I have always been fascinated by the dark logic of true crime, yet lately, my interest has shifted toward the systemic nature of disasters. This curiosity led me to the 2019 HBO series Chernobyl, a masterful retelling of the 1986 nuclear disaster. While taking creative liberties for dramatic flow, it remains deeply anchored in the archival reality of a state-sponsored catastrophe. Watching the series sparked a realization that hits far closer to home than a nuclear reactor in Ukraine. I was one of the many victims during the onslaught of Bagyong Tino in Cebu. While my family and I were fortunately safe in a part of the city that was less prone to rising waters, our house that was a little way north and almost everything we owned were submerged in neck-deep flood. Seeing only a few salvaged belongings left behind made the show’s central question, “What is the cost of lies?” feel like a personal reckoning rather than just a piece of dialogue.
In the series, Valery Legasov explains that every lie we tell incurs a debt to the truth, and eventually, that debt must be paid. In the Philippines, this debt is collected every time a storm makes landfall, and our infrastructure fails to hold. It is not only siphoned flood control funds that we pay for; it is the terrifying uncertainty of what other hidden compromises we unknowingly subsidize with our safety. This rot extends even into our healthcare services, which often prove insufficient to serve the very people they were meant for. Perhaps the most stinging evidence of this is when officials who oversaw these systems suddenly feign illness and flee the country under the guise of seeking better treatment abroad. Their flight is a silent admission of the substandard status of the systems they helped maintain. While these figures rest in the luxury of lives bought with the very resources meant for the public, the country is slowly brought toward a quiet downfall, one disaster at a time.
We carry the responsibility of voting for leaders who are worthy and genuinely capable of their positions.
This systemic decay creates a physical reality that no amount of political rhetoric can hide. The flood water and brown mud that filled my home in Cebu is the same kind of evidence as the radioactive dust that settled over Pripyat. It is proof that we cannot indefinitely paper over cracks with press releases or ribbon-cutting ceremonies. Breaking this cycle requires a solution that works from both ends of the social contract. Holding those in power accountable is essential, but the true preventative measure begins with us. We carry the responsibility of voting for leaders who are worthy and genuinely capable of their positions, ensuring our lives are never again used as collateral for political gain. Our vote is the first line of defense against the “cost of lies,” ensuring the people at the helm value human life above the preservation of an image or a personal bank account.
Ultimately, the tragedy of these floods is not just the loss of property but the erosion of human dignity. Standing in the aftermath of Bagyong Tino, realizing that a lifetime of memories can be erased by a single night of rain and how similar it is to the reason behind a radioactive nuclear disaster, brings a profound sense of betrayal. To value human life is to demand honesty in the structures meant to protect it. When leaders prioritize their own enrichment over the safety of the public, they treat the citizens they serve as mere statistics or acceptable losses. True resilience cannot be built on a foundation of deceit. It requires us to acknowledge that our safety is only as strong as the integrity of those in power, and that the ultimate cost of a lie is always paid by the people who have the least to lose.
