Rain does its job. Do we?

Like an automatic failsafe that activates with any hint of danger, Filipinos have gotten so used to a cycle of outrage over unrelenting floods and bombarding disasters that we often forget to ask what allowed these floodwaters to rise in the first place.

The rain starts. At first, it is only a drizzle — the kind that makes people reach for their umbrellas and complain about another gloomy day. Then it gets heavier. Roads disappear beneath muddy water, classes are suspended, and cars become stranded. Families begin moving their belongings to higher places, and, of course, social media comes alive. 

“May rescue po ba dito?” 

“Pray for everyone affected!” 

“Sana may tumulong!” 

“Nasaan ang gobyerno?”

For a few days, everyone is angry. Then the rain stops. The water recedes. But miraculously, so does our anger. Until the next storm hits. Until another disaster strikes. Until we activate another failsafe reaction to the issues we’re forced to endure.

The rain does its job. It falls, floods, and moves on. But do we ever do ours? 

President Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. has already called the succession of weather disturbances hitting the country the “new normal.” During a situational briefing, he said Filipinos need to change the way they think because tropical cyclones cannot be prevented. Fair enough. The Philippines cannot exactly file a restraining order against a typhoon.

Additionally, according to PAGASA, around 20 tropical cyclones enter the Philippine Area of Responsibility (PAR) annually, with around eight or nine crossing the country. The country sits in one of the world’s most active regions for tropical cyclones.

So yes, storms are inevitable. But apparently, so is our suffering. The Philippines remained the world’s most disaster-prone country for the 21st consecutive year in the 2025 World Risk Index, which considers not only exposure to hazards such as cyclones and floods but also vulnerability factors including poverty, inequality, and health systems.

Perhaps that is the part of the “new normal” we should question. Because the storm may be natural, but the vulnerability is not. We have spent years perfecting the Filipino survival starter pack: flashlight, bottled water, power bank, canned goods, important documents sealed in plastic, and of course, the obligatory Facebook post asking where rescue boats are available.`

We call this resilience. We admire the family carrying their belongings through floodwater. We praise the volunteer distributing relief. We applaud the community rebuilding after losing everything. Then we tell them how inspiringly resilient they are.

But UP Visayas psychologist Johnrev Guilaran has warned against this kind of romanticization. According to Guilaran, what is sometimes presented as resilience may simply be communities becoming accustomed to recurring disasters — a kind of “sanayan”. And if being repeatedly flooded until you eventually learn how to live with it is considered resilience, perhaps we have confused adaptation with abandonment. Resilience is good. But as Guilaran emphasized, it should never become an excuse for incompetence.

This is what happens when, after years of complacently succumbing to these issues, we’ve turned suffering into a personality trait. We praise Filipinos for surviving instead of asking why they are repeatedly placed in situations where they have to survive. And the people who suffer the most are often those with the least room to recover.

Furthermore, the World Bank found that around one million Filipinos are impoverished by natural disasters every year. The poor are more vulnerable because many live in low-lying, hazard-prone areas such as floodplains, riverbanks, steep slopes, and coastal communities. In cities, rapid and unmanaged urbanization has further increased vulnerability, particularly among informal settlements with inadequate public services and unsafe housing.

For some, a flood means a delayed commute. For others, it means losing their home. For some, the rain means canceling plans. For others, it means losing the only livelihood their family has. 

But don’t worry. We can always call them resilient afterward. Because apparently, if someone has nothing left but the ability to endure, that is enough. Except it isn’t.

And this is where the situation becomes almost comical — if it weren’t so expensive. The government has money intended for disasters. In 2025, ₱21 billion was allocated to the national calamity fund, ₱500 million more than the previous year’s allocation. Yet Oxfam reported that the country had underutilized disaster funds, with around ₱118 billion in public funds for disaster response practically left untouched from 2016 to 2020. According to Oxfam, around 30% of disaster funds were used for quick response, while 70% intended for mitigation was largely untouched.

So let us get this straight. We know typhoons are coming. We know floods are coming. We know poor communities are disproportionately affected. We have money for disaster preparedness. And yet some of those funds remain unused. Perhaps the floods are not the only thing that needs drainage.

