It’s time we stop romanticizing endurance. It’s time we stop praising survival as if it were a choice. What we need now is accountability, infrastructure, and equity in disaster response—not just for the next storm, but for the future we all deserve.
Typhoon Crising’s devastating impact has once again revealed a frustratingly familiar truth: despite countless warnings and repeated protests, our communities—and the systems meant to protect them—continue to falter in times of danger.
We often use words like “brave” or “resilient” to describe those enduring these crises, especially when we ourselves are spared from such hardships. While these terms may seem laudatory, they often mask a deeper, more painful reality: a systemic failure that leaves the most vulnerable exposed, time and again.
According to the National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Council (NDRRMC), Typhoon Crising affected a total of 370,289 individuals, or 120,008 families. Of these, 6,720 families—or 22,623 individuals—sought shelter in evacuation centers. Meanwhile, 5,287 families (about 20,759 individuals) stayed outside evacuation centers—likely in makeshift, unsafe conditions.
These numbers alone should spark alarm. But instead, we find ourselves caught in a predictable cycle: underpreparedness, devastation, and then a wave of admiration for how Filipinos “bounce back.”
Consider our common behaviors during floods—children and adults swimming in murky water, families remaining in half-submerged homes, or residents hesitating to evacuate until the last possible moment. These aren’t mere acts of stubbornness. They have simply learned to get used to it—living life with little concern for whatever hardship comes next.
For many, the choice to stay behind is not really a choice at all. It’s rooted in economic desperation and deep attachment to home and livelihood. Some fear their homes will be looted. Others simply cannot afford to relocate. For informal settlers and low-income families, evacuation often means risking everything with no clear promise of safety, security, or assistance.
Meanwhile, health authorities such as the World Health Organization (WHO) have long warned about the public health threats that follow floods—leptospirosis, cholera, dengue, tetanus, and hypothermia among them. And yet, these risks are frequently downplayed or normalized. Sometimes, the media even frames them as part of Filipino identity, shaping it as a part of Filipino culture. As if enduring disaster is something we should be proud of.
Yes, we have laws like Republic Act No. 10121—“An Act Strengthening the Philippine Disaster Risk Reduction and Management System”—and strategic plans like the National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Plan (NDRRMP). On paper, these frameworks are meant to protect lives and build resilience. But in practice, our disaster response remains disturbingly reactive: action only begins after damage is done.
Aid distribution, relocation plans, and health interventions are often delayed, inconsistent, or absent altogether. Preventive efforts—like risk communication, early warning systems, and grassroots education—rarely receive the attention or funding they deserve.
Ultimately, the constant applause for Filipino resilience—our ability to smile through calamity—does more harm than good. It distracts from the root causes of suffering and places the burden of survival on individuals rather than on the institutions meant to serve them.
It’s time we stop romanticizing endurance. It’s time we stop praising survival as if it were a choice. What we need now is accountability, infrastructure, and equity in disaster response—not just for the next storm, but for the future we all deserve.
Typhoon Crising’s devastating impact has once again revealed a frustratingly familiar truth: despite countless warnings and repeated protests, our communities—and the systems meant to protect them—continue to falter in times of danger.
We often use words like “brave” or “resilient” to describe those enduring these crises, especially when we ourselves are spared from such hardships. While these terms may seem laudatory, they often mask a deeper, more painful reality: a systemic failure that leaves the most vulnerable exposed, time and again.
According to the National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Council (NDRRMC), Typhoon Crising affected a total of 370,289 individuals, or 120,008 families. Of these, 6,720 families—or 22,623 individuals—sought shelter in evacuation centers. Meanwhile, 5,287 families (about 20,759 individuals) stayed outside evacuation centers—likely in makeshift, unsafe conditions.
These numbers alone should spark alarm. But instead, we find ourselves caught in a predictable cycle: underpreparedness, devastation, and then a wave of admiration for how Filipinos “bounce back.”
Consider our common behaviors during floods—children and adults swimming in murky water, families remaining in half-submerged homes, or residents hesitating to evacuate until the last possible moment. These aren’t mere acts of stubbornness. They have simply learned to get used to it—living life with little concern for whatever hardship comes next.
For many, the choice to stay behind is not really a choice at all. It’s rooted in economic desperation and deep attachment to home and livelihood. Some fear their homes will be looted. Others simply cannot afford to relocate. For informal settlers and low-income families, evacuation often means risking everything with no clear promise of safety, security, or assistance.
Meanwhile, health authorities such as the World Health Organization (WHO) have long warned about the public health threats that follow floods—leptospirosis, cholera, dengue, tetanus, and hypothermia among them. And yet, these risks are frequently downplayed or normalized. Sometimes, the media even frames them as part of Filipino identity, shaping it as a part of Filipino culture. As if enduring disaster is something we should be proud of.
Yes, we have laws like Republic Act No. 10121—“An Act Strengthening the Philippine Disaster Risk Reduction and Management System”—and strategic plans like the National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Plan (NDRRMP). On paper, these frameworks are meant to protect lives and build resilience. But in practice, our disaster response remains disturbingly reactive: action only begins after damage is done.
Aid distribution, relocation plans, and health interventions are often delayed, inconsistent, or absent altogether. Preventive efforts—like risk communication, early warning systems, and grassroots education—rarely receive the attention or funding they deserve.
Ultimately, the constant applause for Filipino resilience—our ability to smile through calamity—does more harm than good. It distracts from the root causes of suffering and places the burden of survival on individuals rather than on the institutions meant to serve them.
It’s time we stop romanticizing endurance. It’s time we stop praising survival as if it were a choice. What we need now is accountability, infrastructure, and equity in disaster response—not just for the next storm, but for the future we all deserve.
A
Written by Akia Zuriel DG Besin, Insight PH
Akia Zuriel DG Besin, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
