SOUTHEAST ASIA: In early October, Typhoon Matmo tore through Vietnam, soaking Hanoi and the surrounding countryside. Streets turned into rivers. Homes were swallowed by water. This came just weeks after Typhoons Ragasa and Bualoi wreaked their own havoc. The rains have stopped. The floodwaters have pulled back. But what they left behind—cracked roads, ruined homes, and shattered lives—is still painfully visible.
For many in Vietnam, the devastation wasn’t just another storm. It was the latest blow in what the government is now calling a “compound disaster”—one calamity stacked on top of another, with no time to recover in between. Over 238 people lost their lives. More than a quarter of a million homes were damaged. The financial toll: nearly $1.4 billion.
And it’s not just Vietnam. All across Southeast Asia, typhoons are hitting harder and more often. Floods come quicker, stay longer. Storms that used to be rare now feel like regular events. What was once a monsoon season is becoming a year-round crisis.
Why it’s getting worse
Southeast Asia’s geography has always made it vulnerable—low-lying coastlines, fertile deltas, and countless islands. But climate change is turning that vulnerability into a full-blown crisis. A recent ASEAN report confirms it: these storms are getting stronger, and they’re happening more often.
At the same time, cities like Jakarta, Bangkok, Ho Chi Minh City, and Yangon are growing fast—too fast. Forests and wetlands that once absorbed rainwater are being paved over with concrete. Skyscrapers rise where rice paddies once stood. Millions now live in zones that flood every year. When the rains come, the water has nowhere to go.
From natural disaster to political flashpoint
When storms hit, they don’t just wash away homes. They erode public trust.
In Vietnam, people are openly criticising the government’s disaster response—too slow, too uncoordinated. In the Philippines, a wave of typhoons followed by an earthquake sparked nationwide anger after reports of corruption in flood defence projects surfaced. There have already been resignations, and whispers of deeper unrest.
We’ve seen this before. The 2011 floods in Thailand paralysed major parts of the country and laid bare bitter political divides. Cyclone Nargis in Myanmar in 2008, which killed nearly 140,000 people, triggered a crisis that arguably nudged the country toward democratic reform.
When governments fail to protect their people from disaster—or are seen profiting from tragedy—citizens remember. And they respond.
Water has always meant power
Water has always been political in Southeast Asia. The ancient Khmer Empire flourished and expanded because of its immense and refined water systems and sophisticated structures. More recently, Thailand’s cherished King Bhumibol was famous for his rainmaking schemes and initiatives to manage torrents and strong downpours. Water was more than a natural reserve—it was a depiction of leadership.
But then these days, the risks are more complex. The old systems can’t keep up. Ancient canals and royal reservoirs weren’t built for a climate like this—where sea levels rise, rains fall harder, and the next storm could be just around the corner.
The next storm could be political
Governments now face a critical test. It’s not just about rebuilding after the storm—it’s about preparing before the next one hits. That means smarter urban planning, investments in infrastructure that can endure the upcoming years, and eliminating fraud and exploitation from the structures designed to safeguard citizens.
Because in a territory where water has always moulded and influenced history, the question to be asked is — can leaders acclimate fast enough, or will the next deluge sweep away more than highways and hometowns? Will it remove public trust, too?
