“Kawawa ’yung mga walang tirahan, basang-basa sila.”

My mother said this while we were comfortably sheltered from the rain. Outside, the city was slowly being consumed by the familiar grayness of the rainy season. Cars moved cautiously through wet roads, pedestrians searched for shelter, and somewhere beyond our windows, people without homes were left to face the rain with nowhere to retreat.

It was a simple remark, but it forced me to confront something I had become accustomed to overlooking. I have seen homeless people and families living in precarious communities countless times while travelling around the metro. More often than not, I watched from the safety of a car, felt sympathy, and continued on. I have also been vocal about corruption and government failures online, but I eventually realized that awareness without action can become another form of comfort.

The rainy season makes this contradiction impossible to ignore.

For some Filipinos, heavy rain means cancelled plans, flooded streets, or a few uncomfortable days. For others, it threatens their livelihood, possessions, and ability to provide for their families. A family with savings, secure housing, transportation, and access to assistance has considerably more options during a disaster than one whose daily income depends on being able to work.

The rain falls on everyone, but not everyone can afford its consequences.

The Philippines’ recurring floods cannot therefore be discussed merely as a problem of heavy rainfall. They reveal who has the resources to protect themselves and who does not. Farmers, fisherfolks, workers, vendors, and informal workers help sustain the economy while remaining among those most vulnerable to economic and environmental crises. The Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA) reported that farmers and fisherfolk had poverty incidences of 27.0% and 27.4%, respectively, in 2023.

This is why the conversation surrounding flooding cannot stop at “we need better drainage.”

Infrastructure matters, but so do land use, housing, environmental protection, wages, disaster preparedness, and the distribution of public resources. With billions allocated for flood-control and drainage projects, Filipinos have every right to ask where the money goes—and why ordinary communities are still left vulnerable.

When public funds are lost through corruption, irregularities, or ineffective projects, those with the fewest resources are often left to carry the damage. For a low-income family, a failed flood-control project can mean damaged belongings, lost wages, interrupted education, or another debt they cannot afford.

For the poor, government failure has a price.

Yet, these people are not simply victims waiting for rescue. They are workers, families, and citizens. The farmers grow our food; the fisherfolks supply communities; the workers build our cities. They keep society moving, yet their security is often treated as secondary.

That rainy afternoon, my mother simply said that she felt sorry for those who had nowhere to go.

I understand what she meant. But perhaps sympathy should only be the beginning. Saying “kawawa sila” recognizes suffering; asking “bakit kaya ganito kalagayan nila?” forces us to look at the structure that allows it to persist.

I am fortunate to have a home where I can wait for the rain to pass. My parents worked hard to provide that comfort, and I do not take it for granted. But individual hard work should not become an excuse for accepting a system where security remains a privilege for some and a constant struggle for others.

The rain will continue to fall. What should change is our willingness to accept inequality as inevitable.

Because the rain may fall on everyone, but not everyone has a roof.

The Frontman