By Francis Ong For weeks now, our lives have gone topsy-turvy and everything isn’t quite the same anymore. The threat of the COVID-19 pandemic is so much more real now to us than when news first hit the airwaves at the start of 2020. School has been abruptly ended, establishments closed, and our freedom to travel has been curtailed— but for our own good, of course, in order to “flatten the curve” and end transmission of this dreadful virus. A More Personal Holy Week For the first time since World War II, Holy Week to some would also appear to have been suspended. For the first time since I was old enough to remember, there would be no processions or public expressions of faith. Semana Santa this year would be a more personal experience with prayers done inside our own homes. It is with this truth that I suddenly call to mind how I would’ve spent this weeklong respite that I’ve looked forward to ever since Holy Week became more of a vocation than a vacation Holy week for me starts as soon as work gets done on the last Friday before it. My lola’s hometown of Mauban, Quezon is about 160 kilometers from Manila if you travel via the more scenic backdoor route. I leave before sunrise on Saturday morning to be able to bypass the large trucks that would clog the two-lane Maharlika Highway that passes through Antipolo and the lakeside towns of Laguna until you reach the mountainous terrain of Cavinti and Luisiana to finally enter the province of Quezon through Lucban. Zigzag to Mauban Mauban is one of those off-road towns that you don’t pass on your way to somewhere else. It has got to be your destination if you wish to end up there. The road from Lucban that passes through Sampaloc is an exciting one for zigzag lovers. It winds up and down the Sierra Madre Mountain Range. The lush green rice fields on both sides of the road signals that you’re getting closer. Past the entrance arch, you cross the bridge and the sight of the ocean and the lapping waves greet you and welcome you to the last town on this side of the road. I close my eyes and whisper: I’m home. Palm Sunday begins very early in the Del Banco household because of my lola’s annual pabasa that starts at 3 a.m. The ritual starts with the lighting of a single candle followed by a prayer in front of the family’s processional images of the Nazareno and San Juan Evangelista. Old ladies, some in their 80s, have been present for decades and they begin singing the haunting melody of the Pasyon that can be heard echoing to the streets below. The gingery smell ofsalabat and arroz caldo wafting through the air up until the sun rises. By six in the morning, the patio of the church would already be full of people each carrying at least one palaspas folded and designed in different ways. Mauban is a coconut-producing town, where the sight of full coconut palm fronds as tall as a person is not unusual. The tradition of the paglalatag that waned during World War II was recently revived by our parish priest Monsignor Tony Viray, who coincidentally also hails from our hometown. When the priest enters the square, ladies would take off their inuwak and lay them on the floor creating a continuous road of black veils that would lead to the front doors of the church. The people would raise their palaspas and wave them in the air while the priest walks triumphantly on the dark fabric path, blessing the crowd with holy water and then the Linggo de Ramos mass begins. Pagpapahiyas Back at the ancestral house, the cling-clang of utensils and plates can already be heard as the kitchen starts to churn out lunch for friends and the magdadasal. By noon, the rhythmic chanting turns into more melodious singing as Christ is laid to rest, resurrected and the different learnings preached. As if on cue, the singers stand up and belts their final prayer “Siya Nawang Walang Hanggan.” After this, the guests move toward the dining table while the men carry the Nazareno down to His waiting andas for the Estacion Heneral that traverses the entire town in the afternoon. The act of decorating, which we Tagalogs call pagpapahiyas, is a family activity. My lola is the master orchestrator of this, helped by my mom and my lola’s cousins, Lola Eden and Lola Elvie. I take over when it’s time to secure the cross on the Nazareno’s shoulders. Tricky and very technical, I guide our go-to guy Kuya Greg as to where the wires go and and how the hands are fixed. The Dolorosa that accompanies the Nazareno during the procession is housed just in front of ours and they both head to the church at the same time. The following days would be spent at my family’s retreat on Cagbalete Island where I would quietly enjoy nature before the droves of tourists all arrive on Holy Thursday. Back in mainland Mauban by then, I would travel to Lucban and fetch Jayson Maceo who, for the past few years, has been kind enough to take charge of vesting San Juan Evangelista. Jayson, whose family in Lucban brings out Santa Marta, is Dr. Rafael Lopez’s anointed protégé, largely in charge of restoring the encarna of images brought to