Flooded and fazed for decades: Hagonoy, Bulacan needs help

I grew up in Hagonoy, Bulacan, a town where the tides of Manila Bay spill over during the monsoon season, where knee-deep waters are as routine as sunrise, and children learn to wade before they can swim.

As a child, I remember looking out the window as the rain poured for hours, sometimes days. Water crept steadily into the streets and eventually into our home. And yet, I was never afraid. The floodwater would rise, and we would rise with it. We stacked furniture, sealed bags, moved things upstairs. There was a rhythm to it, a quiet acceptance. For us, the flood was not a surprise. It was expected.

I often share this story with a shrug. “I’m from Hagonoy. Floods don’t faze me,” I’d say, often with a laugh, as though it were a badge of toughness. A point of pride, even.

But recently, I’ve come to realize that saying this also reveals something else, that I am saying that from a point of privilege.

Because not all of Hagonoy is the same. I grew up in a home that stood on relatively higher ground. We had cemented floors, proper drainage, and walls that could resist the tide. We had a second floor to retreat to, electricity that came back after a few hours, a generator, and neighbors who looked after each other.

And when the flooding became more than just an inconvenience, we had the privilege to move. We had options. That alone separates us from so many who remain, not because they want to, but because they have no choice. Many others were not as fortunate.

Some families, year after year, watched their plywood homes disintegrate into the brown waters. Their children slept on damp mats. Their kitchens were submerged. Their livelihoods, fish pens, market stalls, small stores were washed away. And still, they stayed, because where else would they go?

I called my aunt earlier this week, Inang Zeny; she’s 79. Her voice cracking, the water is already almost waist-deep. There’s no electricity, so the electric pump is not working. The rain is not stopping. There’s panic in her voice.

And so while I talk about floods with an air of resilience, I must also speak with humility. Floods didn’t faze me because they didn’t take away what I could not afford to lose. They didn’t take my home. They didn’t steal my safety. They didn’t shake my foundation.

But for others, they did. Repeatedly, quietly, and often without help or hope.

I’ve realized that resilience, while admirable, can also be romanticized. It can make us overlook suffering and injustice. When we say Filipinos are resilient, we sometimes mean they survive because they have no other choice. We forget to ask, why should they have to?

Growing up in Hagonoy taught me strength, yes. But it also taught me silence. A kind of learned helplessness disguised as normalcy.

Today, I want to break that silence. I want to tell a more honest story, one that holds both the pride and the pain. One that honors the people who continue to live with grace and grit amid rising waters. But also one that challenges why they must.

Because here’s the truth. This is not normal anymore.

The flooding is worse. It comes faster. It stays longer. It ruins more than it used to. What once felt seasonal now feels permanent.

Hagonoy needs help.

I asked Papa, an engineer and a proud Hagonoy native, if there is still a solution to this decades-long dilemma. He said yes. But it is very costly. And sadly, he doubts that a budget that big will ever be allocated to a small town like ours.

Hagonoy needs sustainable solutions, long-term planning, real investment, and the attention it deserves. It needs people to stop calling this resilience and start calling it what it truly is. Neglect.

Hagonoy shaped me. It taught me how to float when the world turns to water. But I must remember, some of us are still drowning.

HAGONOY NEEDS HELP.

MARIA CORAZON BERGANTIN,

macbergantin@gmail.com