*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
The wind tonight in San Mateo, Rizal, sounds almost human—crying, pleading, warning. The rain beats against my windows, and the solar panels on my roof tremble with every gust. From my home in the mountains, I can see the valley lights below flickering through the storm’s gray curtain. I sit by the window, listening to the wind’s roar and wondering: how long before these rains become another Ondoy?
I still remember Typhoon Ondoy in 2009. The water came fast and without mercy. I saw families clinging to rooftops, entire neighborhoods swallowed by the river, and rescue boats floating where cars once parked. The Marikina River became a monster that day—rising beyond its banks, dragging everything with it. But what most people did not see was the root of that tragedy: mountains stripped bare, forests gone, and a landscape that had lost its ability to protect. Ondoy was not just a storm—it was a warning from the earth that we never learned to hear.
Now, as I look toward the eastern horizon, I think of the Sierra Madre, still standing as the Philippines’ first line of defense. For centuries, she has taken the full force of the Pacific’s fury so that Luzon may live. To the north rise the Cordilleras, strong and stoic—the backbone of our island and the symbol of our people’s endurance. Between them lies the Caraballo Range, the silent bridge that ties their strength together and feeds the rivers that nourish our plains.
These are the Three Guardians of Luzon—the mountains that protect us when governments fail and politics forgets. But even they are now under siege. Their trees are falling not only to chainsaws but to corruption. Their slopes are being carved not just by quarrying machines but by the greed of men who turn public office into personal business.
Let us speak plainly: the destruction of our environment has become an organized crime. Illegal logging, illegal land conversion, and illegal quarrying are crimes not of poverty but of privilege. They thrive through bribery and protection from both local and national officials. Worse, even legal operations become criminal when permits are bought, inspections faked, and conscience silenced.
And as if nature’s wounds were not enough, the flood control scandal has added insult to injury. Funds meant to safeguard the people from floods were siphoned away into ghost projects and fake contracts. How ironic that we steal money to “control floods” while we allow the mountains—the real flood control system of this nation—to be destroyed. No engineer can outbuild what nature has already perfected.
Cebu’s recent tragedy is proof. When the mountains there were mined and quarried into exhaustion, the floods came like vengeance. There was no forest left to catch the rain, no ridge to slow the waters. What followed was devastation that no amount of concrete could prevent. And now, I fear Luzon may be next if we do not awaken soon.
We must stop this organized crime of destruction. Every tree cut without conscience, every hill flattened for greed, every permit signed through bribery is a bullet fired at our own future. We must defend what is left of the Sierra Madre, Cordilleras, and Caraballo Range—not with slogans, but with laws that are enforced and leaders who cannot be bought.
The answer lies not in more projects, but in moral architecture—in building green, living clean, and governing justly. Let Agenda 21 be more than a forgotten international promise; let it become the conscience of our nation. It calls for sustainable development, but more than that, it calls for discipline, honesty, and reverence for the land that gives us life.
When I hear the wind howling outside my home, I no longer think of fear—I think of duty. The storm outside is fierce, but the greater storm is within us: the storm of corruption, greed, and indifference. And yet, there is hope, because the mountains still stand. The Sierra Madre still catches the wind. The Cordilleras still cradle the clouds. The Caraballo still feeds our rivers. But for how long depends on us.
If we continue to destroy them, we will one day wake up with no guardians left—only floods to bury our arrogance. But if we defend them now, our children will inherit not a country of concrete and corruption, but one of forests, faith, and freedom.
When the next typhoon comes—and it will—I want to look out from this same window in San Mateo and see the silhouettes of our mountains standing firm against the storm. I want to know that we have learned from Ondoy, from Cebu, from every scandal that robbed us of both funds and forests. I want to know that we chose to stand with the land that has always stood for us.
Because in the
end, it will not be money that saves us—it will be the mountains.
And if we fail
to protect them, then when the storm finally comes, no one will be left to
protect us.
