COLUMN | When clarity is buried in publicity

 Adi Joaquim Tolentino

As floodwaters swallowed streets and classrooms earlier this month, Filipinos found themselves once again refreshing government pages at midnight—not for storm updates, but for the class suspension that never came. Instead of urgent advisories, a high-ranking official posted an open letter calling students “BFFs” and inviting them to watch a superhero movie. The post ended with emojis, no clear instructions, and zero acknowledgment of the worsening conditions. It went viral. The rain didn’t stop.

This is what disaster communication looks like in the Philippines: calculated vagueness wrapped in digital charm, where public officials seem more concerned with building their brand than safeguarding the public. At a time when timely information can save lives, state agencies have turned crisis response into content creation. Disaster response is no longer a matter of urgency, but of optics. And as more agencies mimic influencers, Filipinos are left to sift through punchlines in place of policy.

This performance is neither harmless nor new. The country ranks first in the 2024 World Risk Index as the most disaster-prone nation globally. Each year, around 20 tropical cyclones enter the country’s borders, with eight or nine making landfall. Storms like Yolanda (2013), Odette (2021), and Egay (2023) left thousands dead, displaced, or stranded. The threat is not unpredictable. The state’s lack of urgency is.

The Marcos Jr. administration boasts of over 5,000 completed flood control projects and another 4,000 underway. It cites the P7-billion Integrated Disaster Risk Reduction and Climate Change Adaptation (IDRR-CCA) project in Pampanga as a milestone in preventing water buildup. But major updates on these programs have not been released in over a year. If such investments are working, why do the same barangays still disappear underwater at the first sign of rain?

In communities across Cagayan, Samar, and parts of Mindoro, the cycle is predictable: evacuation, blackout, delay. Barangay halls double as evacuation centers. Roads vanish. Classes and work continue until wading through waist-deep water becomes unavoidable. Announcements, when they arrive, are inconsistent, unclear, or too late. National offices defer to local government units. LGUs, in turn, stall or wait for confirmation. Responsibility is passed down until it disappears entirely.

And in the absence of direction, the state offers resilience. Year after year, Filipinos are praised for enduring calamity, smiling through devastation, and rebuilding with what little they have left. Resilience is framed as a national virtue, but in practice, it has become a substitute for reform. A country that asks its people to survive does not need to explain why it fails to protect them.

At its worst, this language justifies abandonment. When resilience is demanded, neglect is normalized. Relief operations are staged for cameras. Aid is delivered in plastic bags printed with politicians’ names. Those who demand better are told to be grateful. But gratitude is not governance, and public service is not a favor. Information delayed is not neutral; it is dangerous.

The state must do better. Disaster response is not content creation. Class suspensions should not be issued as viral captions. Infrastructure projects must be paired with public transparency and measurable outcomes. And communication should be clear, swift, and direct because the stakes are higher than publicity.

There is no justice in a nation that demands strength from its people to excuse its cowardice. And no dignity in surviving a system built to abandon.