by
James Brian G. Garay|
September 16, 2026
It was 7:37 a.m., the 8th of June, 2026. I opened my eyes, heart racing, not to my alarm, but to the world around me tilting violently. Things were flying off shelves, the walls were groaning, and the cries were deafening. It was a moment of plight for God’s mercy. As I rushed to the door, my legs could barely keep up with the trembling ground beneath me. At that moment, all I pleaded for was another day to live.
A 7.8 magnitude earthquake hit General Santos City. Outside, people poured into the streets. For a brief moment, strangers no longer felt like strangers. The catastrophic situation brought the community together in prayer. And fear erased every difference between us.
However, in the midst of our apprehension, it was supposedly a day different for others. Workers were preparing for another day of earning a living. Students were preparing for their first day back to class. New notebooks. Fresh uniforms. Reunions with classmates. Yet, as I opened my social media, I happened to see their horrified expressions in frames.
Official reports from different agencies may detail the physical damage, the hundreds of millions in infrastructure repairs, and the suspension of classes. Politicians may show up, cameras in tow, practicing their usual brand of televised altruism. They may tell the public that the city survived a 7.8 magnitude tremor, boxed in AI prompts. But they cannot measure the invisible damage that followed. They cannot record the child who now panics whenever the floor vibrates, the families who choose to sleep outside despite the rain, or the hesitations before entering buildings that once felt safe. Long after the aftershocks fade, the fear remains.
We were told that the reason the earthquake happened was due to the subduction of the Cotabato Trench. However, I realized then that this earthquake exposed more than fault lines. No “duck-cover-hold” happened. The evacuation plans exist only on paper. Some communities were left to improvise while waiting for help. The tremor lasted less than a minute. Our unpreparedness has lasted for decades.
For a country whose geographic location sits in the Pacific Ring of Fire and the Western Pacific Typhoon Belt, why do we continue treating disasters as unexpected interruptions instead of inevitable realities? Preparedness should not begin only after buildings collapse or when we are struck by the A-to-Zs of typhoons. Preparedness cannot remain an afterthought. It should be woven into our schools, communities, and most importantly, our government, long before the earth begins to shake.
I am no stranger to catastrophe. Born in the shadow of the Asian financial crisis, my life has been bordered by climate disasters and a global pandemic. But this was the very first time I ever packed an emergency bag with my treasured rosary in it to leave by my bedside, ready for flight. I hoped I would never need it. As I lay in the dark in the days that followed, I wondered how tomorrow could ever be promised to those of us who, just hours prior, were looking forward to an ordinary day. For a generation already drowning in the anxieties of an uncertain world, the earthquake was a violent reminder of just how fragile we really are.
Yet amid this deep uncertainty, I witnessed something that gave me hope. As vulnerable as we are, the “kapwa” in us never died. As electricity was interrupted and water became scarce, it was the youth who stepped forward first. The very generation criticized for spending too much time on their phones transformed those same devices into lifelines. Messenger group chats became coordination centers. Social media posts and stories turned into calls for rescue and donation drives. Information traveled faster through students than through official channels. While institutions struggled to respond, young people found ways to connect communities that desperately needed one another.
We often praise Filipinos for being resilient. It is a word thrown around so heavily after every calamity that it has begun to taste like an excuse for systemic unpreparedness. But true resilience should not mean forcing everyone to be brave in the face of terror. It should not mean accepting government neglect just because we are strong enough to endure the aftermath.
As the ground finally stilled, I looked around at my community. We survived the shaking, yes, but the real tremor remained inside us. Moving forward cannot simply mean rebuilding homes, roads, and bridges. It must also mean building a country where preparedness is never left to chance.
The earthquake shattered more than buildings. It shattered our illusion that resilience alone is enough to survive in the Philippines.
On the morning of June 8, all I asked God for was another day to live. No one should ever have to begin an ordinary morning with that same prayer.
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