BAGUIO CITY — The afternoon of 16 July 1990, began like any ordinary day, but it instantly fractured into a lifelong nightmare when a massive magnitude 7.8 earthquake ripped through Luzon.

Inside the pitch-black darkness of a local movie theater, the world suddenly began to convulse violently.

As thick, suffocating dust filled the air, a panicked mass of people scrambled desperately toward exits they could no longer see.

In the middle of the chaos, a nameless hand gripped my shirt collar with immense strength, hauling and throwing me through a breaking exit into the daylight just before the entire structure collapsed into a heap of twisted concrete.

Stepping onto the unstable pavement outside, my immediate instinct was to survive, but the true horror of the disaster was already unfolding. A heavy impact struck me hard in the back.

Turning around, I expected to see a fallen brick or a piece of timber. Instead, I found myself staring down at the severed head of an elderly woman, her face permanently frozen in the final, terrifying realization of the disaster.

My brother and I began a frantic sprint through the crumbling streets of Baguio, desperately looking for our mother, who was selling sweepstakes tickets and newspapers on a sidewalk in the city.

The mountain city had transformed into a valley of death, revealing just how fragile the concrete structures really were under the weight of nature.

Massive concrete beams trapped victims in an instant, leaving bodies pinned beneath shattered rubble while the agonizing wails of survivors filled the air.

People were weeping openly in the ruins, and the heavy stench of sudden mortality settled over the debris. The sights, sounds, and smells of that afternoon stitched themselves permanently into the minds of those who walked through the ruins, creating a loop of historical grief that no passage of time could bury.

Decades have marched on since that fateful day, but the internal trauma has never left. Dreams and vivid flashbacks regularly visit me, leading to instances of waking up shouting and crying, inadvertently disturbing the rest of the household.

My nephew, who works in the medical field, once pointed out that these symptoms match post-traumatic stress, yet the opportunity and time to seek proper professional evaluation never materialized.

The unseen psychological scars remain raw, serving as a constant internal baseline decades after the physical dust settled.

Social interactions carry their own heavy burden, forcing a difficult performance whenever the topic of the earthquake surfaces in conversation.

I developed a persistent struggle to frame the survival story in a lighter, almost humorous light — not to entertain listeners, but as a defense mechanism to prevent unexpected sobbing in front of others.

Beneath the surface, old wounds bleed, but a stubborn pride refuses to allow outward vulnerability, maintaining a facade to shield a fragile interior.

In the years following the disaster, Baguio gradually rebuilt its hotels, businesses, and familiar pine-lined streets. In response to the tragedy, officials initially established clear floor and height limitations aligned with the building code to ensure that future construction prioritized safety over structural overreach.

Now, 36 years later, the efficacy of local regulations seems increasingly compromised as national government approvals continuously bypass local assessments.

The strict safety lessons of the past appear to be forgotten by modern bureaucracy, raising concerns that profit and expansion are once again taking precedence over structural integrity.

Contemporary builders and developers frequently assure the public that current construction materials are vastly superior to those used decades ago. The popular narrative suggests that these modern, high-quality materials possess the structural engineering required to withstand future seismic shockwaves.

However, for those who watched the previous generation of buildings crumble like paper, these comforting promises provide little reassurance against the unpredictability of the earth.

Today, the summer capital is heavily congested, filled with sprawling concrete establishments, commercial spaces and high-rise condominiums. The essential open areas where terrified residents sought refuge 36 years ago are rapidly disappearing under new foundations.

For the aging survivors who witnessed the complete destruction of their home, the visual transformation of the city does not bring comfort, but rather a lingering anxiety that history might repeat itself on a much grander, more crowded scale.