typhoon tino

WHEN THE rain stopped and the floodwaters began to fall back, what remained in the streets of Cebu City after Typhoon Tino was not just mud and debris but silence. It was the same silence that follows every calamity in the Philippines, a heavy, uneasy quiet that tells us relief has arrived for some but not for all. The cameras have moved on. The politicians have gone home. And the people, once again, are left to pick up what the storm and the system have both washed away.

In every typhoon that hits our country, the first wave is water, but the second is neglect. The destruction may begin with wind and flood, but what keeps the pain alive is how quickly the victims are forgotten. We have seen this pattern far too often. Leaders arrive when the flood is over, bringing cameras, tarpaulins, and promises that fade faster than the sun after a storm.

After Typhoon Tino battered Cebu City, government officials arrived to inspect the damage. They took photos, gave interviews, and expressed sympathy to those who lost everything. But what was missing was presence before the disaster struck. Where were the warnings, the evacuation plans, the clear instructions that could have saved lives? Where was the leadership that should have stood between danger and the people?

What we often witness is not disaster management but disaster performance. There is always a speech, always a handshake, always a photo of a politician distributing canned goods. Yet behind those images lies a communication gap so deep that many Filipinos never even knew they needed to evacuate. When the rain poured, the information came too late, and when help finally arrived, it was too little.

This is not just a failure of logistics. It is a failure of empathy. A government that truly cares should not need tragedy to show concern. Compassion is not reactive. It should live in the systems we build long before the storm appears on the horizon.

Disaster communication should be more than a checklist of advisories. It should be a language of care. To communicate is to connect. It means understanding how people receive information, interpret risk, and how culture and community shape their responses.

In many disaster-prone areas, local knowledge and everyday communication matter as much as official advisories. A mother who learns from her neighbor that the river is rising will act faster than one who waits for a press conference. A fisherman who sees the color of the clouds change knows when the sea is angry. These forms of local wisdom are part of the social fabric that keeps communities alive.

But for these networks to work, government agencies must listen to them rather than ignore them. Communication must flow in both directions. The people must not only receive information but also shape it. Otherwise, disaster preparedness becomes another Manila-centered policy detached from the realities of those who live closest to danger.

When the flood ends, another kind of storm begins, the storm of inequality. Relief goods never reach everyone. Reconstruction favors the visible and the well-connected. Communities far from the city centers wait weeks for food and clean water.

Those who were already poor before the disaster fall even deeper into poverty. Their houses are rebuilt with thin plywood. Their small businesses are gone. Their children lose months of schooling. And when they seek help, they are told to be patient because “the system takes time.”

But hunger cannot wait for bureaucracy. Shelter cannot wait for signatures. And dignity should never depend on the approval of those sitting comfortably in dry offices.

Social development should be more than handing out relief packs. It is about restoring dignity and giving people the means to rebuild their lives. It is about long-term communication that continues after the cameras stop recording, updates, consultations, and accountability. Because without follow-up, “aid” becomes charity, not justice.

A nation’s strength is not measured by how quickly it reacts to disaster but by how well it listens before one happens. Leadership should mean foresight, not photo opportunities. It should mean designing systems that speak to every citizen, not just those with internet access.

When officials fail to plan, people pay the price. The government’s job is not to comfort after the fact but to communicate before the danger. People do not need grand speeches after the flood. They need someone to tell them where to go before the water rises.

Listening is also part of leadership. The cries of those in evacuation centers, the pleas of mothers who lost their homes, the frustration of farmers whose crops were destroyed—these should not be treated as noise. They are the most important feedback any government could receive.

When people are heard, they begin to trust again. And when trust is restored, communication becomes powerful enough to save lives.

Media and civil society play a crucial role in ensuring that no one is forgotten after the flood. Yet too often, the coverage focuses on immediate tragedy, not long-term recovery. The spotlight fades when the story is no longer “new.” But for those left behind, the struggle has only begun.

Journalists must keep the conversation alive. The narrative should not end when the rain stops. Every broken home, every family living under a tent, every child who cannot return to school is a story that needs to be told. Accountability is also a form of communication. It tells the powerful: we are still watching.

Civil society organizations, churches, and schools also become communication channels during these times. They translate the needs of the people into language the government can no longer ignore. Their work shows what it means to communicate with compassion, listening deeply, responding promptly, and staying long after others have left.

After every disaster, Filipinos are praised for their resilience. We are told that we smile through hardship, that we rise after every fall. But resilience should not become an excuse for neglect. The people’s strength should never be used to justify the government’s weakness.

Real progress begins when we stop romanticizing survival and start demanding accountability. Communities should not have to depend solely on their own grit. They deserve systems that work, leaders who care, and communication that empowers.

The call now is to rebuild not only homes but trust. Trust that when the next storm comes, warnings will be clear. Trust that evacuation centers will be ready. Trust that help will arrive before despair does.

After the flood, what remains is not only loss but memory. The memory of who came, who cared, and who disappeared. The memory of promises made under gray skies and forgotten under the sun.

But there is also the memory of kindness, the neighbor who shared food, the volunteer who stayed late, the community that refused to give up. These are the spaces that speak of hope.

If our government learns to listen to those voices, to build on their courage instead of exploiting their pain, perhaps one day the Philippines will no longer be known for resilience but for readiness.

Because no one should be forgotten after the flood.

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Kethelle I. Sajonia is a college instructor at the University of Southeastern Philippines, Mintal Campus. She is currently in the final phase of her Doctor of Communication degree at the University of the Philippines. Her research interests include inclusivity, education, communication, and social development. She actively engages in scholarly research and community-based initiatives that advocate for inclusive and transformative communication practices.