I was barely eleven the first time our community in Darong, Santa Cruz, got flooded. It started like any other rainy day, the kind of drizzle that smelt of wet concrete. You could hear it tapping against the galvanised roof, a rhythm meant to make you think everything was still under control. We live in a two-storey house—large for a family of two—but back then it was the only house in our barangay with an upper floor. Afraid of being swept away, our neighbours pushed through our door without knocking. They came in like a sudden storm. I still remember the look in their eyes, wide with fear and disbelief, tears tracing down their worn faces as they whispered the Lord’s name, clinging to faith in the middle of the chaos.

Around midday, time seemed to slow. Our voices shook as we prayed, candles flickering weakly in the corners. In that dim light, our prayers held not only words but also the weight of fear and the small courage that kept us steady.

Water was already gathering on the street. By night, it began creeping inside like an uninvited guest. By midnight, my grandfather was stacking furniture on chairs, muttering “Putangina naman oh…” under his breath, and my mother wrapped plastic around our electronics, trying to save whatever she could.

By then, a heavy silence had fallen, as if we had all accepted whatever would come. We thought the end had arrived. But the water stopped at our ankles, lapping gently at the doorway like a reminder that we were spared—for now. Even so, that shallow flood left its mark, a quiet fear that stayed with us.

We’ve lived in Santa Cruz for as long as I can remember, our home just steps from the deep, dark ocean. It’s modest but sturdy, built more on hope than on money. My father is a farmer with soil on his hands; my mother takes part-time jobs when she can, caring for our home the rest of the time. My grandmother’s work through the years shaped much of what stability we have today.  Every morning, long before sunrise, my parents get up to face a day that demands more than it gives. Week after week, taxes chip away at what little they earn—taken from their fares, from market food, from every hard-earned peso. They pay for roads that fall apart every rainy season, for drainage systems that trap water instead of releasing it, and for leaders who appear only when cameras are around.

The first time I heard the term “flood control”, I honestly thought someone had a switch somewhere that could turn the water off. A big red button in City Hall. Someone deciding whether or not we would drown.

It wasn’t far from the truth.

Later I learnt that millions—billions—had already been allocated for flood prevention: new drainage, pumps, river clean-ups, dredging, retaining walls, and dams.

None of it reached us.  Only the water did.

Eventually, the truth seeped into our conversations like water through cracked pavement. The money meant to protect us had vanished—taken by corrupt officials and greedy contractors. At the sari-sari store, old men cursed the “kain ng kaban”. I saw the strain in my mother’s eyes as she folded bills and in my father’s tired hands after a long day of work.

The news said contracts were signed and paid for, yet our canals stayed clogged, pumps broken, and retaining walls unfinished. Officials pointed fingers while families like ours waded through the same brown water year after year.

Meanwhile, people who stole a few pesos were jailed without hesitation—mothers taking bread, fathers taking rice to feed their families. But those who stole billions smiled for the cameras, still in their suits, still running for office, still living comfortably.  The injustice was suffocating. It felt like the floodwater wasn’t just coming from the sea or the sky but from the very system meant to protect us.

One afternoon on my way home from school, our barangay captain’s convoy passed by, shiny trucks plastered with flood control project logos. Not even a hundred metres away, children were playing in ankle-deep filthy water on a cracked street, waiting for their mother to give them whatever food she could afford.  That day, something settled inside me—anger, frustration, and a need to do something. This wasn’t just about the floods anymore. It was about people who deserved to be heard.

So I started writing. Letters, poems, short reports—anything to let others know what our place was facing. I wanted people to see that our community wasn’t just a footnote in someone’s budget proposal.  Because when flood control funds disappear and corruption rises faster than the water, sometimes the only thing left that can push back is the story of those living through it.

Editor’s Note: This literary piece was first issued in the August-November 2025 First Semester Newsletter of Atenews.