Yolanda, COVID, and now this earthquake have made me realize how fragile and fleeting life truly is. Each of these tragedies reminded me that tomorrow is never promised, and because of that, I no longer want to live the rest of my life in silence—restraining myself, holding back my voice—just because I happen to be a government employee.
I’ve come to see these disasters not just as natural phenomena, but as wake-up calls. They are God’s way of forcing us to confront the reality we’ve long ignored: that something is deeply wrong with where our taxes go and how our resources are managed. Year after year, we are told that budgets are allocated, that funds are in place, that systems are being improved—but when the storms come, when the floods rise, when the ground itself shakes beneath us, we see the truth. The cracks in our infrastructure, the lack of preparation, the absence of accountability. And it’s always the people—the ordinary citizens—who suffer the most.
The most heartbreaking part is that lives are lost not simply because of the force of nature, but because of human failure. Because those entrusted with power chose negligence over responsibility. Because corruption ate away at the very systems that should have kept us safe. And if lives are lost because of that, then isn’t that a form of indirect murder? When people die not only from the calamity itself but from the lack of preparedness and care from those who should have protected them—that is not just tragedy, it is injustice.
And so I can’t help but ask myself: how long do we keep quiet? How long do we allow fear or position to muzzle us, while the truth continues to stare us in the face? If these disasters are meant to wake us up, then perhaps the most dangerous thing we can do is go back to sleep.