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As the Pacific’s latest storm barrels toward the Philippines, officials warn that Typhoon Fung-wong—locally named Uwan—is no longer just another weather system. It is a wall of air and water, spiraling across 1,500 kilometres, poised to become a super typhoon before striking the eastern coast on Sunday night.
At dawn Saturday, meteorologists at the Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical and Astronomical Services Administration (PAGASA) issued an urgent alert: waves could reach five metres, with winds strong enough to rip roofs from homes and flatten trees. “It can cover almost the entire country,” said forecaster Benison Estareja. The bureau projects sustained winds climbing from 140 to 185 kilometres per hour as Fung-wong closes in.
Rainfall totals of up to 200 millimetres threaten the Bicol region and parts of Samar, while central and northern Luzon may face 100–200 millimetres. Entire coastal communities have been told to evacuate to higher ground; ferries and fishing vessels are docked.
Local governments in Bicol, Samar, and Quezon have cancelled classes for Monday. Philippine Airlines suspended several domestic flights, anticipating airports submerged or unreachable.
For many, it feels like a cruel reprise. Only a week ago, Typhoon Kalmaegi left more than 200 people dead across Southeast Asia—204 in the Philippines alone—and hundreds of thousands displaced. Homes were shredded, streets buried in mud, and half a million Vietnamese residents remain without power.
Now another storm gathers in the same waters, charged by the same fevered climate. Scientists warn that as ocean temperatures rise, cyclones draw greater fuel, spinning into monsters more frequently. In the Philippines—where the typhoon belt cuts across its islands like a scar—the warnings feel less scientific than personal.
As of Saturday, rivers along Samar were already swelling. Emergency shelters in Albay and Catanduanes filled with families carrying blankets and pets, some still shaken from Kalmaegi’s floods. PAGASA’s maps show almost the entire archipelago inside the storm’s circulation—a nation enclosed by wind.
At the storm’s edge, the mood oscillates between dread and readiness. “We know the drill,” said a barangay captain in Legazpi. “We board up, move inland, and pray it turns.”
The Philippine Coast Guard has grounded all marine travel; volunteers distribute food packs from church courtyards. The government’s disaster agency says relief stockpiles are positioned in Bicol and Eastern Visayas, but warned that some areas may become unreachable once tides rise.
In this country, storms are measured not only by wind speed but by memory. Every new name—Haiyan, Goni, Rai, Kalmaegi, Fung-wong—writes another line in the national chronicle of resilience.
As night falls and the winds gather offshore, the nation waits again, bracing for impact.
