Via Crucis
Six hours and a ferry ride away pretty much sums up the state of my “isolation.” Now, seated here in a quaint hotel lobby quietly tapping away on my iPod, I write. Typing though, is hard on a touchscreen, going so far as to severely limit my thought process; but that’s enough for excuses. It’s time to pour it out. (Mind the length, though. This one should go a relatively long way down your dashboard.)
If you didn’t get the first paragraph, I’ll just note that I’ve been successfully dragged along to Marinduque, where once a year, local men don Roman cavalry masks and uniforms in the reenactment of Christ’s passion in a tradition known to us as the ‘Moriones Festival.’ my primary purpose, as always, is to take photographs to document our stay there. For example:
Which brings me to what happened earlier today. Under the noonday heat, I stood amidst a large crowd of photographers, mediamen, and onlookers at the town plaza, witnessing a reenactment of the crucifixion of Christ, known as the Via Crucis. The bulk of the camera in my hand, the assignment given to me by my father was clear: take pictures. The heat was stifling; the crowd watched as one cross was slowly lifted. The entire spectacle took place at the plaza on an area specifically constructed for the Holy Week presentation: at one side, a stage with a portico extending across meant to mimic Roman architecture, the seal of the local government proudly painted on top of the orange colored structure; adjacent to it is a raised grassy area, a fountain on one side, a cave on the other, with a hill at the end; the entire area serving as the stage for all other biblical scenes. The mock crucifixion took place on the highest hill fronting the crowd, each spectator inching closer for a better view; masked soldiers standing sentinel as they begin to hoist the second robber on his cross. As opposed to other reenactments this side of the world, participants weren’t really nailed to their crosses; rather, they find their feet comfortably perched on an extended platform with their hands simply tied to each arm of the cross. No blood or gore, the presentation is as theatrical as it gets.
The sound system suddenly shifts from blasting a looped chant to an orchestral fanfare. Behind the crowds, a group of masked soldiers accompany the man who plays Jesus Christ, donning a crown of thorns and a white garment to suit. He carries the cross to the grassy area, then does a staged fall as the masked men begin to gang up on the character, whipping at him in a way that looks all too real. Nudged from the back, my father urged me to move closer for a better view. I had already climbed up the stage and joined the row of photographers squeezing in close to the action. The action had shifted to the top of the hill where they were preparing the central cross to be lifted. Before me on the ground were the crosses used in the earlier procession to the town plaza, lying silently on the ground whilst being trampled by multiple onlookers.
The camera is then taken from my hands. Initially, I felt shocked, thinking someone had snatched it from me. I begin looking around for the perpetrator only to realize that it was just my father who took the camera from me, seemingly implying that I hadn’t gone close enough or taken good enough photos. Camera in hand, he began to climb the hill getting even closer, taking position beside an ABS-CBN cameraman; With me he left an umbrella. Go figure.
The presentation goes on. Jesus is pierced on his side by the half-blind Saint Longinus; the crowd watches as blood begins to ooze out from the wound. It’s quite obvious that the blood is simply being squirted out from the blunt tip of the spear, yet an ominous silence fills the crowd. In front, the photographers, my father included, take pictures. A tripod holding a video camera is lifted up from behind me. Saint Longinus then began to cry out — as the story goes, the blood of Christ that had spilled on his eye miraculously cured his blindness. Out of fear and repentance, he ran out into the crowd, begging for conversion.
All around, silence grips the crowd, only broken by the ringing bell of one vendor moving back and forth among us, somehow cheapening the presentation. A few minutes later, Jesus is taken down from the cross. most of the crowd start to leave. I stand there among the dwindling crowd, somewhat scandalized; fearing sunburn, I soon take shade.
It was quite a show, really. Though what does it take to live the faith? Given the fact that I’m not the most religious one on the block, it still got me thinking.
Feeling the experience, I soon enjoy the festivities, uncommon in other towns where complete silence is the norm on a Good Friday. In retrospect, this trip was well worth the effort, after all.
