Calamity 101: A curriculum for lawyers

By Atty. Anfred P. Panes

The 6.9 earthquake hits. Kanlaon erupts. Iloilo City floods again.

We are stuck in a repeating loop of disaster, reaction, and inefficiency. We know the script. We see the heartbreaking images. We hear the calls for donations and the promises of investigations. We wait for normalcy to return.

Then, we wait for the next calamity.

We feel the obvious harm. People are hurt. Lives are lost. Property is destroyed. The economy of a barangay, a city, or an entire province is paralyzed.

But the real harm is not the disaster itself. It is the catastrophic failure of our man-made systems in response to it.

The example most painful to me is right here in Iloilo: our Hall of Justice. This building is not just a structure of concrete. It is a symbol of the rule of law. It is meant to represent stability, order, and the permanence of justice. It was repaired after the 2012 quake, following the best practices and standards available at the time. Yet, a new seismic event in 2025 has forced its closure, shutting it down indefinitely.

The impact is not just a cracked facade. This is justice itself, suspended. Our own IBP Iloilo Chapter office is inaccessible. Lawyers, judges, court staff, and the public are displaced. Files are trapped. Hearings are postponed.

When this happens, our public discourse immediately fragments. We love to blame two familiar culprits: corrupt politicians or the catch-all “Acts of God.” We argue over budgets. We point fingers at contractors. We demand accountability. But these are often symptoms, not the cause.

I think the real problem is quieter, more systemic, and, frankly, more embedded in our professional culture.

After a disaster, an engineer looks at the Hall of Justice. He sees a purely structural problem. His mind goes to technical specifications. He thinks about soil liquefaction, load capacities, and the integrity of the shear walls. He writes a technical report, filled with the vocabulary of his field. He speaks the language of engineering.

As a lawyer, I look at the same building. I cannot understand the complex engineering. But I immediately translate the situation into the language of the law. “What is our legal liability if this building collapses? What law governs the emergency budget for this? What are the potential causes of action against the contractor or the government?” I am concerned with precedent, due process, and legal exposure.

Then, the LGU politician hears us both. He looks beyond the technical engineering or the legal arguments. He speaks the language of politics. “This is expensive. The repair will take two years. My term is only three years. The voters are angry about floods and the lack of clean water today.” He must perform a triage of public opinion. The Hall of Justice is an abstract problem. The family on a roof is a present one.

All three of these professionals are correct. They are all competent. They are all operating with integrity within their own fields.

But the result does not suffice. The outcome? Paralysis. The building still sits empty.

This failure of communication is not an abstract theory. I see it in my own law practice. I have clients who are engineers and contractors. They come to my office seeking help with the complexities of our procurement laws. I sit with them in conference rooms, reviewing stacks of documents related to public bidding and contract awards.

While I can navigate the legal procedure and write the motions, I am completely reliant on them in understanding things like “engineering progress,” “budget management,” and “material specifications.” These technical details are not just details. They are often the entire case.

This makes me wonder about our legal education. What if the solution starts there?

We don’t just need to re-engineer our buildings. Perhaps we need to enhance our legal training. What if we created a “Disaster 101: A Curriculum for Lawyers”?

This is not about replacing our strong foundation in legal theory. It is about adding a new layer of practical, inter-disciplinary skill. It is about making lawyers into better public leaders and problem solvers.

What would this look like?

Perhaps it starts with a mindset shift in our Socratic Method. Instead of asking students to memorize provisions, we ask them solve a real-world crisis. We give a team of law students a scenario: “A 7.2 quake hits Panay. The hospital is cut off. The HOJ is cracked. Prisoners are trapped. The governor needs an emergency proclamation in one hour.”

The students would be trained to draft emergency executive orders. They would have to file urgent motions for detainees. They would have to advise LGU officials on their emergency powers. And, most importantly, they would be forced to do it all while trying to understand a technical engineering report that says a key building is collapsing. They would have to learn to ask the right questions.

To do this, they would need new “Crosstalk” classes. These are specialized, mandatory subjects for law students. They are necessary for modern disaster management.

For example, we could introduce “Engineering Concepts for Lawyers 101.” This class would answer basic questions. What is “retrofitting” versus “rebuilding”? Why does “soil liquefaction” matter? How do you read a basic structural integrity report? This is not to make them engineers, but to allow them to reasonably converse with one.

We could also teach “Public Budgeting and Finance for Lawyers.” Where does disaster money actually come from? What is the legal difference between a national calamity fund and a local quick-response fund? This would train them to trace the money, advise LGUs on how to legally access it, and spot the red flags of corruption.

And we must teach the specialized laws that everyone finds unnecessary until a disaster hits. We need deep dives into our procurement laws. We need a full course on climate change law. We need a practical, case-study-based class on our national and local building codes.

This is just a thought. It is an idea to ponder. But imagine the advantages.

In 15 or 20 years, one of these law students becomes a Mayor. When the engineer hands him a technical report, he will actually understand it. He will be able to ask intelligent questions. A lawyer becomes a Judge. She will preside over a zoning case and understand why the “shear wall” argument is not a minor detail, but the entire point of public safety.

More importantly, we might finally shift our entire posture from “Reaction” to “Design.” The lawyer, now understanding the engineering, will draft contractor-liability clauses that have real, enforceable technical teeth. The engineer, knowing the lawyer understands, will design buildings with legal accountability in mind from day one. They will speak a shared language.

This type of curriculum reinforces what I have always called the “vocation of humanity.” It teaches our future lawyers that their ultimate goal is not just to win a case or protect a client. It is to work with others to protect the human community. It breaks down the professional silos and rebuilds our shared purpose.

Our response to these disasters is a test of heroism. We see engineers working sleepless nights, LGU officials coordinating relief on the ground, and citizens opening their homes. We see the Judiciary, in particular, showing incredible resilience. Judges and court personnel have worked tirelessly to establish temporary courtrooms and ensure the wheels of justice keep turning, even under the most difficult circumstances. This dedication is our greatest asset. We owe it to these professionals, and to every Filipino, to give them the tools to collaborate before the next disaster strikes.

It is an idea, nothing more. But as we watch disasters repeat themselves, we must ask if our old ways of thinking are still enough. Our very survival may depend on us finally learning to speak the same language.