Moreover, the Commission on Audit provided another uncomfortable reminder. In its audit of 2024 disaster funds, COA flagged 70 LGUs for failing to optimally utilize their Local Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Funds. Their utilization rates ranged from only 1.41% to 67.16%. Taguig, for example, had a reported ₱2.124 billion balance in its LDRRMF after utilizing only ₱238.01 million from its available funds. Manila had ₱1.668 billion remaining. Makati had ₱1.193 billion remaining. Meanwhile, people are being told to prepare for the next disaster. Perhaps somewhere between the overflowing rivers and overflowing budgets, we misplaced the word preparedness.

On top of that, there is corruption. An East Asia Forum report estimated that the Philippines has lost around ₱42.3 billion to ₱118.5 billion annually to flood-control corruption since 2023, citing reported irregularities and investigations involving public funds and infrastructure projects. Of course, allegations must be investigated, and due process must be respected. But the larger question remains: How many times must Filipinos watch the same disaster unfold before accountability becomes as urgent as relief? Because our relationship with disasters has become strangely predictable.

What’s more, we have historical receipts. Ondoy, 2009. It dumped a month’s worth of rain over parts of Metro Manila and nearby provinces in just six hours. According to disaster authorities, 464 people died, 529 were injured, and 37 went missing. Yolanda, 2013. More than 6,000 people died, around 16 million people were affected, and millions were displaced. Ulysses, 2020. Severe flooding and landslides displaced communities, with floods reaching as high as five meters in some areas.

And now, another year. Another storm. Another evacuation. Another hashtag. Another relief drive. Another promise to rebuild. Another collective sigh of “Ganito na talaga.” Then we move on. Until the next storm reminds us of the battles we’ve been forced to fight for decades.

But why? Why does our outrage need a flood to exist in the first place? Why do we demand accountability only when the evidence is floating outside our homes? Why does a rescue request have to go viral before it feels urgent? And why do we allow the people responsible for preparing communities to wait until disaster strikes before we start asking questions?

What’s worse is that these worsening floodwaters aren’t just endangering our material lives — it’s become a detrimental risk to the future of education and learning for our youth as well. Based on data from the Department of Education (DepEd), schools lost an average of 15 days annually due to calamity-related class suspensions in 2024-2025 and 2025-2026. As such, the Second Congressional Commission on Education (EDCOM 2) is pushing for the implementation of localized, science-based granular school suspensions. This is to ensure that crucial learning hours aren’t disrupted. 

Additionally, let’s also not forget to mention the evident loss of motivation that these suspensions can have on both students and teachers alike. With one foot already buried beneath the flooded ground, any ounce of attention to studies and learning is undoubtedly pushed down to the bottom of our to-do lists. For vital learning competencies that require specialized equipment, feedback-based learning, and interaction, asynchronous or online modes of education are tremendously insufficient. 

For parents and teachers, who are expected to be primary guides for the youth’s learning, filling the gaps isn’t as easy as it seems. EDCOM2 reported that only 37 percent of teachers have laptops and just 17 percent of students have the gadgets needed for online learning. Thus, the expectations set during suspended school days, where students and teachers are instructed to adopt alternative learning modes, are greatly unrealistic and inconsiderate for those without the capacity to provide personal educational materials for themselves. 

Blanket suspensions are part of that problem. National agencies announce class suspensions, which is intended to ensure the safety of the entire population. Yet, the risk is greater when both our lives and the minds of our youth are drowning in inadequacy. Local government units have the choice to assess their situations first and ensure safety whilst continuously fostering learning for the youth. But instead, they blindly follow orders, without realizing the high-stakes impediments these can lead to for students. 

Not to mention, the discourse on this predicament doesn’t even exempt the nation’s pinnacle of high-standard scholastic institutions, as even students of the University of the Philippines (UP) aired their concerns over addressing the severity of these educational gaps, which they mentioned must now be considered as “learning emergencies”. This just cements the fact that against the torrential threats of flood and rain, not even the most distinguished universities stand a chance. Thus, the urgency for actionable initiatives has only grown exponentially, heightening the need to put this issue into the spotlight. 

