When Streets Became Rivers: Cebu After Typhoon Kalmaegi
There is a strange, persistent sound in the hours after a flood: the low, haunted scrape of debris rubbing against concrete, the high thin chatter of people counting what’s left, and the long, wet sigh of communities trying to figure out how to begin again.
In Cebu — an island province typically known for its bustling markets, bright festivals and the scent of roasted lechon on the evening air — those everyday noises were drowned out by a different kind of ruin. Overnight, arterial roads became waterways, entire shanties clung to their foundations like seaweed, and hulking shipping containers rode the current like driftwood. By morning, the death toll from Typhoon Kalmaegi had climbed above 90 nationwide, with the hardest blow landing on Cebu: at least 76 lives lost there, the provincial toll reported by local officials.
On the Ground in Liloan and Beyond
In Liloan, a coastal town within the greater Cebu City metro area, rescue teams scraped mud from doorways and lifted sodden mattresses from alleys that, just a day earlier, had been rivers. Rhon Ramos, a provincial spokesperson, confirmed that 35 bodies had been recovered in flooded parts of Liloan — a grim number that became a stubborn fact for families waiting at evacuation centers.
“I thought our barangay had seen everything,” said a woman who runs a tiny sari-sari store tucked under a corrugated roof. “At four in the morning the water came like a wall. I could hear the metal gates bending, and then everything went.” She held a waterlogged ledger. “Everything is gone.” Her voice curled between disbelief and a tired, practical fury.
Outside the evacuation center, a man in mud-splattered jeans loaded a small generator into the back of a pickup while his neighbor handed him a battered wooden box. “The river overflowed,” he said. “We live by the bank because it was cheap. Now where do we go?”
Provincial Governor Pamela Baricuatro, describing the scene as “unprecedented,” told reporters the storm’s water — more than the winds — was the killer this time. The admission captured a new fear among local leaders: urbanization and fragile riverbank settlements can turn routine storms into calamities.
Numbers That Tell a Story
Some figures help frame the scale of the emergency. In the 24 hours before Kalmaegi’s landfall, weather monitors recorded 183 millimeters of rain around Cebu City — well above the area’s monthly average of 131 millimeters, according to weather specialist Charmagne Varilla. Nearly 400,000 people were moved out of harm’s way in advance of the storm, a major logistical effort that likely saved many lives even as it underscored the vulnerability of dense coastal and riverside neighborhoods.
The Philippine military, mobilised to assist relief efforts, also suffered a tragic loss: a Super Huey helicopter on a relief sortie crashed on northern Mindanao, near the city of Butuan. Authorities later recovered the remains of six servicemembers. The Eastern Mindanao Command confirmed the helicopter was en route to support operations when it went down.
Voices from the Flood
“I’ve fished these waters my whole life,” said an elderly fisherman, pulling a bent net from a mucky pile. “This is the worst I’ve seen. The sea was angry, and it wasn’t just the sea — the rivers came out of their beds.” His hands trembled as he described the night, and he shook his head at the sight of a metal shipping container jammed awkwardly against a row of coconut trees.
A young volunteer from a local church, boots caked with mud, described the scale of humanitarian need: “People need dry clothes, baby formula, medicines for the old people. It is more than shelter — it’s the dignity that the flood washed away.”
Experts watching from Manila and abroad are reluctant to dismiss the fury of Kalmaegi as a standalone event. “We are seeing a pattern where storms intensify faster and dump more rain because ocean temperatures are higher,” said a climate scientist I spoke with, asking for anonymity to speak candidly about attribution. “A warmer atmosphere holds more moisture. That increases the risk of these sudden, catastrophic floods in coastal, urban—and poorer—neighbourhoods.”
Not Just a Local Tragedy: A Global Pattern
Kalmaegi is part of a troubling trend. The Philippines averages about 20 tropical cyclones a year; this storm brought that yearly tally to the expected average, and meteorologists said another three to five systems could still form before the end of the season. In recent months the country has already grappled with other major storms, including Super Typhoon Ragasa in September.
Globally, scientists point to warmer seas and atmosphere as contributors to storms that are more intense and more moisture-rich. The result is straightforward but devastating: heavier downpours in a shorter time, compounded when communities live in flood-prone corridors that have been squeezed by rapid urban growth.
Immediate Needs and the Road to Recovery
On the ground, the priorities are painfully clear:
- Search and rescue for the missing;
- Medical care for injuries and prevention of waterborne disease;
- Emergency shelter, dry clothing and food for displaced families;
- Restoration of power, water and communication links.
Relief organizations are setting up temporary kitchens and medical tents. Local government units are creating lists of families who have lost their homes. Volunteers are coordinating with the military for debris clearance and distribution of aid supplies. Yet logistical bottlenecks and damaged roads make each step uphill.
What Does “Resilience” Really Mean Here?
When will rebuilding stop being a patchwork response and become a chance to design for a different future? That question hangs over Cebu as clearly as the soggy laundry lines strung between battered posts.
“Resilience cannot be just a word we use when the water recedes,” said an urban planner with experience in post-disaster reconstruction. “We need to look at zoning, at river management, at affordable housing away from floodways. We need community-centered planning that understands how people actually live.” She paused. “Otherwise, every storm will just reveal the same gaps.”
It’s a difficult conversation: relocate people who have lived by the river for generations? How to balance livelihoods tied to place against the safety of families? How to fund large-scale infrastructural change in a country where millions still live in poverty?
After the Waters, a Call to Reflection
As Cebu cleans its streets and tallies its losses, the human texture of the disaster refuses to be reduced to statistics. There are names behind each number: grandparents who kept their grandchildren safe at the cost of their own lives, shopkeepers whose tiny savings have been swept away, volunteers who will not sleep until the last displaced neighbor has a blanket.
What do we want our communities to look like after the next storm arrives? Who bears the cost when climate risk meets poverty? These are not questions for distant committees alone; they are urgent, local, and moral. They demand investment, political will and — perhaps most importantly — the involvement of the people who know their neighborhoods best.
For now, residents of Cebu and surrounding provinces are in the slow work of recovery: sorting, salvaging, consoling, and remembering. If there’s any comfort, it is in the long Filipino tradition of bayanihan — the spirit of communal help — which is visible now in the volunteers handing out warm bowls of soup, in neighbors ferrying elderly people to safety, and in strangers who have become temporary kin.
As you read this, consider how far-reaching the consequences of a single storm can be. If climate change is reshaping the way disasters unfold, then our responses must change too — fast, fairly, and with deep respect for the people who live with the consequences.
