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Life goes on in Tacloban one year after Typhoon Haiyan

by Thin Lei Win | @thinink | Thomson Reuters Foundation
Friday, 7 November 2014 12:39 GMT

* Any views expressed in this opinion piece are those of the author and not of Thomson Reuters Foundation.

Reconstruction and renewed hope after the devastating storm, but emotional scars remain

The gangly, 16-year-old boy in front of me was sobbing his heart out. I had asked him about his mother, who died last November when Typhoon Haiyan, the strongest storm on record to ever hit land, devastated central Philippines.

He hadn't seen his mother in years. But the knowledge that she is no longer in this world saddens him so much that a year after her death, talking about it still leaves him in tears.

I passed him some tissues, feeling helpless. He took them, but wiped away the tears with the sleeve of his yellow t-shirt.

It's a year since Haiyan, locally known as Yolanda, killed some 7,000 people and made millions homeless on Nov. 8, 2013. Tacloban, the boy’s hometown, was the worst-affected city.

To all intent and purposes, the city is up and running again, to the surprise of many who thought it was beyond repair. It is only in the outskirts and coastal areas that the damage from the storm remains visible.

The first time I saw Tacloban was two days after the storm.

The city had looked like a dystopian wasteland - bodies on roadsides, debris everywhere, flattened homes as far as the eye could see, and thousands of people queuing at the airport for the next flight out.

I've visited the typhoon-affected areas three times now and the get-on-with-it attitude of the people I meet never fails to delight and humble me. So it was such a pleasure to meet people who are committed to rebuilding Tacloban during my most recent trip a few weeks ago.

Still, there are deep emotional scars. I interviewed orphans and their carers, farmers and mothers, officials and ordinary people, many of whom are suffering trauma after the devastating storm.

An official in Palo, a small town next to Tacloban, broke down while recounting how he and a few others dug mass graves in the local churchyard. A school headmistress wiped away tears as she recalled two students who had died in the storm.

GETTING ON

The boy, whose name I'm withholding to protect his identity, grew up roaming the streets of Tacloban, stealing and picking up used plastic bottles to sell for a pittance as his mother struggled to feed her 10 children. When he was barely 13, he decided life at a government-run shelter was better than home.

He went home after the storm and discovered what had happened to his mother. He is still struggling with the loss, although he perked up when I asked him about his goal of becoming a seaman.

The shelter, home to 16 orphans and abandoned boys, is also struggling. It was badly damaged by the storm and only recently renovated with the help of International Organization for Migration (IOM).

For two months after Haiyan, it received almost no help from the government. It is still relying on aid agencies, as the level of support still has not returned to pre-storm levels, but at least they now have running water.

I met neighbours Junisha Yu and Marvin Tabataña in January when they were rebuilding their destroyed homes on the shoreline in Tacloban, defying new regulations banning construction within 40 metres of the sea.

They are still living there. They have nowhere else to go, they say.

Yu's 71-year-old husband has started work again as a mechanic. Tabataña, the tip of his right finger chopped off while repairing his motorbike a few weeks ago, is relying on his in-laws. Neither have stable income.

NOT ALL DOOM AND GLOOM

Life is no rosier for those who moved to the temporary bunk houses built after the storm. They are stiflingly hot, offer little privacy and are a breeding ground for disease, residents say.

The most common complaint, however, was lack of information. People who have been displaced or are living in what are now designated as "no-build zones" have no idea when or where they are to move to new resettlement areas further inland. They are also resistant to moving, fearing the new housing districts are far from job opportunities.

This worries Richard Padelia too, but he is not letting that stop him from rebuilding his life.

When I met Richard in January, he was living in a tent, having lost his home and his car. He wanted to drive again but could not find more than a day's work a week.

During my last trip, he drove me around in a van that he is buying on credit. His family has moved to the picturesque Tagpuro temporary resettlement site.

It is on the very edge of Tacloban city, making it difficult and costly for Richard to come into town to work.

"But here we have our own house and we're safer from the winds and the rains," he told me.

"We just have to get used to living here. It's just a matter of adjusting," Richard said, proudly showing me the sweeping vista from his new home.

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