Bloody Good Friday

As the Victory Liner bus plies out of the packed terminal on Epifanio de los Santos Avenue, from the window I embrace Manila’s cityscape unfolding at dawn: fruit and fish ball vendors chatting idly while setting up their stands; agile men in flip-flops running down the street hawking newspapers; a colorful parade of jeepneys—with their shining armor of art-adorned steel—whisking passengers to their next destination.

My destination is Cutud, Pampanga, to witness firsthand the re-enactment of Jesus Christ’s crucifixion in the Cutud Lenten Rites, a ritual of repentance that has culminated every Holy Week for the past 50 years in the Philippines.

The bus ride is smooth and quick and I arrive in less than two hours. To reach the crucifixion site, I hail a tricycle, a motorbike-taxi with a sidecar made of corrugated metal typically painted with cartoon characters (in this case, a hot pink Hello Kitty) that reminds me of a drag queen with too much makeup on.

I zip past a group of penitents—hooded, shirtless men who flagellate their backs with whips fashioned out of burly rope and a bundle of native bamboo, resembling, innocently enough, a wind chime tied to a cord. The penitents’ bruised bodies are a grisly sight to behold, but something about the scene makes me pause. Blood and sweat trickle down the biceps of a young man who collapses next to the tricycle. I gasp, but no one is alarmed. An old woman with a friendly smile offers the man water, a sign of respect for his sacrifice and devotion to God.

The procession disperses at a fenced-off area where devout locals and tourists alike pay homage to Christ’s suffering. I nudge my way through the crowd, finding a spot that offers a clear view of the sandy hilltop meant to symbolize Golgotha, the location where Christ was crucified.

I catch a whiff of the metallic scent of blood as another group of penitents approaches and feel the earth tremble with the staccato rhythm of galloping horses guided by gold-armored centurions on chariots. Clouds of dust and volcanic ash rise like leavened bread above the clicking of cameras.

The Kristo emerges in a white loincloth wrapped loosely around his waist. He struggles up the hill, where his wrists are then tied with swaths of fabric to the prostrate wooden cross. Stainless steel nails are briskly hammered into the heart of his palms, as a feverish shriek of agony ascends above the pensive crowd like a lone balloon floating aimlessly to the sky.

The crucifixion lasts ten minutes. My eyes trace the lines along the Kristo’s forehead, which are carved deeply into his sun-kissed skin. Layers of cotton gauze are delicately wrapped around his swollen hands, becoming one with him like Spanish moss on an old oak tree. The Kristo inhales deeply, his ribcage expanding with each slow breath, like his gratitude for this simple act—to atone for his sins, to test his faith, and to persevere.