How one priest is restoring dignity to the shunned and the forgotten victims of the Philippine drug war

Villanueva’s story is not only one of redemption but of turning pain into purpose. In 2015, he founded the Kalinga Centre, beginning with showers, haircuts and meals for Manila’s homeless. “Kalinga” means “care” in Filipino, and for him, care is a spiritual act and a form of resistance.

Each morning, the centre opens its gates to adults and children who arrive with little but leave with clean clothes, a full stomach and a sense of worth. Over time, Kalinga expanded into social reintegration programmes, offering counselling, job placements and education.

But it was the launch of Program Paghilom that would define him as one of the country’s most courageous voices of compassion.

When the Philippine government launched its bloody “war on drugs” in 2016, thousands of suspected users and pushers were killed in police operations or by masked vigilantes. Behind every statistic of the drug war was a family left broken—a mother forced to bury her son without a wake, a child orphaned overnight.

Paghilom became their refuge. It offered what he said the state could not: empathy, dignity and a way forward. Nearly 400 families now receive counselling, scholarships for children, and livelihood support for mothers—proof that compassion can rebuild what cruelty destroys.

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One of Paghilom’s most powerful expressions is the Dambana ng Paghilom (Shrine of Healing), inaugurated at La Loma Cemetery in Caloocan City. It is a memorial columbarium of 100 vaults—each capable of holding several urns—built for victims of extrajudicial killings whose graves had expired leases or whose families could not afford proper burials. Here, the forgotten are remembered. Programme Paghilom assists families through exhumations, forensic autopsies, cremation and inurnment, all free of charge.

“The drug war victims are human too,” Villanueva said firmly during a press dialogue. “Many people fail to see that. They fail to see that each one is a reflection of God’s image. Not all those who were killed were drug addicts. Many were innocent. And even those who weren’t still deserve compassion.” He paused. “To proclaim the Gospel,” he added, “is also to denounce anything contrary to it.”

Villanueva’s empathy comes not from theory but from experience—of being seen, at his lowest, by others who chose kindness over judgment. “Even I doubted myself,” he said. “But there were people who just popped out of nowhere and encouraged me to continue.”

He remembers vividly when, as a seminarian unable to afford textbooks, a stranger offered to pay for them all. It was, he calls it, his first experience of being “killed by kindness”. Since then, he’s tried to pass it on. “Not to boast—but because those small, surprising acts remind us we’re not alone.”

That belief in goodness sustains him through the hostility that often shadows his advocacy. Some accuse him of politicising the Church; he disagrees. “To serve the Gospel,” he said, “is to confront anything that desecrates life.”

When asked how the work of Kalinga and Paghilom could apply to nations under repressive regimes, he answered simply: “It begins with desire—to help, to care, to spell a difference. That desire must become flesh.”

Faith, he insists, must be visible. “The Church’s mission has never changed,” he said. “It’s in Matthew 25: ‘When I was hungry, you gave me food. When I was thirsty, you gave me drink.’ Those words must take flesh every day. The challenge is to live them.”

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When the Ramon Magsaysay Foundation announced Villanueva’s citation, they called him “a beacon of mercy and courage who stands with the poor and the persecuted”. It was a fitting tribute to a man whose mission, at its centre, is to restore humanity stripped away by poverty and indifference.

Asked how the Church can regain its moral footing amid division and decline, Villanueva offered three principles: re-evangelisation, prophetic witnessing and the promotion of human dignity.

“Re-evangelisation means going back to basics—to the poor,” he said. “We must bridge the gap between faith and daily life. If I believe in God, then I must believe God is present in my neighbour. That means I will not cheat him, corrupt him or harm him.”

Prophetic witnessing, he explained, demands courage—“people who are not afraid to speak for those trampled and silenced,” he said, invoking Archbishop Oscar Romero. And finally, the promotion of dignity: “Spirituality is not escape, but engagement.”

To the youth, his message is simple yet urgent: “Be not afraid. You are not alone in finding life difficult. There are people who care; you just have to look around. Don’t lose hope. You are our hope.”

And in that becoming—in every meal served, every widow comforted, every orphan seen—Fr Flavie Villanueva continues to show that compassion, when embodied, can heal not only the wounded but an entire nation’s soul.

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