When people ask me what it’s like to be a DRRM worker in a first-class LGU, I usually smile and say, “It’s an adventure.” But the truth is, it’s more like riding a roller coaster that doesn’t stop when you want it to. We have the government’s support, funding, and even help from international partners like the World Food Programme, ACCORD Inc., Manos Unidas, CARE Nederland, CNDR, and local NGOs. Sounds impressive, right? But let me share what life really looks like behind the acronym-filled world of DRRM.
Our Schedule = Your Netflix Series
While people binge-watch K-dramas, we binge on barangay reports. Four times a day—07:00, 11:00, 17:00, and 23:00—we wait like expectant parents in a delivery room. Instead of a baby, though, we get hazard maps, rainfall updates, and the occasional “Barangay Captain cannot be reached” situation. (Plot twist: the typhoon waits for no one, even your barangay kagawad with a low-batt phone.)
Our Mealtime = Eat Like It’s a Race
Meals in DRRM aren’t candlelit or Instagram-worthy. They’re more like “speed dating with food.” We shovel down rice and ulam in under five minutes, because as soon as the next advisory hits, your plate becomes tomorrow’s leftover. Honestly, the only thing faster than us eating is the wind speed of Signal No. 4.
Our Office = Disaster BnB
Our workplace turns into a makeshift hotel two days before and two days after a typhoon. The package comes with folding beds, free pillows, towels, soap, toiletries, and comforters—5-star service if you don’t mind the sound of rain hammering your roof and radios crackling with static all night. But wait—there’s more! We have Starlink internet and solar power, so the brownouts skip our office. Overtime? Always paid on time. Believe me, in government, that alone deserves a medal.
Our Tasks = Multitasking on Steroids
Here’s a quick rundown of what we do when a storm rolls in:
- Activate ICS like superheroes assembling the Avengers, but with radios instead of capes.
- Coordinate with multiple agencies—police, health, MSWDO, NGOs, media, and yes, even the barangay tanod who walks barefoot but gets the job done.
- Camp management so evacuees are safe, dry, and accounted for.
- Hazard monitoring in landslide- and flood-prone areas, sometimes knee-deep in water.
- Nonstop reporting to OCD, DSWD, EDMERO, and DILG. Basically, if there’s an acronym in the government, they’ve read our reports.
- Public advisories so clear they’re translated into the local dialect, because safety messages shouldn’t need Google Translate.
- 24/7 operations—watching CCTVs, answering hotlines, checking social media, and praying our coffee supply doesn’t run out.
The Hardest Part = The Wait
Honestly, the toughest moments aren’t the fieldwork, the endless reports, or even the lack of sleep. It’s the long wait while the typhoon passes—the hours when the wind howls, rain slaps the windows, and we think of our families at home. That’s when my heart leaps. That’s when the tears come. Because while others are with their loved ones, we’re here working every breath to make sure everyone else survives the storm.
The Reality = Not Easy, But Worth It
We live with unpredictable weather, little rest, and 24/7 stress. We endure mud, winds, brownouts, and back-to-back calls. We carry the weight of responsibility, knowing that one mistake can cost lives.
But despite the sleepless nights, soggy socks, and never-ending Excel sheets, we stay. Because at the end of every storm, when families walk out of evacuation centers safe, when no lives are lost, when the sun finally breaks through the clouds—we know it was all worth it.
So if you meet a DRRM worker, don’t just say, “keep safe.” Say this instead:
“Salamat. Because of you, we are safe.”
Because this job may not be easy—but it is powerful, purposeful, and life-saving.
And yes, next time, please bring us coffee. ☕
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