My American Ondoy

I do not know Ondoy. While the streets of Manila were being lashed by heavy typhoons and thunderstorms, I was in my Harvard classroom, listening amusedly as my classmates argued about the asymptotic capacity of randomly generated machines. By the time class finished, I turned on my phone to see several missed calls from family and friends back home — something was going on. It did not take long to find out that it had been raining in Manila for several hours, slowly building up to the worst flooding the country has experienced in decades. I went on Facebook to discover that several of my friends were either missing or stuck on rooftops, while the rain poured relentlessly and without the slightest tinge of mercy.

Devouring the flow of messages on my phone, I stopped in my tracks. There I was: so far away in a beautiful place, in a perfect campus, in the school of my dreams — and suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about home. I couldn’t stop wishing I were back home. Soon after, I met up with fellow Filipino students from other schools in Boston. At first there wasn’t much to say. We knew what had happened, we’d all heard stories of family and friends. We knew what each other must have been feeling: to be here now thousands of miles away, while our beloved islands remained submerged in floodwater. It was such a frustrating sense of uselessness, of being disconnected to the people and experiences that anchor us to home.

We sat around a table, slipping into the language we hadn’t spoken for awhile because the opportunities to do so come so few and far between. It felt right then, as if it was the one thing that bound us to our lost land. For those of us here, the Philippines is no longer 7,107 islands — it’s the people around us who speak Filipino and know the Philippines. It doesn’t matter how many years we’ve been here: some kids left Manila when they were in high school yet they remember everything, and it’s all that matters.

We knew we had to do something. It started with one email, from a friend in Columbia. Gian tells us he is setting up a collection booth at school, because every cent will help. He’s absolutely right: after all, one dollar can buy a Chickenjoy meal. We could easily replicate the same system in our own schools; all we needed was to find one Filipino in each school worldwide. Jen, who is a fellow HBS student, decides to establish the Student Calamity Fund on Facebook. The fund is a student-led donation drive for the victims of Ondoy.

Two days after the account was created, we had more than one thousand student members from all over the world. Name it and we have it: INSEAD, MIT, Stanford, Wharton, London Business School, Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy, SMU, IESE, Berkeley, Yale, Babson, NYU and many more. This means more than 1,000 members representing over 20 international schools, with everyone signing up in less than 48 hours. Technology is indeed wonderful — in a few days, we had a core network to learn from, where we could replicate each other’s ideas and share the latest news.

The initiatives have been incredible. Thousands of dollars have been collected in a matter of days, from simple collection boxes to more creative programs like raffle games and fiestas. Filipinos from New York held a fund-raising concert “Halo-Halo Cabaret,” starring Pinoy singers from Broadway. Relief goods have been sent through free balikbayan boxes, while prayer services are being held in several cities. Several events like parties and benefit shows will be launched in campuses, where every can of beer bought directs some proceeds to the cause. It’s heartwarming to see the kindness of our international classmates, from their concerned emails to personal donations. Passing around a small envelope in our first-year classes alone, we were able to collect almost $1,500 in loose change. This doesn’t even include the donations directly put through Paypal accounts.

I haven’t written for a while now — adjusting to my new life has been plain chaos — but how could I not write now? I’ve never been prouder to be Filipino. They always say we are the future of this country and for the first time, I felt like we really are. It’s such a powerful network, this headquarters for students from schools worldwide. We’ve dispersed ourselves into different parts of the world, called back now to join forces. If the same kids who assembled here to gather funds will indeed be the next leaders of our nation, we are in pretty good shape. They are kids who are talented, strategic, experienced — kids who will fight to save their country, even when they are safe on dry land thousands of miles away. If the past few days represent what this group can do for the country in a few years, I cannot wait to see what the future must hold.

When I passed around donation envelopes in class, I scribbled on top: “Help save my country!” My country. Now that I’m on the other side of the world, I feel this great sense of ownership, of rooted belonging. I want to tell my classmates that we are more than a country devastated by flood: we are people who can build our homes again from scratch, who will stand up and fight because it’s just another battle of the day. I show them pictures of people on rooftops still smiling, or children waving at the camera while they swim in floodwater. They ask why these people are smiling, despite having been through a calamity comparable to Hurricane Katrina. I tell them it’s just the way we are. It’s terrible, many people died and thousands lost their homes. Yet here we are, managing the wreckage left by another unexpected tragedy — just when we think there’s no way we can make it, we actually do.

Philippines, you will be okay. We cannot come home now, first we have to find ourselves and figure out what we can do for you. But Ondoy has made us realize what home means, where home is — and that is you. Shake yourself dry, get your head above the water, like you always have. You are strong, resilient, undefeatable. You have been through worse and you survived. If I have learned anything in the month I’ve been here, it’s to take one day at a time: one small step in front of the other. Stand up my dear country — and know that with every step, we will be with you.