The Flood Isn’t the Disaster. Inequality Is.

A look at how the recent floods brought by Habagat and Typhoon Crising reveal the same painful truths about poverty and privilege that Parasite portrays so powerfully

In Bong Joon-ho’s critically acclaimed film Parasite, a single night of heavy rain turns into a devastating flood for one family—and a minor inconvenience for another. The event seems ordinary at first: just another thunderstorm in the city. But by the end of the sequence, the truth hits like a wave. Nature may be indiscriminate, but society is not. In a world shaped by inequality, even the rain chooses sides.

For many viewers, this scene was a moment of clarity. For Filipinos, especially the poor who live in flood-prone areas, it was a mirror. The film may be set in Seoul, but the reality it portrays is all too familiar in the Philippines—a country where more than 20 typhoons strike each year and where class differences are laid bare every time floodwaters rise.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the Philippines. As of July 2025, Metro Manila and neighboring provinces are drowning—literally and figuratively—in the latest Habagat crisis. Enhanced by Tropical Storm Crising, days of continuous rain have left communities submerged. Yet once again, it is the poorest Filipinos who bear the brunt of the disaster, while the well-off carry on, inconvenienced but safe.

Let’s revisit that unforgettable scene in Parasite.

After a chaotic night of deception and tension at the Park family’s luxurious home, the Kim family—who have been posing as workers to the rich household—escapes through the pouring rain. They descend literal and metaphorical levels, walking down from the hilltop mansions through winding streets until they reach their own low-lying neighborhood.

But their home—a cramped, semi-basement apartment—is no longer a home. It’s flooded. Everything is submerged: clothes, furniture, their dignity. Toilet water bubbles up violently. Ki-jung, the daughter, sits atop the toilet seat to keep sewage from exploding onto them. The family sleeps in a public gym, surrounded by other flood victims. Their lives are back to zero.

Meanwhile, the next morning, the Parks enjoy the fresh post-rain breeze. Their backyard is muddy, but nothing that a garden party can’t fix. To them, the rain was even “a blessing”—it cleared the air.

This isn’t just clever storytelling. It’s a critique of how privilege protects some while leaving others defenseless. The same storm. Two realities. One of comfort, the other of collapse.

That truth is now unfolding on the flooded streets of Metro Manila.

In July 2025, the southwest monsoon (Habagat), enhanced by Tropical Storm Crising, unleashed days of heavy rains across the capital and surrounding provinces. As of July 22:

• Five people have died and seven are missing, according to the National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Council (Inquirer.net).

• Multiple areas in Metro Manila, including Quezon City, Marikina, Malabon, and Caloocan, are under deep floodwater.

• Floodwaters submerged dozens of streets and disrupted daily life in areas like Mandaluyong, Makati, Pasay, and skilled thoroughfares such as EDSA and España Blvd (YouTube+3Instagram+3Facebook+3Inquirer.net+5GMA Network+5ABS-CBN+5).

• Rivers like the Marikina River have risen to near-critical levels, prompting mass evacuations.

• The Office of Civil Defense reports that over 21,000 families—about 100,000 people—are currently housed in evacuation centers, with 367,000 total families affected (ABS-CBN).

• More than ₱500 million worth of infrastructure damage has been recorded over ₱322 millions of that in flood control structures alone (PNA.gov.ph).

Schools and offices have suspended operations. Power interruptions have occurred in several areas. Families have been forced into evacuation centers—many of which are themselves prone to flooding.

The rain may have fallen on all roofs, but once again, the devastation has been reserved for those least able to recover.

Every year, disasters test us. But this time, the storm is laying bare systemic failure.

Where did the money go?

What’s worse is that this disaster, like the many before it, was not entirely unpreventable.

Despite annual allocations of ₱300–450 billion for flood control, areas across Metro Manila continue to flood with ease. Senators have publicly asked: “San napunta ‘yung pera?” (“Where did the money go?”), signaling deep taxpayer mistrust (Philstar.com) (Inquirer Opinion).

Floods reveal more than just physical weak spots—they expose political neglect.

The result? Drainage keeps collapsing, waterways clog with refuse, and valuable infrastructure, once built, falls into disrepair.

In Parasite, the Kim family suffers not because of the rain itself, but because of where they live and how little protection they have. The same logic applies to poor Filipinos today. They are not victims of rain—they are victims of inequality.

The Philippines, a nation of more than 7,000 islands, faces similar contradictions with alarming frequency. Every year, storms such as Yolanda (Haiyan), Ulysses (Vamco), and Ondoy (Ketsana) cause billions in damage and claim thousands of lives. But like in Parasite, these natural disasters do not hit everyone the same way.

In affluent villages like Forbes Park in Makati or the upscale condos in Bonifacio Global City, residents experience typhoons from high above the chaos. These structures are built to withstand winds and floods. Electricity may go out, but generators kick in. Relief is private, swift, and efficient.

Across the city—in places like Tondo, Payatas, or Baseco—the picture is different. Families cram into makeshift shelters built with tarps, plywood, and rusted iron sheets. They rely on community warnings, not official alerts. When the water rises, they carry children on their backs, grab what little they can, and hope the evacuation center still has space.

