The Climate Lessons a Typhoon Taught Us

A decade after Typhoon Haiyan decimated the Philippines, the city of Tacloban is setting a new standard for surviving global catastrophes.

Each November, on the eighth of the month, the sidewalks in Tacloban, Philippines, glow. Since 2013, the people of Tacloban have been kindling rows of candles every year to honor the lives lost to Typhoon Haiyan.

Typhoon Haiyan—or , as most Filipinos call it—was one of the deadliest cyclones in history, leading to and more than 28,000 injuries. At least are still considered missing. Haiyan hit Tacloban City the hardest, collapsing and flattening the city’s most formidable buildings and infrastructures and causing .

In November 2023, the people of Tacloban gathered to remember Haiyan—the great mourning and the long journey to overcoming one of the world’s worst climate catastrophes. They’ve risen from deep calamity, modeling how the people of the Global South have been—and continue to be—tenacious and united as they rebuild. There are lessons to be learned here. What has helped this community collectively survive the unimaginable?

An Avenue of Care for Survivors

Jaime Gravador, a news reporter in Tacloban, was 12 when Haiyan devastated the city. In the hours after the storm, which Gravador describes as “dark,” “heavy,” and “apocalyptic,” he and his father roamed neighborhoods where they encountered mass death. “Lahat ng nakikita mo sa daan puro patay [you find dead bodies everywhere you turn],” he remembers wearily. Even after Haiyan passed, he couldn’t look at certain roads without having a flashback of the lifeless bodies that once lay there. “It brings you back to all the deep emotion … memories na hindi mo kayang maalala. Maluluha ka talaga [memories that you can’t bear to remember anymore. You’ll always end up in tears],” Gravador says.

In the aftermath of the super typhoon, survivors developed severe mental health conditions. Approximately 80.5% of survivors involved in typhoon relief efforts , and the rate of people with mental illnesses, including schizophrenia and depression, .

However, the country wasn’t fully equipped to handle this increase in mental distress. Gloria Enriquez-Fabrigas, an officer in charge of Tacloban’s health office, told the in 2019: “When Yolanda struck, we were all shocked. … The focus [then] was really more on the need for food and basic needs. Mental health was set aside during that time.” Gravador says that some of these survivors became psychologically distressed not just because their loved ones died, but because there were others who were never recovered. For some survivors, the lack of closure, with no bodies to bury and grieve, was too much to tolerate.

After Haiyan, there were only serving Eastern Visayas, even as the . But in 2014, officials in Eastern Visayas implemented , which allotted $90,380 or 5 million Philippine pesos, “to enable government agencies and personnel to respond to psychosocial needs through community-based intervention,” according to .��

Eastern Visayas was the first region in the Philippines to provide mental health support at all levels of care: primary, secondary, and tertiary, assisting up to “384 [patients] in 2017,” , a provincial health officer in Northern Samar. Health workers in Eastern Visayas offered care to communities using the Mental Health Gap Action Programme (mhGAP), an international program that “aims at scaling up services for mental, neurological and substance use disorders for countries especially with low- and middle-income,” according .

The program is designed for large-scale communities who suffer mental health conditions like depression, suicidal thoughts, and other psychological disorders, especially when there is a great lack of resources. In summary, on destigmatizing mental health issues in the community, suicide and substance-use prevention, community follow-up, human rights awareness, and more.

Health personnel, even those who were not mental health specialists, were trained with the mhGAP curriculum. The implementation of the curriculum aided the national health staff and local communities to identify and manage mental health conditions

Lyra was 10 when Haiyan flooded her Tacloban home. At the time, she couldn’t process the magnitude of the typhoon—until she and her family needed to climb on top of their roof to avoid violent floods.

After Haiyan, Tacloban didn’t have electricity for three months. Haiyan also completely wiped out Tacloban’s water and sanitation services, including the . Lyra recalls drinking baby milk so she could have adequate nutrition. “Siniguro lang nila Papa na may tubig kami kahit water lang na galing sa ulan. Tapos yung mineral water, parang talaga sa mga baby lang, so yung tubig namin, [ay] tubig ulan. [Our dad found ways for us to have enough drinking water, even if it meant rainwater. The mineral water was only reserved for infants].” For Lyra, nothing was ever the same.

When Lyra returned to school, most of her classmates were no longer there. Some died during Haiyan while others moved away. Thanks to the lingering trauma from Haiyan as well as the sudden changes in her everyday life, her social skills diminished: “After ng bagyo, mas naging silent ako. Hindi ako marunong makihalubilo. [After the storm, I became more silent. I didn’t know how to get along with others].”

She also noticed psychosomatic effects from climate anxiety: “Pag umuulan ng malakas o’ pag malakas ang hangin, parang natatahimik agad ako o’ natutuliro. Hindi ko ma-explain yung feeling na traumatized, kasi hindi ko siya na-express nung bata ako. [Whenever I see heavy rains or hear strong winds, I get quiet and disoriented now. I couldn’t explain the feeling of being traumatized at the time since I was only a child].”

, climate anxiety is “an adaptive psychological response to the actual threat posed by the climate crisis,” which manifests in “intrusive worrying, fear, and behavioral impairment.” Aruta and Guinto found that the Philippines has the highest number of youth who suffer from negative emotions like hopelessness, anger, and frustration in response to the climate crisis.

After Haiyan, communities from different parts of the Philippines and around the world traveled to Tacloban . Some humanitarian organizations, such as , were birthed from these efforts. FundLife, an organization mostly led by youth leaders and mentors, provides relief goods and psychosocial support to climate survivors in Tacloban. The organization utilizes , , and —especially football—to help youth cope with the impact of the climate disaster.��

Lyra, who was one of the organization’s first mentees, is a living testament to the impact of FundLife’s community efforts. “FundLife became a second family to me,” Lyra shares. “I wanted to share the hope I have through sports and play. Yung play, naging forgotten right na ng mga bata [Play has become a forgotten right to kids].” Lyra believes that sports can be an avenue where a young person discovers how resilient they are: “Sa paglalaro… dun mo malalaman na pwede kang bumangon [Play makes it possible for anyone to rise up].”

She’s since returned to the organization to work as one of its football coaches. “Nung nag-join ako sa FundLife, hindi ko lang na-develop yung football skills ko, mas na-improve ko yung confidence at social skills ko [Since joining FundLife, my football skills improved, as did my confidence and social skills],” she says.

The Power of Collective Storytelling

“L��ǲ� are what you call the sediments at the bottom of a tuba jar,” Joanna Sustento says as she welcomes attendees to Larog, a community storytelling project where climate survivors share stories, music, and art to process the tragedies from Haiyan. “Very much like what we have here [in this gathering], the stories we tell are remnants of what has conspired a decade ago: stories, memories—however much we pour out, there will always be something else to tell: the remnants,” Sustento says.��

Sustento, who co-created Larog in 2017, lost her family during the super typhoon. She then became an active frontliner, providing basic necessities to affected communities in Tacloban. While her story was widely known in climate activist spaces, she didn’t have enough time to process the trauma and grieve. “At that time, [I was on] survival mode,” she says. “[I focused] more on finding my family members, kasi noong time na ‘yon, hindi ko pa alam kung sinu-sino ba yung nag survive, and siyempre, find shelter, food [because during that time, I didn’t know who else in my family survived, and of course, I needed to find shelter and food].”

After Haiyan passed, Sustento and her friends felt like something was missing during the annual commemoration ceremonies. “We realized that there’s this gap,” she says. “[There’s no] space for people to come together and share stories. [Only] amongst ourselves, we’d tell stories of how we survived [and] our experiences during the typhoon. Pero wala yung isang space na pupunta yung mga taong hindi magkakakilala [but there was no central space where strangers can gather and tell stories], and we want to provide that.”

The first Larog event ended around 11:00 p.m., but people continued to share their experiences until the following morning. “Wala na yung program. Wala na yung microphone. Pero yung audience mismo nag-usap usap na sila [There was no more program. No more microphone. But the audience members remained and kept talking amongst themselves].”

At the 2023 gathering, Kay Zabala, a mental health coach, told her story about losing 11 family members during the typhoon. “I experienced hell because of Yolanda … imagine [losing] only one [family member], what about 11?” she said. After Haiyan, Zabala sought psychological and psychiatric help among other treatments so that she could heal. In turn, she’s become a mental-health practitioner.

While the pain of surviving a climate disaster will never go away, Zabala says our bodies and collective spirit are resilient: “We are capable of surpassing and overcoming anything … because we are naturally capable of doing that,” she continues. “If you get wounded in the morning and [when you get to] the afternoon or evening, makita ka nagsasara na [the wound will close]. You see that it’s already dried.”

When I asked Sustento about the healing power of storytelling, she said that collective grieving helped the community immensely: “Nag-purge kami ng mga trauma namin [We purged out our trauma together]. Nakakalungkot because yun yung pinagdaanan namin [It’s sad because we went through all of this], but at the same time, it’s just so beautiful to know that you’re not alone, [and] to know na may mga taong naiintindihan kung ano yung mga pinagdanaanan mo [to know that there are people who understand you and all that you are going through].”

Sustento says that telling her story has restored her sense of purpose. Though Haiyan took everything from her, she knows, “Enough pa rin ako [I’m still enough]. I can still contribute to something bigger.” She desires this for other climate survivors as well: “Hopefully, [they] find it in them [that] hindi ito yung end [This is not the end]. There’s still so much more.”

Walking for Climate Justice

The Philippines contributes , yet it’s the world’s country and has the highest risk of being impacted by climate change. As the threat rises, a community of humanitarian organizations have been demanding world governments respond to the climate crisis that’s impacting countries, especially in the Global South.��

Members and volunteers of Greenpeace Southeast Asia, Bikers United Movement, DAKILA, FundLife, Living Laudato Si, Philippine Movement for Climate Justice, and various archdioceses in the Philippines walked from Manila to Tacloban City—a journey of more than 600 miles—to uplift their urgent call for systemic change through the Climate Justice Walk.

is a monthlong action that began on Oct. 8, 2023, . The walk highlighted the demand for climate reparations, which urges fossil fuel companies to provide reparations for the loss and damage costs for the areas most impacted by climate disasters, including but not limited to Tacloban City. The walk also supported , including the Philippine Commission on Human Rights’ “that found legal grounds to hold big fossil fuel companies and other corporate entities accountable for their climate-destroying business models that lead to human rights harms.” This meant investigating 47 corporations, including��Shell, Exxon, and BP, for human-rights violations that triggered the climate crisis. However, have shown up to face the communities who filed these landmark petitions.

Greenpeace campaigner Jefferson Chua believes that reparations is “the strongest form of accountability.” Yet he and his team have sensed the resistance from Global North governments when discussing climate reparations: “I do think it’s opening the wound up again that relates to the colonial past of a lot of Global North countries, because we do know that the word ‘reparations’ connotes postcolonial meanings, right?,” he says. “I just don’t think [Global North governments] want to pay. They don’t want accountability in terms of their historical emissions, and also, [they are] not acknowledging the accountability for the expansion plans of [their] companies.”

Beyond the Climate Justice Walk, Greenpeace Southeast Asia has been pressuring governments and companies to account for their complicity in climate change. This includes to the Shell import terminal in Batangas, Philippines, as well as establishing , which displays stories and art by climate survivors.

Yeb Saño, lead walker of the Climate Justice Walk, says that “Filipinos refuse to accept the vicious cycle of destruction and reconstruction.” As the executive director of Greenpeace Southeast Asia, he also said in a : “We also refuse to accept that we are reduced to numbers, so it is our aim to remind the whole world.”��

�鶹��¼� than 10 years after Haiyan, it’s important to recognize that there are many ways to process and survive climate catastrophes—with community-led mental health interventions, play, and creative storytelling—while also strategically preventing them from escalating any further.

Gabes Torres (she/siya) is a mental health practitioner, grassroots organizer, and writer based in the global South. Her clinical practice and research focus on collective and intergenerational trauma and healing methods, including the psychosomatic implications of imperialism, racism, climate catastrophes, and human rights violations. Her passion is elevating communities and models of collective flourishing.

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