For the first time in 27 years, the flood reached our home — and we were left feeling helpless, small, and scared.
I still remember Odette — how they compared it to Yolanda, the storm that devastated Tacloban.
Back then, our only comfort was, “At least, walay baha.”
The destruction was massive, but we told ourselves it could’ve been worse — if the waters had risen.
Then came Typhoon Tino.
They said it was weaker than Odette, but we still prepared:
flashlights, power banks, water, food — everything ready.
We promised ourselves, “Never again. We’ve learned our lesson.”
But preparation meant nothing.
The flood came — merciless, unrelenting.
And this time, it wasn’t just the storm that failed us.
We trusted the wrong people.
Billions were poured into so-called “flood control” projects,
yet the waters rose higher than ever.
We braced for nature’s wrath,
but it was corruption that drowned us.
I am angry — deeply, painfully angry —
at the greed of those in power who think only of themselves.
I saw lifeless bodies floating.
I cried until my chest ached,
recognizing faces I once laughed with — friends, relatives —
gone, swept away by the floods.
The pain is unbearable.
The trauma lingers.
I’m trying to stay strong, but every attempt feels like breaking all over again.
This wasn’t just a disaster.
It was betrayal — and it hurts more than the storm ever could.
(-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩___-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩)