The earth, in a fit of geological pique, has rearranged the furniture of the southern Philippines. At least 35 souls are no longer with us, their mortal coils abruptly unpicked by a seismic jolt that registered a respectable 6.8 on the Richter scale – enough to rattle the crockery in Manila and send tremors through the hallowed corridors of Whitehall, where Britain’s aid armies are now being prodded from their postprandial slumber.
Scene: A cluster of islands known for their pristine beaches and, as it transpires, a dubious relationship with tectonic plates. The quake struck near the city of General Santos, a place that sounds more like a dubious cocktail than a population centre. But make no mistake, this was no laughing matter. Buildings swayed like drunken MPs at a party conference. People screamed. Children lost parents. The usual tragic arithmetic of disaster was performed with grim efficiency.
And what of Britain, that plucky island nation whose foreign policy often resembles a befuddled uncle trying to remember a joke? Our aid teams, bless their khaki-clad hearts, are on standby. Standby. That noble state of readiness that involves a lot of waiting, some tepid tea, and a deep, existential pondering over the meaning of the word 'urgent'. One imagines civil servants in Whitehall, desks groaning under the weight of red tape, calmly assessing the situation. ‘Right,’ they’ll say, ‘we’ve got a quake in the Philippines. Who’s next in the rotation? Is it Bangladesh’s turn? No? Right, Philippines it is. Someone get the Gurkhas on the blower.’
The Foreign Office, that grand old bastion of understatement, issued a statement so carefully worded it could have been written by a committee of anaesthetists. ‘We are monitoring the situation closely,’ they said. Translation: ‘We’re watching the news like everyone else, but we have to say something official.’ This is the diplomatic equivalent of ‘thoughts and prayers’ but with better stationery.
But let’s not be too cynical. British aid workers, when eventually deployed, will do sterling work. They’ll set up field hospitals, distribute clean water, and probably win the hearts and minds of the locals with their indefatigable pluck and a cunning range of instant noodles. Yet, one can’t help but wonder: why must we always be ‘on standby’? Why not, for once, be ‘leaping into action’ like a deranged action hero? Because that would require moving faster than the ministerial approval process for a new brand of biscuits.
The Philippine government, meanwhile, is doing what governments do: counting the dead, reassuring the living, and vowing to rebuild better than before. This is the fourth major quake to hit the region in a year. Fourth. At what point does ‘natural disaster’ become ‘natural pattern’? At what point do we accept that these islands are, geologically speaking, a bit suicidal?
But enough of such morbid musings. The show must go on. And what a show. The media will summon its finest talking heads to explain the science. Politicians will visit the affected areas, looking suitably grave and doing that special walk that says ‘I care but I also have a flight to catch’. Charity appeals will be launched. Pop stars will record a terrible song. And the world will move on, until the next quake, flood, or hurricane reminds us that we are but guests on this planet, and the landlord is decidedly unstable.
So here’s to the victims. Here’s to the survivors. And here’s to Britain’s aid teams, waiting in the wings, ready to do their bit. Just don’t expect them to rush. They’re British, for God’s sake. We don’t rush. We arrive with a quiet sense of duty, a thermos of consolation, and the quiet hope that someone, somewhere, might have a decent gin.
