The other side of the storm

What will we do now?” asked 11-year-old me, moments after experiencing the wrath of Supertyphoon “Yolanda” (international name: Haiyan). The fury and devastation brought by the typhoon were something I had seen only in the news or in disaster movies. Never once did I imagine that I would witness such things firsthand.

Most of the houses in our town were practically wiped out by the storm surge. Our clothes were all muddy and wet. There was no drinkable water. The stored food was barely enough to fill our stomachs. Communication networks were down. The roads were blocked by debris. Help was nowhere in sight.

My Dad, upon seeing the troubled look on my face, tried to comfort me by saying, “Ayaw kabaraka. Makaka-ahon gihap kita hini (Don’t be worried. We will rise from this).” I could only lower my gaze to the ground, because I was either too distressed to say something back, or I just really couldn’t bring myself to believe him. For a young boy who had just gone through a traumatic experience, it was simply hard to believe in anything at that point. It was hard to hope when everything around you was in ruins. It was hard to hope when the typhoon had robbed you of a bright future, pushing your dreams farther from your reach. It was hard to hope when people’s eyes around you reflected painful losses and broken lives.

I was near despair. The future appeared so bleak for us. It seemed as if life had suddenly been stripped of the colors that made it bright, and all I could see were the dark shades. My naive mind was struggling to accept this harsh reality. I yearned for consolation, for some relief from all the chaos. I wondered about the answers to the questions swirling in my head: What will I do now? Where do I find hope? Is there even hope?

In that moment, maybe the universe was listening, because I found my answer. I found it in the clear open sky that followed the storm, telling me that endless possibilities awaited; not just suffering and hopelessness, but also joy and brighter days. I found it in the rays of the sun burning my skin, reminding me that I was still alive, that I had survived, and that I was among the lucky ones given another chance to live this life, so I should better make the most of it instead of plunging into despair.

I found it in the people who still managed to smile even after everything that had happened to them. I found it in the gentle touch of a mother cradling a baby in her arms. I found it in the laughter of a child. I found it in a stray dog walking aimlessly on the devastated streets. I found it in the smell of grass, in the sound of crickets, in distant chatter and distinct conversations. Suddenly and unexpectedly, everything around me became a source of hope. Everything became a reason to be hopeful.

I went to the streets and surveyed the scene around me: broken trees, damaged homes, scattered debris, heavy hearts, shattered dreams. I realized what we had to do. We will rise from this.

And we did.

MY DAD, UPON SEEING THE TROUBLED LOOK ON MY FACE, TRIED TO COMFORT ME BY SAYING, ‘AYAW KABARAKA. MAKAKA-AHON GIHAP KITA HINI (DON’T BE WORRIED. WE WILL RISE FROM THIS).’ I COULD ONLY LOWER MY GAZE TO THE GROUND... FOR A YOUNG BOY WHO HAD JUST GONE THROUGH A TRAUMATIC EXPERIENCE, IT WAS SIMPLY HARD TO BELIEVE IN ANYTHING AT THAT POINT