So To Speak: When the Headlines Became History

By Sonia P. Soto

Thirty-five years after Mount Pinatubo erupted, the headlines have long faded. But for those who lived through those days, the memories remain vivid.

This week, on So To Speak, I had the privilege of sitting down with veteran broadcaster Cecile Yumul for a special conversation entitled “Headline: Pinatubo — When the News Became History.“ What began as a television interview eventually became something deeper—an oral history of a generation that witnessed one of the greatest disasters in Philippine history.

Our conversation was particularly meaningful because we experienced the events of 1991 from different vantage points. Cecile witnessed history through the eyes of a journalist, broadcaster, photographer, and disaster volunteer. I, on the other hand, experienced Pinatubo as a daughter of Bacolor, the town that would eventually become one of the hardest-hit communities during the years of lahar that followed the eruption.

In 1991, I was not yet in broadcasting. I would only enter media sixteen years later, in 2007, first as a television executive and eventually as a broadcaster. At the time of the eruption, I was deeply involved in the anti-bases movement and in organizing people‘s organizations. Like many activists of my generation, I viewed events through the lens of social change and community empowerment.

Pinatubo, however, transformed many of our lives and even reshaped our advocacies. As families from Bacolor found themselves displaced and struggling to rebuild their lives, many women emerged as pillars of survival in evacuation centers and temporary communities. Together with fellow women leaders, we organized the Samahan ng Kababaihan ng Bacolor. Initially, our work focused on helping women and their families survive the difficult conditions inside evacuation centers. In the years that followed, our efforts evolved into advocacy work to ensure that women-headed households would not be forgotten in the government’s relocation and housing programs. Many families who had lost almost everything eventually found permanent homes through these collective efforts.

Looking back now, I realize that while Cecile was documenting history, many of us were living it and organizing within it. Thirty-five years later, our paths crossed in a podcast, each carrying memories shaped by the same disaster.

One of the things that struck me most during our conversation was Cecile‘s recollection of June 12, 1991. While on air, she watched from her studio window as the giant ash cloud rose into the sky. Searching for words to describe what she saw, she finally settled on two that have stayed with me. Pinatubo, she said, was “fatally beautiful.“

Like many of us, she admitted that her understanding of volcanic eruptions had come largely from movies. None of us truly understood what was unfolding before our eyes. What transformed the eruption into a catastrophe, however, was the arrival of Typhoon Yunya. The combination of rain and volcanic ash would plunge Central Luzon into darkness and devastation.

Listening to Cecile‘s stories also reminded me how different journalism was in 1991. There were no cell phones, no social media, and no internet. Reporters depended on VHF radios, operator-assisted telephone calls, and perhaps most importantly, memory. “Your mind became your recorder,“ she recalled. There was no time to write scripts. Accuracy depended on discipline, training, and one’s ability to remember the essential facts.

But perhaps the most moving parts of our conversation were not about journalism at all. They were about people. Years after the disaster, former children from evacuation centers would approach her and say, “Mom, you don’t know me, but I know you.“ They remembered her voice. They remembered the advice she gave their parents. They remembered being told not to abandon their homes.

She also shared a lesson that seems especially relevant today.

During the height of the disaster, many displaced families possessed nothing except the photographs they carried in their wallets. Those photographs became proof of identity, proof of relationships, and proof that families once lived in communities that had since disappeared beneath lahar. In this age of artificial intelligence and digital manipulation, her reminder was simple but profound: keep real photographs. One day, they may become your family’s history.

What impressed relief workers from Manila most, she recalled, was the generosity of ordinary Kapampangans. Many would arrive at evacuation centers intending to distribute relief goods, only to discover that the evacuees themselves were feeding the visitors. Community kitchens emerged naturally. Families shared whatever little they had. Even displaced residents continued making and selling native delicacies rather than simply waiting for assistance.

Perhaps that was the enduring lesson of Pinatubo.

Disasters reveal the worst of nature, but they also reveal the best in people.

Thirty-five years later, Mount Pinatubo is no longer breaking news. It has become history. But thanks to journalists like Cecile Yumul, and thanks to the countless ordinary men and women who endured those difficult years, the memories remain alive.

For long after the headlines fade, memory remains.

(END)