PANDAN, Antique — On rainy nights, some families living in a government resettlement site for typhoon survivors in this coastal town mechanically move their belongings away from leaks in the ceiling and arrange pails to catch the drips. They have learned to live with bad weather even if their nervous laughter barely muffles the wind rattling the walls.

Quick repairs with cardboard, tarpaulin, and wood scraps are on the task bar, along with security. Yet only a few kilometers away, rows of housing units sit coated in dust and unanswered questions.

More than a decade after Supertyphoon “Yolanda” (internationally known as Haiyan) wreaked havoc in the Visayas, the promise of “building back better” in Pandan is caught in cracked walls and overgrowth. What began as a  ₱26.7-billion commitment to recovery from calamity has, in many places, developed into a landscape of quiet decay.

The Tingib Homes project is a stark monument to stalled transition. There are functional water lines and electric transmission poles, but the 1,220-unit development remains largely a ghost town: Vegetation is more at home there than the survivors it was built to shelter.

The remains of the project tell a story of abandonment rather than vacancy. While the housing facility is officially populated, only 40% of it is currently occupied. A staggering 60% of the units are slowly being reclaimed by the elements.

This decay persists despite the fact that the 1,220 units have designated beneficiaries on paper. The dwellings are empty, not for lack of owners but because the promised security of the facility has failed to materialize into a livable reality.

Out of reach

Melody Turiaga, a Yolanda survivor from Barangay Patria, says the resettlement project represents a promise that is perpetually out of reach. “I applied as early as when the houses were being built,” she says, recalling the repeated assurance that her family was on the priority list of beneficiaries.

Her displacement is not a mere memory but a condition she lives with. Her original home was constantly flooded during heavy rains. “When Yolanda hit, I put my children in a plastic basin so we could escape the flood,” she recalls. 

Today, Turiaga lives in a unit she does not legally own. “The owners just allowed us to stay for now,” she says in a tone more measured than resentful.

Her husband is a carpenter earning a small income, but it seems that rebuilding independently for the family is unattainable. “His salary is just enough for daily needs, so building a house isn’t realistic,” she says.

Her exclusion is difficult for Turiaga to understand given the stated criteria for beneficiaries. “We were displaced by Yolanda, and our home was in a danger zone near the river where flooding reaches neck level. Yet we were never included in the list,” she says.

Bitter irony

Despite the region’s losses from the world’s strongest typhoons so far, the investment in Tingib Homes has failed to result in a community. Units that should be occupied by families are instead rotting away or stripped of their parts by looters.

For those still displaced, the sight of these “completed” shells with working utilities is bitter irony—a reminder that a house requires more than just a roof and wires to become a home, and needs a family to stay.

Around 493 people now reside in Tingib Homes, according to Barangay Chair Antonio A. Tumnog. The occupancy figure highlights how much of the 1,220-unit settlement remains unused, but he points out that it is misleading because several families live in units they do not legally own, and are staying only with the absentee beneficiaries’ consent.

This legal gray area has quietly shaped how local officials engage with the settlement. Tingib Homes has not been formally turned over to the barangay, limiting its authority to concerns involving peace and order and basic sanitation.

Without a municipal ordinance clearly defining the responsibilities of the local government unit, the barangay, and the homeowners’ association, accountability often stalls before action begins.

“When an issue surfaces, responsibility gets passed around,” Tumnog says, describing a system where authority exists but direction is absent.

The homeowners’ association, which is expected to manage internal affairs, operates under similar constraints. Speaking on condition of anonymity to avoid personal and professional friction within the community, an official of the association explains that resistance to compulsory membership has weakened collective governance.

“Whether residents agree or not, they are required to join and follow the rules,” the official says, adding that refusal to comply prevents the association from functioning formally. Without unity, even basic development plans remain aspirational, not actionable.

The absence of land titles complicates enforcement and planning. While official representatives of the National Housing Authority have yet to respond to direct inquiries, the association official, who is familiar with the agency’s work process, indicates that unresolved documentation remains the primary hurdle for title distribution.

As a result, with no one clearly authorized to intervene, the unoccupied units are left to certain deterioration. 

Political considerations 

Turiaga believes that political considerations shaped access to housing. She claims to have been told that supporting certain politicians could help her case.

While the Pandan municipal government has not issued an official response to these specific allegations, the lack of transparency in the selection process continues to fuel a sense of exclusion among the survivors left in legal limbo.

“Housing should not feel like a favor,” Turiaga says. “It’s supposed to be a right.”

Even residents who formally own units express hesitation about staying permanently. Elizabeth Tandog, also from Patria, says that safety concerns have kept her from fully settling in.

“There are many abandoned units near ours, and once, we returned to find our window broken,” she says. “Some areas don’t even have streetlights, so it feels unsafe.”

Livelihood access is a persistent concern. “Our source of income is still in Patria,” Tandog says, pointing out that relocation has disrupted, rather than secured, stability.

Structural gaps

Barangay Chair Tumnog acknowledges that Tingib Homes holds unrealized potential, with structural gaps evident in the absence of health centers, educational facilities, recreational spaces, and sustainable livelihood opportunities.

“People were given houses, but not the support systems that a community needs,” Tumnog says. “A settlement cannot stand on shelter alone.”

At its core, the stagnation reflects systematic limitations rather than lack of funding. With no finalized turnover, no clear ordinance, and a beneficiary process clouded by political influence, progress is firmly stalled. 

“The original purpose of the project was compromised,” Tumnog says in the course of calling for clearer policy and accountability. “Those who truly need housing should be the ones living there.”

The facility now sits at the intersection of intention and inaction, recovery having been delivered in form but stalled in function. Until roles are clarified, systems are strengthened, and people—not politics—are placed at the center of resettlement, the promise of “building back better” remains a mere slogan. CS

Nicole Faith Montiel is a psychology student at the University of Antique. She describes herself as a musician and human rights advocate whose interests lie in navigating the human psyche, music, and social justice.

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