When the Ground Shook in Cebu — and Why I Didn’t Pick Up My Camera

The Night the Earth Moved

It was a normal weekday evening. I’d just gone in to check that Sofia was sleeping ok. Suddenly, our dogs outside started barking — nothing new there — so I lay down next to her to watch her sleep when I felt the first tremor of what would turn out to be the strongest earthquake in Cebu since 2013.

Being from the UK, we don’t experience earthquakes of any real size, and after nearly a decade living in the Philippines I’d only ever felt small rumblings. This was different. This was new to me. As the house started shaking and contorting around me, my mind raced: at what point does the house collapse? when do I decide to evacuate us or at least get us under the dining table?

As the shaking bounced me around, I instinctively put myself over Sofia to make sure any falling debris would hit me rather than her. She woke up in a daze and thought I was shaking her. She said, “Daddy, please stop.” I told her it was an earthquake and I was just protecting her. The lights suddenly went out and then, as quickly as it began, the violent shaking and twisting stopped. We were left in total darkness — confused but seemingly safe.

We took a breath, a sigh of relief, and got up, unsure if that was the end or if more was coming. A lot happened that night: my mum ended up sleeping on our sofa; I talked with my wife about exactly what she should do if another, bigger quake hit later. We’d discussed it before, but now the threat felt real, so I wanted to be sure the plan was drilled into our heads. We spent the next couple of hours sitting in the flickering light of a single candle.

Questions raced through my mind. Were we at the epicentre? Was something worse happening somewhere else? And then one more: Is there anything I can do to help? I’m a photographer — maybe I can bring this to light, to the world, in some small way. That thought — and the fact that I didn’t act on it — is what led me to write this just three days after the 6.9-magnitude quake.

There are no photographs here because I didn’t pick up my camera that night. That was a conscious choice — one that shaped this story.

The Pull of the Photographer’s Instinct

If you’re a photographer, you know that tug. The moment something unusual happens, your mind flashes to the camera: this could be powerful, this could be worth documenting. It’s not about being opportunistic in a cruel way — it’s almost automatic. We’re wired to notice light, emotion, and human stories.

That instinct hit me hard that night. I imagined the streets, the people outside, the fear, the aftershocks. I know how fast an image can travel, how a photo can make distant events feel real to people who weren’t there.

For a split second, I felt that familiar urgency: grab the camera, go make sense of this through pictures.

But then another feeling rose up, just as strong: People were worried about their homes, their families. Some might have been injured. People were probably scared and unsure if another quake was coming. Did they really need someone pointing a lens at them?

I stayed put.

The Next Morning and a Hard Question

The next morning, a little tired and still feeling regular aftershocks, my thoughts turned to what was happening north of us — in Bogo, the closest town to the epicentre. The news was reporting a 6.9-magnitude earthquake with building collapses and deaths. My instinct was to travel there, to document the tragedy, to try and share the human story with the world and maybe help in some small way. This is the photographer’s instinct.

But as I sat with Sofia — she was scrolling through the latest videos and photos on social media — I noticed something that stopped me cold. Mixed in with real footage were videos clearly created by AI: bridges collapsing, sections missing, captions urging people to “like” or “pray for Cebu.” I couldn’t believe it. People were fabricating disaster for attention.

It made me pause and ask myself: What could I actually offer if I went to Bogo? What real benefit could my images bring? Would I be helping — or just getting in the way of rescue and relief efforts?

And that, to me, is the crux of ethics in photography.

My Line in the Sand

In the end, I chose not to go. This disaster was already receiving international news coverage; help would come regardless of whether I added a few photos. My images weren’t needed — and my presence in a place where people were grieving loved ones and homes could easily have felt intrusive. Even a 1% chance of my camera being seen as an invasion of privacy or an act of exploitation was too much for me.

I realised — or maybe just confirmed — something about my own boundaries: I won’t photograph people in distress, who’ve suffered loss, or in any way that could strip away their dignity, unless the images would clearly and tangibly help them. I’m not a news reporter. I don’t have a massive social following that could mobilise aid. All I have is my morals, my knowledge, and this website — and in a moment like this, that isn’t enough to justify pressing the shutter.

An Invitation to Other Photographers

I’m not saying we should never document hard moments. Sometimes images save lives or spark real help. But knowing your own boundaries before you’re faced with tragedy matters. For me, empathy comes first; dignity comes before the shot.

I admire war photographers like Don McCullin — their images force us to confront human horror and tragedy that’s so often glossed over by the mainstream media. I’ve read his books, and I know how those photos, those stories, haunt him. I also know now, for sure, that I’m simply not wired the same. As much as I value photography, I value respect, empathy, and dignity more. I just wouldn’t feel right lifting a camera under those circumstances.

If you’re a photographer, where do you stand on this issue?