Thread by @jamelaaisha

I am a survivor of Typhoon Yolanda/Haiyan.

I clung to a rafter of a seaside hotel in Palo for hours until that roof was blown away. I saw the water rise like a wall before hitting us. I held on even as the building swayed, and people cried, "Buligi kami, buligi kami."

Around us, the water swirled like a giant whirlpool, and the wind sounded like a monster. I remember it to this day. The water reached the second floor, and I clung to dear life, feeling the rain and wind hit me like a thousand little stabs all over my body.

There was a brief moment when I saw a mattress floating near our building, and I told our cameraman, "Karsten, I am going to jump." "Jam, don't do it," he said. I couldn't bear the thought of collapsing with the building.

Not because I was afraid of dying, but I wondered: What if I get buried under the rubble?How can my husband and family find my body? Will my wedding ring be good enough?Will they recognize me with my hair? I had just gotten married!Our driver, Vic,hugged me. I was paralyzed

Finally, it stopped. We walked out thinking everybody else was dead. What I saw was beyond human comprehension. Bodies after bodies in the streets, floating in the ocean, covered by mud, up in trees, bodies smashed by cars, dead bodies in places you can't possibly imagine.

It took three days before we were airlifted. I was placed in a hotel to rest, but all I did was cry. After five days, I begged my editor to send me back. She did not want to, but eventually, she relented.

I worked for at least a month, non-stop, filing one story after another, sleeping only for several hours. I had survivor’s guilt. I cried, grieved, suffered, fought, and raged. I wrote ferociously.

A boy I was talking to told me he was holding onto his father’s back in the water when his father was struck by a steel rod in the neck. He had to let him go. His mother, father, and baby brother all died. When he told me this story, I collapsed on the floor and sobbed.

A priest in Palo who also survived told me that God had a message. He said, “Jam, God’s message is to never waste this life again.”

I still did not know what that meant.

A few weeks later, I went back to Manila and found out I was pregnant. God’s message to me was my son. And I vowed that, just like the priest, I will never waste my life and will do all that I can for my son.

Today, I found myself crying over the dead, the elderly, the mother who went mad looking for her dead children,the orphans in the centers,the nameless graves, and my colleagues who,just like me, for many many years also felt ashamed about their grief.

This is the only picture I have.Taken by a co-survivor who drove me for 5hrs from Leyte Park to the airport just so I could establish contact with the outside world. 5 hours.That's how long it took for us to carry the bike past boulders, bodies, rubble.

Haiyan, ten years on.