Every December, Cebu puts on a brave face. Lights flicker, carols play, and at Fuente Osmeña the giant Christmas tree stands tall and glowing, a reassuring reminder that yes, the season is here. Cars crawl around the rotunda, drivers stealing glances at the lights while silently calculating expenses. The tree shines confidently. Wallets, not so much.
Beneath that tree, people smile for photos and make wishes they rarely say out loud. But once the engine turns off and the gate closes at home, many Cebuano families confront a quieter truth. This feels less like Christmas and more like Crisismas.
Consider the Abellana family in Barangay Lahug. They pass by Fuente Osmeña so the kids can feel the magic. Mama Liza says, “Nindot kaayo,” because mothers are professional hope-keepers. Papa Jun nods, while mentally comparing the brightness of the tree to their own electric bill. At home, the decorations are modest, the menu revised twice, and the 13th month pay has already vanished into debts with impressive speed. Christmas dinner is no longer about tradition. It is about survival with dignity.
And then there are families for whom even this careful planning is a luxury.
Across Cebu and the country, victims of floods, typhoons, and earthquakes are spending Christmas in evacuation centers or homes that are no longer whole. Their holiday checklist is painfully simple. Dry clothes. Enough food. A night without rain. While cities sparkle and speeches are delivered, they are still rebuilding lives, piece by fragile piece. For them, Crisismas is not a clever wordplay. It is reality.
Politics, inevitably, joins the celebration. Under President Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos (BBM) Jr., the promise is stability and recovery. Under former President Rodrigo “Digong” Duterte, the memory is iron certainty and deep divisions. Different tones, different styles, same audience. Ordinary families who listen politely and then return to the same question. Who shows up when it floods. Who helps when the ground shakes. Who remembers us after the camera is gone.
Christmas messages urge unity. But unity, like hope, must be tangible. It must arrive faster than press statements and last longer than holiday greetings.
Still, something refuses to break.
The Abellanas still gather around the table, even if it is simpler. In evacuation centers, families share relief goods as if they were feast offerings. Parents smile so children can sleep peacefully. Strangers help strangers because hardship has taught us one thing. We survive better together.
As the year ends, we return once more to the lights of Fuente Osmeña. They are beautiful, yes, but they also remind us of a wish we carry into the New Year. That 2026 will be gentler. That disasters will be met with faster compassion. That leadership will feel less like noise and more like presence. That Christmas will not have to fight so hard against crisis.
If this season has been Crisismas, then let the New Year be our quiet rebellion. Less pretending. More caring. Fewer promises. More action. And a country that shines not only in December, but when its people need light the most.