A few days ago, I had the privilege of sitting down for a deeply reflective conversation with Eddie Yap. What began as a casual exchange about flood control projects turned into a sobering discussion about nature, responsibility, and the uncomfortable truth about our preparedness for the future.
I shared what little I knew about the flood control initiatives of the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH)—particularly the common belief that river dredging is a straightforward solution. The logic seems simple: remove sediments, clear obstacles, deepen the river, and the water will flow freely instead of spilling into communities. Problem solved.
But Sir Eddie offered an illustration that shifted my perspective entirely.
He said, “Think of the river as an immune system.”
When our body is wounded, it heals itself. It regenerates. It restores balance without always needing medicine. A river, he explained, behaves much the same way. When we dredge it—scooping out sand, silt, and stone—we disrupt its natural equilibrium. And like a body responding to injury, the river compensates. Materials from upstream flow down to replace what was taken. In the simplest terms: dredging may not permanently solve flooding. In some cases, it may even worsen it.
That idea lingered in my mind. What if our “solutions” are sometimes just temporary interventions that ignore deeper causes?
I asked him, almost helplessly, “So do we just watch the water overflow and do nothing?”
His answer was not what I expected.
He said the real solution should have begun long ago—before extreme quarrying, irresponsible mining, and large-scale environmental destruction altered our landscapes. Rivers were not the original problem. Human intervention was. But now, he admitted, we are living in the consequences of decisions already made. It may be too late to fully reverse them.
We touched on reforestation. Planting trees sounds hopeful, empowering even. But Sir Eddie pointed out a difficult reality: the Philippines, as beautiful and resilient as it is, is geographically small in the context of global climate systems. Even if we reforest every island, it may not be enough to undo what has already begun on a planetary scale.
Between 2030 and 2050, he said, we will likely face the outcomes of what humanity chose to ignore. We will suffer what we refused to protect.
Nature does not negotiate.
That realization led us to a more urgent topic: adaptation. If prevention is no longer entirely within reach, preparation must be.
And this is where the conversation grew more uncomfortable.
We often speak of “preparedness” as stockpiling bottled water, ready-to-eat food packs, and relief goods. But true preparedness is not reactive charity after disaster strikes. It is proactive protection before danger arrives.
It means investing in resilient coastal infrastructure.
It means designing evacuation systems that actually work.
It means identifying safe zones long before a typhoon makes landfall.
It means allocating calamity funds not just for visible relief operations, but for invisible safeguards that prevent loss of life in the first place.
We have billions allocated for calamities. A percentage is released when disaster hits. But why does it often feel like we are better at responding to tragedy than preventing it?
Too often, aid becomes a spectacle. Faces appear on tarpaulins. Relief goods are distributed with cameras rolling. Officials present themselves as saviors of a crisis that better planning might have reduced. Meanwhile, the deeper question remains hidden: where were the long-term protections that could have minimized the damage?
Instead of building systems that reduce suffering, we sometimes find ourselves waiting—for congressmen, senators, donors, or foreign aid—to rescue us after the floodwaters rise.
But resilience is not built through waiting.
My conversation with Sir Eddie left me with this sobering truth: we cannot undo the past, and we cannot stop certain changes already set in motion. But we can decide how we respond.
We can demand smarter infrastructure.
We can insist on transparent and strategic use of calamity funds.
We can strengthen evacuation planning.
We can build communities that are ready—not just reactive.
The river will behave like an immune system. Nature will seek balance, whether we cooperate or not. The question is whether we choose to work with it—or continue disrupting it and blaming the consequences.
Floods are not just about water.
They are about accountability.
They are about foresight.
They are about the cost of neglect.
And perhaps most of all, they are about whether we finally learn that protecting nature is not optional—it is survival.