I was so absorbed in reading and grading my students’ essays the other night that I didn’t notice it was already past midnight. Then the ground shook. My smartphone blared an alarm just as the shaking started. If you use Android, turn on its quake alert feature. It can warn you seconds before (or as) the shaking arrives, especially when the epicenter is farther away, since telecom signals can reach you faster than seismic waves.
No one is immune to fear when the ground starts shaking. I tried to keep my bearing, expecting that it would not be as strong as the September 30 quake. Still, the seconds felt like minutes as this aftershock lasted longer. I just remained at my study desk at home in Banilad, watching for any sign that the ceiling or a shelf might give way.
Please don’t follow my example. Remember what authorities say: drop, cover, and hold. When the shaking stops, move to an open area. Maybe I’ve just grown tired of all the shaking these past couple of weeks that my instinct now is to treat the aftershocks as part of the new normal. I apologize if this sounds insensitive to those who cope differently, especially younger people.
We all felt fear, but once the danger seemed over, I noticed that we older ones usually cracked jokes or exchanged banter, perhaps as a way of relieving the tension. The younger ones in our neighborhood, however, as I saw when everyone rushed outside, had the color drained from their faces and looked really shaken. Sensing this, I tempered my reactions.
I was at a fast-food restaurant along Escario, having coffee the morning after the quake yesterday. Strangely, or perhaps characteristically of us Cebuanos, people struck up conversations with strangers at nearby tables about the quake that happened around 1:05 that morning. For a moment, it felt like everyone inside the place knew one another.
One of them, probably a parent, said that it felt like the pandemic again, when face-to-face classes were suspended for an indefinite period. He said the school administration’s bottom line may not be affected by the quake, since parents have already paid tuition. But it’s the students’ quality of learning that gets shortchanged. That made me think we should find a middle ground on class suspensions. We all know how much learning suffered during the pandemic, because there’s still no better substitute for in-person classes.
One stark reality exposed is that our school system lacks a tried-and-tested adaptation playbook for earthquakes. That’s worrying, given that the Philippines sits on the Pacific Ring of Fire. Japan is our neighbor to the north that, like us, is prone, arguably more so, to earthquakes. In a 1995 committee report, its education ministry urged stronger disaster education and swift reopening of classes in facilities deemed structurally sound. The guidance emphasizes restoring school activities and predictable schedules to reduce students’ anxiety.
Today, the recommendation stays the same. Students tend to do better when they return to regular routines, as the US-based National Child Traumatic Stress Network (NCTSN) notes: ‘Reopen school as quickly as possible, help reestablish school routines, and make modifications as needed.’ Schools should also connect students to community mental health services, where available.
It’s true we are not Japan or the US, but still we can do better. The National Secretariat for Disaster-Safe Education Unit of Indonesia, for example, recommends suspension of classes when hazards make it unsafe. But its playbook emphasizes localized closures, continuity measures, and reopening as soon as buildings are cleared.