A drop of rain patters on the windowpane of a modest boarding house in Tiwi, Barotac Nuevo, Iloilo, and for a moment the tick of every drop feels like a whisper: “Tino is coming.” For thousands of students, teachers, fishers and farmers in the Visayan islands, the upcoming landfall of Typhoon Tino (international name: Kalmaegi) is not theatre or prediction—it is real. The Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical and Astronomical Services Administration (PAGASA) data signals direct impact on Panay, placing our province squarely in the storm’s path, expecting Signal No. 4 with winds of 180 km/h this Tuesday, November 4. This matters. It matters because houses, lives and futures stand at risk. It matters because, this time, we cannot afford to treat it lightly.
Why must we take this seriously? Because science demands it. The PAGASA bulletin forecasts the typhoon may intensify into genuine typhoon strength as it crosses Western Visayas, with possible storm surges of one to two meters in our coastal zones. The regional disaster-risk council warned that 2.3 million residents in Western Visayas are at risk. When the data points to a direct hit, hesitation becomes a risk. For a region whose memory still burns with Typhoon Frank (2006), Typhoon Yolanda (2013), and Typhoon Odette (2021), readiness is not optional—it is instinct. This is not panic. It is prudence in action.
Put yourself in the shoes of a teacher in a state university. You live in a boarding house near the coast. Your students live far from home, many from island barangays, commuting long hours already. Rain began this afternoon, the wave is restless, and you know the announcement: face-to-face classes suspended on November 4, alternative delivery modalities in place, and faculty on stand‐by. Yet more than the shift to online modules, you wonder: did we ready our homes? Did we advise our students who live in vulnerable barangays? Did the fisherfolk who work the sea understand the warning? A simple board erasing a palm leaf may become shrapnel tomorrow. Preparation may mean the difference between light damage and tragedy.
So what must be done before the winds hit? The household checklist is basic—but often ignored. According to disaster-management best practice, a first-aid kit, three days’ supply of water and non-perishable food, a rechargeable flashlight and batteries, cash on hand in case digital payments fail, a battery-powered or solar radio, and fully charged devices are essential (Smith & Watson, 2022). For our context, in Iloilo, these may be seriously considered: fishers secure their nets and move boats inland; farmers drain low fields, harvest crops early (if possible), and brace livestock; students in coastal dorms or houses move valuables to higher ground and share emergency contacts with their families. Make a simple plan: your barangay evacuation center, your ride, and your contingency funds. That saved minute tomorrow could mean safety.
During the storm itself, smart resilience wins over bravado. Stay indoors. Avoid windows. If water rises, go to an interior room on the lowest safe floor—not a sealed attic or top floor. Do not wade or drive through floodwaters: six inches can topple a person; twelve inches can sweep a car away (NWS, 2018). Battery lights instead of candles. Unplug appliances if flooding starts. Fisherfolk: the sea you love is a risk now—postpone trips. Our fisheries, marine, and science students must heed this: anchorage is no substitute for evacuation. Turn off LPG tanks if flow is compromised. Communicate your status to parents, relatives, teachers, and barangay officials. The lull between bands is not the end; it could be the eye or the calm before the storm. Be ready for the second, even third, swing.
Once the storm passes, the work begins. Check on neighbors—especially the elderly and students far from home. If evacuation centers opened, follow the official return time—never rush back. Document damage with your phone; this helps future aid and insurance. Clean up slowly: downed lines, weakened structures, contaminated water. Farmers and fishers must assess losses but also begin recovery plans now—not waiting until the rains return. As the earth recovers, we must recover faster. And yes, reflect: the floods, the eroded coastline, the debris—they ask us the hard question: were we ready because we valued science and infrastructure, or because we waited until it broke?
This storm also whispers of questions deeper than wind and waves. What if every flood control, bridge, irrigation, and road project in this country were built the way they were promised—disaster-resilient according to plan, not shortcut by politics or greed? What if our disaster-preparedness machinery were stronger? The closure of Project NOAH (Nationwide Operational Assessment of Hazards) by the DOST in 2017 raised alarms among scientists who warned of weakened readiness (Laborte et al., 2018). Some funds were diverted. Some plans were shelved. If a community lacks radar eyes or flood-control dams, when a storm hits, the signal is louder. The lands above Jaro Plaza settle more slowly. The waterways in Molo corners still choke. This storm gives us another chance to heed the partner between earth and responsibility: when we honor earth, she honors us.
For students especially, this is more than storm prep—it is life prep. Your studies can pause, but your values do not. In your safe room tomorrow, you practice digital apps. But you also practice compassion: check your classmates in dorms, share battery banks, and remind a boarding-house mate to secure their window. For teachers and barangay officials, it is leadership: update your Messenger group, call your deepest-field student from coastal Sitio, and help push their family’s boat out of harbor. For farmers and fishers, it is adaptation: you know the cycle of sea and sky better than any textbook—so when your instinct tells you “Go now,” listen louder. You are not just victims; you are first responders.
Ultimately, the rain tapping now at dusk is a signal. Not of doom, but of invitation. An invitation to readiness, to community, to care. Laudato Si asked: how are we treating our common home? The gutters filling now respond. The beach litter stirred by the tide answers. The hills clipped by illegal quarrying slump when loaded. Tomorrow the storm will test not only our roofs but also our readiness, not only our homes but also our will to act early. And we will pass if we are prepared; we will survive if we adapt; and we might even grow stronger.
When the winds settle, the water recedes, and our streets begin the slow clean-up, let us remember: a house rebuilt is good. A community awakened is better. The final tone of this storm will not be the number of trees uprooted or houses flooded—but the spirit with which we gathered and reminded our neighbors onsite or online, checked the batteries, anchored the boat, logged the update, and kept calm. Let the rain we will experience starting this evening not just fall—it should remind us that nature speaks, and we must listen.
***
Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with
