When typhoon Tino came; it didn’t just bring rain, it brought reckoning. The same streets turned into rivers, the same schools became shelters, the same politicians reappeared on camera. And yet, amid it all, you still hear that familiar whisper: “Kaya ra ni.” Because that’s what we do, we endure.
But maybe that’s the problem. We’ve mistaken endurance for progress. We’ve turned suffering into tradition.
In Villa del Rio, Barangay Bacayan, the flood came in the dead of night. The water rose before dawn, fast and furious. Cars floated like paper boats. A father waded through the rising flood, clutching his little boy on one arm and a bag of rice on the other, the only food they had left. His wife, trembling on the staircase, watched helplessly as the gate outside disappeared beneath the brown, swirling water that used to be their front yard. From the second floor of a neighbor’s house came the desperate cry, “Tabang! Ang tubig nisaka sa kisame!”
By morning, Villa del Rio looked like a lake. Cars were stacked in the streets like fallen dominoes, and mud painted every wall like a grim souvenir. Longtime residents said it was the first time floodwaters reached that high, proof that nature alone was not to blame. Concrete replaced grass, rivers narrowed under encroachments, and flood-control projects were announced but never finished.
And then, there was Mananga. The river that runs from Talisay through the southern towns became a monster that night. Residents of Campo 7 and Lawaan woke up to the sound of thunder that wasn’t thunder; it was water. Heavy, black, angry water. A trisikad driver named Mang Ronald tried to save his sidecar, but the current ripped it away along with his slippers. Downstream, a teenage girl was found clutching her schoolbag, her notebooks still inside, as if she believed the storm would let her keep her dreams dry.
In Liloan, a young couple spent the night on their rooftop, clutching each other as the flood swallowed their wedding photos and furniture bought on installment. “We thought we’d built a home,” the husband said, “but the water reminded us we only borrowed the land.”
In Consolacion, a grandmother in Nangka carried her two apo inside a basin, crossing what used to be a road but had turned into a rushing canal. “Mas lisod ni kaysa sa panahon ni Yolanda,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
In Compostela, fishermen tied their boats to coconut trees and prayed. The sea was no longer their livelihood it had become their enemy. One of them, Ka Erick, stared at the wreckage of his small boat and muttered, “Dili ni baha lang, kini silot kini.”
And among the survivors was Tatay Arki, a retired overseas Filipino worker who had spent 20 years in Dubai, saving every dirham to build a small two-story house beside the riverbank, his dream home for his twilight years. When the flood came, he tried to salvage his documents, his medals, and the photo of his late wife. By dawn, everything was gone. “I worked my whole life so I could finally live in peace,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on the ruins of what used to be his living room. “But now, it feels like I never left at all.”
And while these families were clinging to rooftops, others were clinging to their PR. A governor posed for photos, as if teasing for content, but with no concrete or long-term solutions in sight. Officials blamed “unprecedented rainfall,” as if the rain were the only thing that flooded Cebu.
#BangonCebu, they said. But what Cebu truly needs is #JusticeForCebu.
Justice for the families of Villa del Rio, Mananga, Liloan, Consolacion, and Compostela who lost everything to negligence disguised as governance. Justice for the taxpayers whose money was buried in half-finished drainage. Justice for every child who now thinks floodwater is just part of growing up.
Cebuanos, we’ve already mastered endurance now it’s time to master outrage. The next time they pat our backs and say, “Kaya ra ni,” let’s look them straight in the eye and reply, “Oo, pero dili na ni pwede.”
Because strength isn’t proven by surviving another flood, it’s proven by saying no to the cycle that keeps us underwater.
Resilience kept us standing tall through rain and pain, but only justice can break this endless chain.
For strength means nothing if we merely pull through, the storm must now end with Justice for Cebu.
Fellow Cebuanos, let’s do our part. If we remain silent after this, we lose the right to complain. Our silence will be the flood that never recedes. Enough is enough let this be the storm that wakes us up.