered on the ground. Near Cristeta’s body, officers allegedly found a small sachet of methamphetamine or shabu. That was all they needed to confirm what they already believed. Another drug addict was eliminated.
Salvacion Ramos, Cristeta’s mother, refuses to accept that label. Her daughter was more than a name on a list. She was a daughter, a sister, and a caregiver. Someone who had made mistakes, yes, but also someone who had the chance to change.
Salvacion remembers every detail of that night.
“Pinatay siya sa harap ng bahay namin,” she said. “Isang bala sa pwet, para hindi na siya makatakas. At nang nakabulagta na, tatlong bala sa ulo.”
(“She was killed in front of our house,” she said. “One bullet shot her behind, so that she couldn’t get away. And when she was down on the ground, three shots to her head.”)
The scene plays over and over in her head, the way Cristeta’s body hits the ground and the way her own blood pools around her.
Before the killing, Cristeta had already surrendered to barangay authorities. It was part of the government’s anti-drug campaign. Salvacion believed her daughter would get help. Instead, she was executed.
When forensic personnel arrived, they prepared to inspect the body. They reached for Cristeta’s clothes, ready to undress her. Ramos stopped them. The authorities had mistaken her daughter for a man because of her short hair and the way she dressed.
“Babae ang anak ko,” Ramos told them. She would not let them strip Cristeta of the last shred of dignity she had left.
(“She is my daughter,”)
The ordeal did not end there. A police officer later told Salvacion she needed to pay P60,000 to retrieve Cristeta’s body. It was an impossible amount. She was grieving, desperate, and powerless against such a system that saw her daughter’s life as disposable.
Help then came from church groups and human rights advocates. They stepped in, made calls, and pushed back. Finally, Salvacion was able to claim Cristeta’s body and arrange a burial. An autopsy was conducted before she was laid to rest.
Cristeta was not just another casualty of Duterte’s war on drugs. She had a life before her name was written in police records. As a child, she played in the streets. As a teenager, she spent time with friends. She was stubborn and strong-willed, never one to back down from an argument, but she also had a soft side, one that revealed itself in the way she cared for the people she loved. And as an older sister, she helped raise her nieces and nephews.
“Siya ang nag-alaga sa mga apo ko, anak ng kapatid niya,” said Salvacion.
(“She took care of my grandchildren, her nieces and nephews,”)
She was the one who carried the babies when they cried, who made sure they had food when their parents were away. She had a tough exterior, but she loved deeply.
Salvacion knows that her daughter struggled. She knows she had fallen into bad company, that life had not always been kind to her.
“Ang barkada may dalawang klase,” she said. “Papunta sa masama o papunta sa mabuti. Napunta siya sa hindi maganda.”
(“Sometimes you find yourself associating with two different kinds of cliques,” she said. “Those who were a bad influence and those who were of a good kind. She went with friends who negatively influenced her.”)
Still, she believes Cristeta deserved a chance. A chance to correct her mistakes, a chance to rebuild her life, a chance to prove that she was more than the label being placed on her.
“Kung kinulong na lang siya, buhay pa siya ngayon,” Salvacion said. “Madadalaw ko pa siya sa kulungan.”
(“If they just put her behind bars, she should still be alive,” Salvacion said. “At least I could still visit her in jail.”)
Instead, her daughter was buried under the weight of a war that did not see her as a person, but as a number, as a name on a watchlist, as a life that could be taken without consequence.
Eight years later, the pain has not faded. The weight of the loss is still there. But so is the fight for justice. The case against former President Rodrigo Duterte at the International Criminal Court gives Salvacion a glimmer of hope. She knows it is a long battle, and she also knows how powerful her opponent is.
“Matalino si Duterte. Alam niya ang batas kaya mahirap siyang kalabanin,” she said.
(“Duterte’s sly. He knows how to manipulate the law to his benefit, which is why he’s hard to contend with.”)
Still, Salvacion refuses to stay silent. As a member of Rise Up for Life and Rights, she attends rallies and speaks about her daughter’s death. She fights not just for Cristeta but for others who lost loved ones in the same way.
For her, the pain does not fade. The loss is permanent. But so is the fight for justice.
