I was having dinner at the Reyes* family household with their two askals (street dogs), Tanner and Voice, one night in the village. "How are things going?" asked Jasmine* (names changed for confidentiality). Just as I was about to answer, we were plunged into darkness.
"Ah, it's a brownout," Tito Marcello, Jasmine's dad, said with a laugh.
He pulled out a candle and Jasmine's sister, Emma, lit it. She cupped her hands around the flame to keep it steady before crouching by the candlelight with her little brother, making shadows of dogs, rabbits and hearts on the wall.
Suddenly, there were shouts from the children outside. "They always do that," Jasmine said. "Wanna go?" Emma leapt up.
The kids stood at the window of their wooden house overlooking the beach. Other children had gathered to play volleyball, visible only by handphone light. We walked down the short wooden stairs and towards the shore, with Voice following closely behind.
By the time we reached the seaside, someone had managed to turn on a radio and it was blaring old Filipino songs. I watched the community play, older siblings guiding younger children away from the ball.
"Look at the stars!" Emma said.
It was a cloudless night. Like the handphone lights below, the constellations above were clear, forming their own groups and patterns. Watching the community laugh and play despite the blackout, I was struck by a quiet kind of resilience — not simply enduring hardship, but turning towards one another in the midst of it.
Brownouts (what Filipinos call blackouts) are common in this community. They were predictably unpredictable: you knew they would happen every few weeks, but you never knew when they would start or end, often lasting for hours. In Singapore, a power outage would be unusual enough to dominate conversation. Here, it was simply folded into daily life. People improvised and moved on.
I had gone to the Philippines to learn how communities respond to disasters. While I did not experience typhoons, earthquakes or other large-scale events during my time there, I noticed that it was the smaller, everyday challenges that forged resilience — the ability to adapt and make the most of difficult circumstances.
Brownouts were common. The Reyes had Voice and Tanner to keep them safe from unsavoury characters in the area. Many nights, children were unsure if there would be dinner on the table; it depended on how much fish their fathers could catch or sell that day.
Resilience is not simply a matter of "grin and bear it", nor is it the absence of fear, frustration or sadness. In the day to day, I would see and hear people express the whole gamut of emotions, especially through song. Thankfully, the community has support through the government, NGOs and local churches. Together, things are better. It is a willingness to adapt, and in the process, to lean into one another.
Resilience, I learned, is not just about holding on. It is about holding on to each other.
*All names have been changed for confidentiality.