In some cases, evacuation centers themselves get flooded. Relief goods don’t come for days. And when they do, they’re rationed: a pack of noodles, a few cans of sardines, some bottled water. It’s survival, not recovery.

Just like the Kim family in Parasite, many poor Filipinos return to wreckage. Their homes aren’t insured. Their losses aren’t recorded. They rebuild with what they have—which is often nothing.

There’s a quiet but deeply symbolic moment in Parasite that haunts many viewers: Mr. Park complains about Ki-taek’s smell. He calls it the “subway smell,” the stench of poverty. It’s a smell that comes from living in underground spaces, from cheap detergent, from a life of hard work and limited access.

This idea resonates with poor communities in the Philippines, too—though not always in such literal terms. The stigma of poverty is deeply ingrained. The poor are often treated as burdens, as irresponsible, even as criminals during looting or scavenging for food after disasters. Relief efforts can be slow not because of logistics, but because of judgment. There’s an unspoken hierarchy of whose suffering matters more.

Meanwhile, the wealthy rarely have to beg. They don’t wait in lines. They don’t worry about sanitation or sleeping shoulder to shoulder with strangers. And just like in Parasite, they may not even be aware of the depth of the crisis. They see the same storm but live in a different country.

What Parasite teaches us—and what Filipino typhoons confirm—is that disasters are never just about nature. They are about systems.

When the poor suffer disproportionately, it’s not because the rain hit them harder. It’s because of a lack of proper housing. A lack of disaster-proof infrastructure. A lack of access to early warnings. A lack of voice in governance. These are human-made conditions. The storm merely reveals them.

This is why some have started calling typhoons and floods “social disasters” rather than natural ones. They expose inequality, neglect, and the failure of systems meant to protect everyone.

In Parasite, after the flood, something breaks inside Ki-taek. He’s no longer simply surviving or scheming. He’s awakened. His silent rage, built over years of humiliation and frustration, explodes in a shocking act of violence.

In the real world, this rage doesn’t always erupt. Often, it festers quietly—in hopelessness, in migration, in protest, or in the steady erosion of trust in institutions.

But there are also moments of awakening. Social media posts showing the difference between a dry mansion and a flooded barangay. Drone footage of slums underwater while malls remain intact. Viral videos of kids swimming in floodwaters beside abandoned vehicles. These become moments when society starts asking hard questions:

• Why are the same neighborhoods flooded every year?

• Where did the billions in flood control go?

• Why are only the poor asked to be resilient?

These aren’t just questions of infrastructure. They are questions of justice.

What You Can Do: Help Now

If you’re reading this and want to take action, here are verified ways to help those affected by Habagat 2025:

🔴 Philippine Red Cross

Trusted for rapid emergency response, including food, rescue, shelter, and hygiene kits.
Donate: https://redcross.org.ph/donate

🟡 ABS-CBN Foundation – Sagip Kapamilya

Leading donation drives for families affected by flooding in Metro Manila and Northern Luzon.
Donate: https://foundation.abs-cbn.com

You can also donate via GCash by selecting "Pay Bills" → "Charity" → then choosing “Red Cross” or “ABS-CBN Lingkod Kapamilya.”

Every peso can help someone get warm, dry, and safe tonight.

Beyond Donations: Demand Better Systems

Donating helps—but the ultimate goal must be systemic reform:

• Transparent budgeting for flood control and urban planning.

• Upgrading drainage and relocation for vulnerable communities.

• Climate-adaptive infrastructure that protects all, not just the privileged.

Storms may be inevitable. But suffering on this scale is not.

Parasite doesn’t offer an easy resolution. And perhaps that’s the point. Real life, like the film, doesn’t end neatly. Inequality isn’t a monster you can kill in one act. But awareness is a start.

In the Philippines, some steps are being taken. There are disaster-resilient housing projects. Urban planners are pushing for inclusive, sustainable design. Civil society groups provide grassroots disaster response. Local leaders, especially in vulnerable regions, are becoming more proactive.

But much more is needed.

Disaster response must prioritize the most vulnerable—not just in relief, but in preparation and long-term planning. Informal settlers need safe relocation options, not demolition threats. Education, health, and access to clean water and safe housing must be seen as disaster-prevention tools.

We can’t stop the rain. But we can decide who gets to stay dry.

When the rain falls in Parasite, it’s not just a plot device—it’s a mirror. A reminder that what we call “natural” disasters are shaped by man-made systems. A warning that storms don’t just destroy homes—they reveal who never had a safe one to begin with.

The Philippines doesn’t need more awareness that typhoons exist. It needs awareness that inequality turns every typhoon into a tragedy for the same people, over and over again.

So next time you see the floodwaters rising, don’t just ask how high they’ll go.

Ask: Who will be left underwater—and why?

If this piece moved you, share it. Talk about it. Demand better. Because the floodwaters will rise again. The only question is whether we’ve finally learned how to protect everyone—or just a few.