the Atelier. Huwebes Santo is the calm before the storm while Viernes Santo is the busiest time of the entire week. All houses with santos that join the procession are abuzz, checking the lighting and electrification of their andas, cleaning the metal appliques, soaking the floral foams, and preparing the food that will be distributed after. Extended families converge in order to render help to the santo that has been both a tradition and devotion of their ancestors. Siete Palabras The church’s activity would start with the internalization of the Siete Palabras and, by 4 p.m., one by one, the santos enter the courtyard carried by the devotees wearing the same colored shirts. Our town has kept true to its original lineup of 18 with mostly antique santos and the newer ones as replacement for the originals, which have already been retired. Mauban suddenly comes alive with thousands of people crowding the church, the patio, and the streets where the procession will pass. Vendors selling food, different colored fans, “sa-malamig, and candles in various colors and sizes roam the grounds peddling their wares. The sudden sound of wooden clappers permeating from inside the church and the throngs of people rushing out signal that the procession will start soon. Mauban’s procession is not like in other towns with full pomp and circumstance, a marching band in tow. Ours is quieter, more solemn with hundreds of people following their santo of choice. Sabungeros are said to follow San Pedro who is depicted with his white rooster while restaurant owners and food vendors follow—you guessed it—the Last Supper and the laborers follow the Nazareno because of the physical burden they endure daily. As the procession winds its way through town the weight of the andas becomes burdensome but no one is more stressed than the men with bamboo poles in charge of raising the dangling electrical and phone wires that might catch the accoutrements and risk damaging the santo. As we get nearer to the church, we arrange ourselves around the andas of the Nazareno and get ready for the battle we are about to face. Maubanins believe that flowers from the different andas have the power to give them a bountiful harvest from either land or sea and they really go to great lengths just to be able to get some. We stop a few hundred meters away as we approach the gates of the patio in order to give us some breathing space. With the signal, we make a mad dash to get inside with men and teenagers all scrambling around us, jumping and trying to snatch the flowers and anything they can get their hands on and keep. Everybody else waits for the star of the night, the Santo Entierro inside his calandra, pulled by men and brought straight inside the church. The Soledad quietly follows. She is placed near the entrance as if to welcome everyone who has come to visit her dead son. The vigil continues all throughout the night and the first mystery of our faith is realized, Christ has indeed died. Exsultet Easter Sunday begins on Saturday evening with the blessing of the new fire done under the light of the full moon. After the ritual, the doors of the church are opened to reveal the dark interiors with the priest holding the paschal candle singing the Exsultet—“Si Kristo ang Liwanag” (Christ is the light)—while the people answer “Salamat sa Diyos” (Thanks be to God). Slowly the flame from the paschal candle spreads and the bright lights are opened to reveal the purple veils covering the images on the retablo while the congregation gives a thunderous round of applause. After the Easter mass, all the bells are rung as both the image of the Resurreccion and the Virgen Alegria with her black veil on, exit from opposite gates of the church. The men follow the Risen Christ, while the ladies follow the Grieving Mother. They take different routes around the poblacion that ends back into the church patio where the images of the Holy Women— Magdalena, Maria Jacobe, and Maria Salome—are all waiting. Mother and Son stop a few meters away from each other underneath a baluarte where the lead angel is perched and she starts singing “Regina Coeli Laetare, Alleluia!” (Queen of Heaven Rejoice, Alleluia!). At the end of her song, the images come closer to each other in a Salubong. The journey back home to Manila has always been bittersweet and it comes with the realization that I would have to wait another 365 more days for the next to happen. For many of us, Semana Santa this year will be but a flood of memories like this one. Maybe viewing the enhanced community quarantine in a different perspective would help brighten our moods. If Holy week in the past was an activity shared with the community, this time it is a more immersive experience with the Lord. This time, more than physical, it would be a spiritual journey of being one with Christ in his Passion. Our faith is definitely bigger than one virus and we will get through this most difficult time. The longing for next year’s celebration reminds me of the completion of our mystery of faith: Christ will, truly, come again.