Memories of Holy Weeks past

It’s Holy Week. Downtime, when the country unwinds, people tune out and an eerie silence descends on the city.  Restaurants will close, malls will take a short breather.  Buses and jeepneys will stop plying the streets. Even the news, in print and broadcast, will stop churning, giving the public a break from the cursing, bragging, and lying by public officials that infest the media, for at least three days. Hopefully, the media silence gives everyone time and space for introspection and we all emerge from the quiet of Holy Week as better citizens and leaders.

As early as Tuesday, offices begin to empty as people go on holiday, taking as much of the week off from work as possible.  They are off to their hometowns, the beach or the mountains, or to places abroad for that long-anticipated break from the daily grind at work, the heat and the traffic and bustle of the city, and the depressing 24-hour news cycle.

In my neighborhood, where each townhouse usually has two or more cars and the roads are always crowded with vehicles parked cheek to jowl on every available space, the village is unusually bare.  It is a lovely time when most people leave and those of us who stay gradually settle into a comfortable silence. 

In the outskirts, at the entrance of NLEX and SLEX, travelers will be desperately fighting for space on their way out of the city. The bus stations, airports, and seaports will be processing more passengers than ever.  They are trying to escape the city, but the real escape is right here, after everyone else has left. 

On Holy Week, I reclaim the city of my youth and celebrate her return to her pristine state, streets clear of traffic, air clear of carbon emissions, even just for a few days of peace and quiet.

When I was a child, I would observe all the rituals of Holy Week with my mother — the Stations of the Cross, Visita Iglesia, Washing of the Feet, Seven Last Words, the long Easter Vigil and the Mass of the Resurrection.  On those days, the house would be quiet. No music was played on guitar, radio or phonograph.  We spoke in hushed tones. Even when we siblings fought, we had to be discreet, lest Mom hear us desecrating the holy silence.

On Thursday morning, Mom would pack us in the car and drive us to a nearby beach in Parañaque for a splash in Manila Bay (this was decades ago when the water was clear) and a picnic in a rented hut.  We drove back home, praying the rosary in the car, early in the afternoon before the hour when Jesus had supper with his apostles and washed their feet.  I remember Mom telling me to put on my new red dress for our trek to church to attend this ritual.

On the morning of Good Friday, Mom took over the kitchen to cook bacalao, like her mother used to when she was a child. I loved the saltiness of the cod fish, the sweetness of the red peppers and tomato sauce, and the sourness of olives all in one esoteric dish. But I wondered why we were eating so richly on Good Friday, of all days.

Then the deep silence began, until we awoke on Holy Saturday and it was all right to start talking and playing again.  Jesus was dead, but he was no longer suffering, so the restrictions on fun were lifted. Sometime in the afternoon, when church bells rang, we jumped as high as we could, to reach what would be our height when we were fully grown.

When we were older, Mom made us sit through the three-hour Seven Last Words on TV from 12 noon to 3 p.m. on Good Friday.  It was so boring, we mostly dozed off at that ungodly hour. But one year, there was this monk who spoke in a funny accent and had us siblings breaking into giggles when he declared breathlessly, “Do not engage in hhhheavy pppetting.” Mom glared at us, but when she saw us, tears flowing down our cheeks, trying so hard to control ourselves, she, too, started laughing. So much for keeping Good Friday holy.

Memories of Holy Weeks past bring me home to my parents and siblings, and a Catholic girlhood that I cherish more than I ever thought I would.  I have never been able to replicate my mom’s strict observance of Holy Week rituals, but every year, I look forward to attending a recollection and having quiet time for introspection.  And yes, I miss her bacalao on Good Friday. HEART & MIND by Paulynn P. Sicam