Growing up in Dagupan City on the Philippines’ main island of Luzon, I learned early on that typhoons are more than just storms — they are deeply personal trials. When the rains lash our streets and rivers swell, the fear is not abstract: it is real, it is immediate, and sometimes it is overwhelming.
There was one particularly harrowing moment I remember: floodwaters rose so high that they reached the roofs of houses. For many of us, that meant no choice but to evacuate. I can still feel the weight of it — carrying what little we could salvage, standing in lines under heavy rain, watching our community scramble in the dark. It’s not just water on our streets; in those moments, our lives seemed to hang in the balance.
We have also known the darkness of a province-wide blackout. During Typhoon Pepeng (“Ondoy” came just before, followed by Pepeng in 2009), the fury of the storm damaged power lines across Pangasinan and caused widespread power outages in Dagupan. According to those who lived through it, portions of the city hall and even residential areas were submerged, and the breakdown of electricity made every aspect of relief and survival exponentially harder.
These are not isolated episodes. Dagupan’s geography itself amplifies the disaster. Our city is built on reclaimed land—former fishponds and wetlands now replaced by concrete buildings—and is encircled by rivers that swell rapidly in heavy rain. During storms, the water has nowhere to go, and it pours into our communities, into our homes. Academically, this is a classic case of compounded vulnerability: anthropogenic land-use change + natural hydrological risk. Studies show that ground elevation in many barangays (administrative districts in the Philippines) is so low that flooding regularly exceeds 1 or even 2 metres.
The human toll is profound. Floods disrupt our daily lives — students miss school, workers are stranded, and entire families are forced to evacuate. But beyond inconvenience, the psychological and emotional burden weighs heavily: the dread of what you may return to, the uncertainty of recovery, and the fear that your livelihood — your home, your crops, your fish — could be swept away.
And yet, there is a deeper shift happening that fills me with both sorrow and frustration. In past decades, flooding would begin in low-lying barangays and gradually move toward the city centre. Now, it’s reversed: the city proper floods first. Locals suspect this has to do with neglected river maintenance (dredging is rarely done) and aggressive urbanisation, which alters natural water flow. When these rivers aren’t taken care of, or when concrete replaces wetlands, water builds up faster and drains slower — and our city pays the price.
We are not without hope, but I cannot ignore how politics complicates resilience. Corruption scandals related to flood control projects — like in the Department of Public Works and Highways — have eroded public trust. When relief and infrastructure funds are mishandled, it undercuts genuine efforts to build long-term resilience. For us, the solution isn’t just about engineering; it is also moral and social: it’s about choosing leaders who prioritise our lives over profit and about raising awareness in every corner of the community.
If we are going to adapt meaningfully, we need more than early-warning systems and evacuation drills (though both are vital). We need disaster literacy — people who understand how land use, infrastructure, and governance impact flood risk. We need accountability. And most importantly, we need to believe that we are not powerless. When we speak, when we demand change, when we act — that’s how we begin to build a future where the storms still come, but they no longer paralyse our lives.
Toshiro Bruan is Curricular Manager for the Social Involvement and Transformation team at PHINMA Education, the Philippines
Views expressed are the author’s own and don’t necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth