“Filipinos are resilient.” It is our favorite national line—spoken by officials, flashed on headlines, posted with hashtags every time disaster strikes. After Typhoon Tino drowned parts of Cebu, Negros, and Panay, and earthquakes shook the Visayas and Mindanao, the same phrase echoed again, as if endurance were our greatest export. But when the applause dies down, the irony remains: what kind of nation keeps praising its people for standing up when it is government neglect that keeps knocking them down?
 
We have mastered survival, but at what cost? Wading through floodwater, patching cracked school walls, and returning to class with damp notebooks should not be badges of honor. These are symptoms of a deeper sickness. The 2024 World Risk Index again named the Philippines the world’s most disaster-prone country—not just because of its location, but because of its leaders. Katrin Radtke, a disaster-preparedness expert from Ruhr University Bochum, linked the country’s vulnerability to corruption and weak institutions. In truth, our famed resilience has become less a virtue and more a verdict of abandonment.
 
During the recent Typhoon Tino, families clung to rooftops, pleading for rescue that never came. Billions had been poured into flood control projects, yet each downpour turns cities and towns into rivers. The Commission on Audit found ghost contracts and recycled budgets, proof that money meant to keep us dry was instead washed away by greed. As Senator Bam Aquino once said, “Flood control ang pangako, pero flood out of control ang inabot ng taumbayan.” That statement, like many submerged homes and lives lost, refuses to fade.
 
I remember visiting a public school in Southern Iloilo after another storm. Teachers lifted lesson plans onto chairs, and a student laughed while mopping mud from the floor: “Sir, at least may klase man gihapon sa bwas.” That laugh carried grace—and exhaustion. Teachers keep showing up despite flooded homes and broken systems, a testament to their calling but also to a system that takes their sacrifices for granted. The same goes for small fishers in Banate or farmers in Capiz who rebuild every year, only to lose everything again. Their strength should move us—but it should also make us angry.
 
The “resilience narrative” has become a political shield. Praising endurance is easier than explaining why drainage projects collapse or why emergency funds vanish. It is simpler to post selfies of relief drives than to demand reforms. As sociologist Gideon Lasco (2018) noted, turning suffering into spectacle dulls public outrage. The more we glorify pain, the more we normalize it. We begin to see calamity not as failure but as fate.
 
Earthquakes reveal the same cracks in governance. Each tremor exposes the shortcuts—substandard materials, rushed inspections, permits signed for profit. When buildings fall, officials call it “an act of God.” Maybe. But God did not approve those contracts. The Department of Public Works and Highways found that almost all local and national projects are defective, substandard, under designed, unfinished, or even non-existent. That is not resilience—it is betrayal built in concrete.
 
Our problem goes beyond corruption; it is also cultural complacency. We are so used to enduring that outrage feels rude. When cities flood, we roll up our pants and post “laban lang.” When power lines spark, we shrug and say “sanay na.” The late columnist Neal Cruz once said Filipinos forgive easily—even those who never repent. That kindness, beautiful in spirit, becomes dangerous when it enables incompetence. Hope without demand breeds decay.
 
Resilience, by itself, is not the enemy. It saves lives. But when leaders weaponize it as a compliment, it numbs the call for change. True strength is not in smiling through storms but in learning how to stop them from destroying lives and hopes again. Real courage is not blind endurance but discernment—the willingness to rebuild better, not just rebuild again.
 
That means accountability from both government and citizens. We need to elect leaders with real environmental, social justice, and anti-corruption platforms, not those who treat disasters as photo opportunities. Local governments must protect wetlands and mangroves that serve as natural flood shields. Scientists and engineers—not cronies and trapos—should run infrastructure projects. And communities should not just wait for relief; they should watch budgets, question delays, and stay involved. The UN Office for Disaster Risk Reduction (2023) found that countries with active civic participation recover faster and spend less. Preparedness begins with honesty.
 
The Filipino spirit will always inspire—the laughter amid chaos, the generosity amid loss. But there is a thin line between admiration and illusion. To keep praising people while ignoring the system that fails them is not respect; it is betrayal wrapped in flattery. What should make us proud is not a soaked family smiling in waist-deep water—but a country where no one has to.
 
Because resilience, no matter how noble, should never be the only plan.
 
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.