What we require aren’t continuous suspensions that just continue to flush our educational systems down the drain. We need better infrastructure for affected communities, reliable public transportation, and strengthened weather analysis measures to ensure that every learner gets the education they deserve, without necessarily compromising their safety when disaster does strike. Progress will never be obtained through such passive actions. It can only be reached by taking the courage to rise from these floods. 

Time and time again, PAGASA has emphasized that climate change is a reality that we must face — one that is happening now, is driven primarily by human activities, and that can significantly affect rainfall, storminess, and other climate variables. It has also stressed the need for proactive adaptation planning.

We already know the problem is not disappearing. So, neither should our attention to it. We have been resilient for too long. We have rebuilt for too long. We have donated for too long. We have mourned for too long. And every year, we congratulate ourselves for surviving another disaster as if survival itself were the goal. It shouldn’t be. The goal should be that fewer people have to survive it in the first place.

This means demanding action before the rain comes, not simply applause after the water recedes. Disaster funds must be properly used. Infrastructure must be strengthened. Land-use policies must be enforced responsibly. Early-warning systems must improve. Officials and institutions must be held accountable for failures and corruption. 

Citizens, too, have a role. Accountability cannot be seasonal. We cannot let our attention,  our demands, and our resentment towards a failed system expire as soon as our timelines become dry again.

Understandably, outrage is easier when suffering is visible. But progress requires anger that survives the news cycle. If we only demand answers while the streets are underwater, what happens when the streets dry? If we only ask where disaster funds went after homes have already been destroyed, what happens when the headlines disappear? If we only remember corruption when another flood exposes it, what happens between disasters? 

Nothing. And that is precisely why the cycle continues. The government does not have to answer forever. It only has to wait for the timeline to move on. But disasters are no longer something we can treat as isolated accidents.

Nevertheless, some would argue that Filipinos simply have to accept flooding as part of life. The Philippines lies in one of the world’s most active typhoon regions, and climate change is making weather patterns increasingly difficult to predict. No government can stop a typhoon, prevent every drop of rain, or guarantee that every community will remain untouched. 

These arguments deserve consideration, but accepting the inevitability of typhoons does not mean accepting the inevitability of suffering. We cannot control the storm, but we can control how prepared we are when it arrives. We can properly use disaster funds, strengthen infrastructure, enforce responsible land-use policies, improve early-warning systems, and hold officials and institutions accountable for failures and corruption. A typhoon may be beyond our control; negligence is not.

True resilience must mean more than Filipinos learning to endure the same disaster every year. It means building communities that become safer, better prepared, and less vulnerable after every disaster — not simply becoming better at surviving it. 

Because the Philippines will always have typhoons. That is geography. Climate change may intensify the challenge. That is science. But repeatedly leaving people vulnerable, failing to maximize available resources, and allowing accountability to fade when the waters recede are not acts of nature. That is a choice. One that drowns our country in peril and jeopardy.

So yes, Marcos may be right. This may be the new normal. But if it is, then perhaps the real question isn’t: “How do Filipinos adapt to the new normal?” Perhaps it is: “Why are we so willing to accept a normal that keeps hurting us?”

Because the next storm will come. The rain will fall. The streets will disappear. The evacuation centers will fill. Our phones will buzz with rescue requests. And someone, somewhere, will once again praise Filipinos for their incredible resilience. But maybe we should stop measuring our success by how well we survive the flood. Measure it by what we did, or didn’t do, before it came.

Did we prepare? Did we use the funds? Did we build the infrastructure? Did we protect the vulnerable? Did we sustain our youth’s education amidst the disaster? Did we demand accountability while the skies were still clear?

These are questions that shouldn’t just be asked. They must be answered. Because the rain will do what rain does. It will fall. It will flood. It will eventually stop. The question is whether we will do our part before it does. 

This cycle of outrage is understandable, but it should not hinder us from finding out what truly led these floodwaters to rise. We may have gotten used to this so-called ‘new normal’, but it should never be an excuse for us to be called a country of flooded failsafes.