By Reisha Mae F. Valdez, UC student
There are nights when rain is no longer something you listen to. It becomes something you fear.
In Baguio, where rain has always been part of the city’s character, the sound now carries a different meaning. Behind closed windows, families listen to water pounding against their roofs while wondering whether the ground beneath them will remain firm until morning. For some, rain is an inconvenience. For others, it is a warning.
From August 1 to 9, Baguio recorded 1,413 millimeters of rainfall, about 147 percent of its normal rainfall for the entire month of August. Nearly one and a half months’ worth of rain fell in only nine days.
Then came Guisad Surong.
A landslide struck Purok 2, Riverside, burying homes and trapping 13 people. Three survived. Ten did not, including children and elderly residents. It is easy to describe tragedy through numbers because numbers fit neatly into headlines and reports. But grief does not work that way. Ten deaths mean ten lives that will never return to their families. It means empty spaces at dinner tables, names that will no longer be called, and futures that ended without warning.
For those who survived, the rain may never sound ordinary again.
What makes this tragedy more painful is that Baguio’s vulnerability has never been a secret. The city sits on steep Cordillera terrain, where prolonged rainfall can saturate soil and trigger landslides. Urban growth has also pushed communities into slopes, ravines, and other areas where danger becomes greater when the weather turns severe.
We know the risks. We have seen the warnings. We have witnessed the consequences. Yet the same question keeps returning: What are we doing before the next disaster happens?
Baguio cannot depend on rescue operations after the ground has already collapsed. Hazard maps must influence land-use decisions. Drainage systems must be strengthened. High-risk areas must be properly managed. Families living in dangerous locations must have access to relocation that is safe, permanent, and realistic.
There is also a difficult truth we must confront. Not every disaster is simply an act of nature. Rain may trigger a landslide, but the extent of the tragedy can be shaped by human decisions: where homes are built, how slopes are altered, how drainage is managed, and whether warnings are acted upon.
Baguio will continue to be beautiful. Tourists will still come for its pine trees, cold mornings, fog-covered mountains, and familiar charm. But a city should not be judged only by what visitors see. For those who live here, safety must come before scenery.
Perhaps that is why the question “Is Baguio really a haven?” is no longer merely about its beauty. It is about whether the people who call this city home are protected when the mountains become unstable and the rain refuses to stop.
The rain will eventually weaken. The clouds will clear. Roads will reopen. Life will slowly return to what looks normal.
But normal should not mean forgetting.
If we rebuild without addressing the dangers that made the disaster possible, we are not rebuilding. We are simply waiting for the next tragedy.
Baguio deserves to remain a haven. But before we admire its mountains, we must make sure they are not the reason its people are afraid to sleep.
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