My earliest memories of Holy Week had always been one
associated with dread. Belonging to a family of devout Catholics, I grew up
with the obligation of fulfilling my Christian duties during this time of year.
As long as I could remember, it was a time of sacrifices and solemn nights.
Owning a number of icons, including a century-old Santo Entierro, the family has
a responsibility of keeping up the tradition of dressing up the carroza and
guarding the icon throughout the night of the du-aw, a tradition wherein
devotees flock the church with lines extending as long as the MRT queues during
rush hour to kiss the feet of the dead Christ. The oldies would take their
children and grandchildren to pass down the ritual of paying respect to the
dead.
There was a time in my life when I did the Via Crucis for
eight consecutive years, waking up at 3:30am to prepare for the 4am march. The
part that made it difficult was staying up until midnight of Maundy Thursday
because we also had to prepare the Altar of the Repose in the church, and a
three-hour sleep before a three-hour walk is something I will never get used
to. The via crucis would start out in the church with the priest saying a
prayer then would progress around the city where we would stop and say gospel
readings at all fourteen stations of the cross. The beauty of the experience is
walking amongst few strangers at dusk and come sunrise, you look back and
see a sea of people following through by the hundreds. Some people wait at
stations and join the group the moment we reach them. The via crucis usually
takes three hours to complete with a perimeter of about 6-8kms of walk. The
feeling begins as a burden of having to wake up so early, but in the end it’s a
feeling of fulfilment as you see the break of day greeting you at the entrance
of the church. The only thing I worry every year back then was the possibility
of stepping on dog poop.