Lenten tradition

On Ash Wednesday when he was 15 years old, Rafael Aniciete was “awakened” for the first time.

He was instructed, he said, to have himself nailed to a cross on Good Friday, in a re-enactment of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.

Now 51 and with three children, Aniciete has had himself crucified 23 times, with nails driven through his palms and feet. Hollows have formed at the spots on his feet where the nails were driven. On Good Fridays when he isn’t nailed to a cross, he joins the small army of Lenten flagellants in the province of Pampanga.

Aniciete is vague about what he means by being awakened – ginigising – but he says his annual panata eases his pressing problems, many of them involving family matters, and answers his prayers.

He chatted with me last Friday after he had wiped away the blood dripping from his back – the result of whipping himself with a burulyos – a clump of bamboo sticks lashed together with a cloth rope.

Aniciete was one of about 15 flagellants or padugo this year in Barangay San Matias, in the Pampanga town of Sto. Tomas. From the old MacArthur Highway, an arch on Paralaya street welcomed visitors, announcing “Papaku 2012” (Crucifixion).

Every year Catholic bishops remind the faithful that the Church does not condone violent re-enactments of the Passion of Christ. Every year the reminder is ignored.

The rites have become major tourist draws in Pampanga and neighboring Bulacan every Good Friday.

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Those who want to avoid the scorching afternoon summer heat and the large crowd at the best known site, in Cutud, San Fernando, can watch crucifixions in the morning at other sites such as the one in San Matias.

Paralaya street narrows into an alley. Nearby a tent was pitched early in the morning by volunteers who gave away free bowls of macaroni soup and bottled water to anyone who asked.

At around 9 a.m. the flagellants started trickling into the barangay square – a clearing where a mound of sand and gravel, fenced off by a circle of bamboo, had been set up beside a makeshift basketball goal.

The flagellants stripped down to their waists, took off their belts and tied ropes around their trousers to keep these from sliding down. I asked why and they said that was how it was supposed to be. They wound strips of cloth around a part of their upper arms, like armbands. Then they started whipping themselves with the burulyos, swinging left, right, with the armbands absorbing the impact in the arms so that only the back would be injured. Most of them puffed on cigarettes throughout.

Within minutes their backs were sore. Welts soon started appearing. A man distributed to the flagellants white handkerchiefs bearing prints of the face of Christ, somewhat like the Shroud of Turn. Some wore it like a bandanna; others tucked it into the backs of their trousers, with the face hanging out. Still others let it fall over their faces, secured to the head with a “crown” not of thorns but ampalaya and malunggay leaves.

At around 10 a.m. more people arrived to watch, followed by ambulant vendors selling balloons, toy superheroes, bottled water, skewered singkamas slices smeared with stewed bagoong, and live goldfish in plastic bags of water. A helpful resident sent a neighbor to buy tamales for me (one of the best I’ve tasted).

In about an hour the welts looked ugly, and the flagellants had to be relieved of the pain through... more pain – by allowing the blood to flow.

Assistants at the rites showed me a pantabad or bleeding device – a block of wood that fits into one’s palm, in which sharp glass shards have been embedded. Each flagellant bended over slightly. A slight tap of the pantabad on the wounded area and blood gushed forth. The flagellation then resumed, this time with blood flying in all directions.

The padugo soon followed the cross-bearing “Kristos” – those who would be crucified – in a procession around San Matias. The Kristos were occasionally whipped and kicked.

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Before 11 a.m. the first of the Kristos returned to the clearing and stripped down to his shorts. He went up to the mound, where a white satin cloth was wrapped around his waist, secured by a yellow sash. He wore a crown of leaves.

As the wooden cross was lowered and the Kristo laid on it, an assistant showed the crowd two four-inch stainless steel nails.

Aniciete told me that nails used for crucifixions are kept in a container of alcohol for six months.

The Kristo’s arms were tied to the cross with wide black bands. His feet would not be nailed so he stood on the step of the cross.

Coincidentally, on Good Friday evening the History Channel ran a documentary on how Christ might have died in a crucifixion – a popular form of torture during ancient times. Their most plausible theory was asphyxiation: the position of a crucified man makes breathing difficult, bringing tremendous pressure on the lungs and heart, which can be fatal especially for someone who has been severely beaten and is in acute pain from being nailed (with thicker nails, not sterilized) to a cross.

There are continuing debates on whether Christ was nailed through his palms or wrists, but Pinoy Kristos seem to agree that it was through the palms.

In San Matias, the cross was returned to its upright position, with the Kristo tied to it. An assistant drove a nail into each of the Kristo’s palms as the crowd gasped. The Kristo looked up to the sky, expressionless.

After a minute the nails were pulled out, and this time the palms twitched as a wad of cotton soaked in alcohol was placed on each wound.

The cross was brought down and the Kristo untied. The first crucifixion of the day in San Matias was over; five more to go.

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Before the first Kristo was crucified, Rafael Aniciete finished his flagellation and lay prostrate, his arms outstretched, before the cross on the mound.

An assistant lightly brushed the burulyos across Aniciete’s back twice. Then he stood up and went to a house where he wiped off the blood.

He told me it takes just two days for wounds from a crucifixion, including those in his feet, to heal. Kristos apply ordinary soil on the wound.

This year he was not a Kristo, Aniciete explained, because he didn’t receive a “sign” last Ash Wednesday.

But he announced with pride that his 19-year-old son became a flagellant for the first time this year.

From father to son, a tradition lives on.