Survivors start rebuilding their lives

CEBU, Philippines -  They sleep on rice-straw mats laid on concrete, recovering from hunger and thirst, mourning the dead, fearing for the missing-without homes or jobs or any clue to what their future holds. These people are however, they say, lucky.

Surviving typhoon Yolanda was their first piece of good fortune. The storm tore down entire towns when it forced its way across the Philippines. Cruel winds and a wall of water up to six meters high killed more than 6,000 and injured at least 12,000 more.

Escaping the devastation left behind was their second. While thousands still clamored for a flight from the wreckage of Tacloban City and Guiuan town, more have been evacuated. Some have flown to Manila; mostly to Cebu or closer to the disaster zone.

The sports center housing them has corrugated metal roofs with no proper walls. Survivors queue for handouts of clean clothing and flip-flops, blankets and sleeping mats. They arrange the damp traces of their lives - identity documents, letters and a statue of the Virgin Mary - around them to air. Their attention is turning to what lies ahead.

"The past is past. We need to walk forward in our lives," said Peyonio Elmido, 37, as he waited with his family at Barangay Tinago gym in Cebu City (where they were evacuated). Sacks of food and bottles of water were stacked around a basketball hoop; a small child hit a donated xylophone with intense concentration.

Elmido escaped with 11 of his relatives, including his 81-year-old mother. Four more family members were on their way from Tacloban. One is lost forever. Elmido's elder brother, Nazareth, and their cousin, Romeo, stayed to protect their home when the rest moved to a sturdier building. As the typhoon intensified, the two men realized that they, too, would have to leave.

"The gust took off the rooftop and the water came inside and rose suddenly. It was 10 feet deep. We panicked," said Romeo. "We swam to a rooftop. Nazareth and I held each other and prayed. And then the water came and swept us away. We were able to hold a tree tightly before we were swept along by a wave. Then we held each other by the hand but were forced apart."

Nazareth vanished into the swirling water. Romeo was swept off again, into another neighborhood, where he managed to clutch a tree and cling on, praying, until the filthy currents subsided.

A doctor wept as she dressed the bloody wounds on his arm, caused by the hours he spent clinging tightly to the tree trunk as the storm raged around him. His chest was scraped raw and his legs and face bruised and scratched from debris flung by the gales.

The family found Nazareth's body two days later, covered him with sodden clothes, and left him by the roadside. "I am heartbroken," said his mother, Maria Soledad. "I cried for three days. I cannot accept it. But now, little by little..."

Nazareth had appeared in his sister's dreams, smiling and telling them not to worry, she said. Now the family would move to live with relatives in Manila. They will not return to Tacloban, except to visit the grave.

Towns have been erased by the disaster: Homes, businesses and infrastructure. The government's socioeconomic planning secretary, Arsenio Balisacan, has promised a detailed plan for reconstruction within two to three weeks.

The family said that finding jobs was their priority. Without wages there was no way to buy food or build a home. Peyonio used to work in a hotel. "That's fallen down," he said.

Four in 10 families in the disaster zone were living in poverty before the typhoon, according to Oxfam. Much of the affected area was dependent on the coconut trade and fishing; boats were smashed and it will take years to replace the giant palm trees wrenched from the earth.

Manila's emergency employment scheme will pay survivors to clear wreckage and restore basic facilities. That will help just 12,000 workers, who will earn P3,900 for 15 days' labor. Many will turn to relatives in other parts of the Philippines. But several said family members were unemployed or too poorly paid to help.

"I can't borrow even P100 from my brother," said Marcelino Gerona Odon, 56, from Tacloban. He was not certain that his wife and three children were still alive; they had been wounded. He came out to seek food and money to sustain them. "I need candles. I need mosquito nets - there are so many mosquitoes," he said. "I need boards. I need lumber: eight 3x4s, and 12 bigger pieces of wood. Nails. I know how to build a house."

The UN has doubled its estimate of the number left homeless to almost two million. Officials say they are discussing higher standards for housing and infrastructure, given how frequently disasters beset the country. The Philippines was recovering from an earthquake when the typhoon struck.

British Foreign Secretary William Hague has confirmed that a number of British nationals remained unaccounted for. He asked that every possible assistance be given to any British people caught up in the disaster.

Survivors expect to fend for themselves and make do. Odon concedes that his next house may be weaker, not stronger, than the last one because he cannot afford good materials.

When survivors say they need assistance, they are asking for jobs, not handouts. They are used to resilience and self-reliance, qualities that have carried them this far, but may not prove enough. "If I don't get help, I will kill myself," Odon said suddenly, drawing a hand across his throat. "My life is ruined ... everything was destroyed."

Médecins sans Frontières (MSF) has already deployed mental health specialists alongside other doctors. Providing information and encouraging support within the community will give people back a sense of control and power, said Guerline Nizet, an MSF psychologist.

The problem in the aftermath of  Yolanda is not only the disaster itself, but the disruption of people's usual coping mechanisms. "Nightmares or feeling stressed are normal responses to an exceptional event ... Perhaps you can't do a funeral - but you may be able to do something symbolic," she said.

For many, uncertainty about the fate of loved ones is the hardest blow. "I am traumatized," said Henry Clarisa, 61, scrubbing away his tears. He lost sight of his son Ariel, 20, when others rushed the cargo aircraft they were waiting to board for a flight out of Tacloban. Not until it was in the air did he realize Ariel was left behind.

With only each other to rely on-Clarisa's wife died years ago—they had walked 5 km to the airport barefoot, past scores of decaying bodies, and queued for days for a flight. He rummaged through the few possessions he had salvaged. They included an almost exhausted tube of toothpaste and the business card of a senator he once met; he hoped to ask him for assistance.

"I'm an accountant," he said. "If someone could help me, I can still work, even as a caregiver. The first thing is finding my son. The second is our livelihood." — reprinted from Phil. Response Humanitarian Communications