When Typhoon Sinlaku came,
it did not knock —
It roared.
It tore through April skies,
April 14 etched in memory,
as light vanished,
voices fell silent,
and the hum of life
was swallowed by the wind.
Darkness settled in our homes,
phones went quiet,
yet water —
gentle, stubborn water —
still flowed,
a quiet blessing
through weakened veins.
This storm lingered —
uninvited, unyielding —
circling our island
as if it would never let go.
It screamed in the night,
howled through the trees,
its breath shaking walls,
its fury crashing in waves
against our shores.
And when it passed,
it left behind
a silence
too heavy to ignore —
a kingdom of broken things,
where devastation
stood tall.
But even then —
even there —
something stronger rose.
In the quiet,
in the waiting,
in the candlelit prayers
and shared meals,
in hands reaching for hands —
We remembered
who we are.
We are still here.
We are still standing.
We are still breathing.
No storm can carry away
the strength of a people
rooted in faith,
bound in community,
anchored in love.
So we gather the pieces,
We lift one another,
We rebuild not just homes —
but hope.
One day at a time.
Si Yu’os Ma’åse’
to every heart that answered the call,
to every hand that gave,
to every soul that stayed.
And as the winds fade
into memory —
WE RISE.
(c) Matilda Naputi Rivera
