By William Peterson
Monash University
At no time in the year is the power of the Church more interwoven into the daily lives of Catholic Filipinos than in that week between Palm Sunday and Easter. Activities, events, and rituals range from all-night readings of the passion of Christ in metered verse before make-shift altars in urban and rural barrios, to the staging of vast biblical pageants extending back to creation. This inquiry will focus on activities in and around the provincial capital of Boac on the island of Marinduque during “Holy Week,” when the lines between secular and religious activities, as well as political power and religious authority are repeatedly breached. Few sites reflect the complex ways in which apparently contradictory and competing political, economic, and religious interests play themselves out in ways that are at once playful and serious, secular and deeply religious. This paper will attempt to map out some of these complex relationships and propose a range of possible readings, relying on my own ethnographic research conducted during Holy Week, 2005, as well as the theoretical frameworks of Filipino scholars.
On some tourist maps of the Philippines, the heart-shaped island of Marinduque, 172 kilometers southeast of Manila, is obscured beneath an icon of a giant, stylized mask of a Roman centurion known locally as a “morion.” Situated in what the provincial government’s website calls the “very heart of the Philippine archipelago” for its proximity to the center of this far-flung complex of islands, the giant morion mask conflates the island with a single aspect of a complex and varied range of events that play out during Holy Week. Morions are ubiquitous not only in the iconography of the island,
but also on the streets during Holy Week where local men don variously centurion-themed costumes and hide their faces beneath massive carved or paper-mache masks with vaguely Caucasian features bearing expressions ranging from the stern to the seductive. Their continued importance in Marinduque is evidenced in the way in which the entire week’s events are packaged for purposes of both tourism and local consumption; banners featuring fierce-looking morions, morion plaster statues, key chains, refrigerator magnets and roadside effigies remind tourists and locals alike that Holy Week has been subsumed into an overarching “Moriones Festival” by the provincial government.
The tradition of having men dressed as Roman centurions and donning masks reputedly dates back to the 1870s, when Father Dionisio Santiago, the local parish priest in the town of Mogog, started the practice in order to provide a focal point for Lenten activities (Asuncion 2004, 29). Until the 1970s, the highlight of morion activities was the pugutan, in which the Roman soldier Longinus was chased through the streets of town by morions and townspeople in the hours before noon on Easter Sunday, followed by his capture and mock beheading. According to apocryphal sources, Longinus was the soldier who pierced Christ’s side with his lance, and whose blindness in one eye was cured by the blood that flowed from Christ’s wound and into his eye. Longinus is said to have been the first Roman convert to Christianity, proselytizing to all who would listen before he incurred the wrath of Pilate and was executed.
Today, Longinus’ mock-decapitation, the most important feature of the tradition in Boac, no longer takes place on Easter Sunday following the morning mass, but rather in the context of a Saturday-night passion play or sinakulo. This shift places his death chronologically before the risen Christ appears, a somewhat jarring occurrence inasmuch
As the other events associated with the passion of Christ are played out in a sequence timed to replicate their actual occurrence in historical time. This move was spearheaded by the current Provincial Governor, Carmencita Reyes, who as one of Imelda Marcos’ original inner circle of so-called “Blue Ladies” during the Marcos era, is known for her strong personality and desire to shape the island’s traditions in ways that she feels best serves the island’s long-term strategic, economic, and cultural interests. Integrating a mock-execution into the final evening sinakulo may have enhanced its dramatic effectiveness, but it has also contributed to the radical transformation of a folk tradition by knocking it off its moorings.
In its Boac incarnation, men enacting morions were traditionally drawn from the poor barrios located outside of the town proper, and their choice to enact morions was in response to a panata (vow) to purge their sins. As one informant observes, morions “become renewed individuals at the end of the whole week of the panata” (Mandia 2005). A week of constant outdoor activity while wearing sometimes cumbersome costumes consisting of multiple layers and heavy masks fitting completely over the head can be a source of extreme discomfort, especially in the heat of dry season that corresponds with Easter, presumably providing penitents with greater empathy with the sufferings of Christ. One’s identity as a morion was traditionally to be kept secret even from one’s closest family members, a practice that has eroded over the last twenty years. Some morions took on this panata for a period of seven years, after which point they were eligible to play Longinus, with this elite group self-selecting the individual who would take on this honor.
Today, some morions sport nicely ripped breast plates and impressive capes, while others wear robes created in fabrics with patterns that range from the psychedelic to the more restrained. Still others create elaborate, traditional garments out of indigenous materials such as dried nito, incorporating shells and other natural materials into their costumes. Props such as chains and manacles, shields, and swords are all generally home-made and are sometimes constructed from the simplest and most modest of materials. The most famous and remarkable feature of the Morions’ costume is not his garments, footwear, or leggings, but rather the mask the covers his entire head. Masks are uniformly different and etched into each are expressions ranging from the traditional mask designed to elicit fear, to those marked by the conventionally handsome features one might find on male models in print and television advertising.
The derivation of the term morion or moryon, as well as its plural form moriones, is subject to varying explanations. According to Nicanor Tiongson, the word comes from the Spanish “moriones,” meaning helmets, and in its original meaning was linked to a “playlet enacted on the streets about the capture and beheading of Longinus” (1994, 94). Incorporating Roman centurions into the dramatic portion of Holy Week events is not a new practice, nor one unique to Marinduque. Multiple sources cited in Danilo Mandia’s 2002 thesis suggest that morions appeared in the sinakulo tradition sometime in the mid-18th Century (70-72). Mandia argues that the term morion may refer specifically to the “high-crested helmets” worn by Spanish soldiers which may have been named after the Spanish Governor General Domingo Moriones (2002, 67). Yet another explanation is that the term is derived from “moros” which generally refers to Muslims from the south
But which sometimes also takes on the connotation of “pirates” or “bandits” in the north, linking morions with something to be feared Morions feature prominently in the three-night sinakulo, which incorporates the passion of Christ and extends back to Creation, effectively dramatizing the entire history of salvation. Boac’s sinakulo is very much the project of the provincial government of Marinduque, under the direction of the Governor’s Office, who provides the funds to produce the event which is offered free to the public. The sinakulo is staged over three evenings beginning on Holy Wednesday in the Boac Morion Park, the permanent home to the event. One of the peculiarities of Boac’s sinakulo is that the entire soundtrack, all of which is delivered in Tagalog, is pre-recorded. The current version was recorded after the 1986 EDSA Revolution by radio drama actors at the behest of Carmencita Reyes, then representative of Marinduque in the House of Representatives, who developed the script with Celso Carunungan and Aura Mijares, both of whom were well-known writers (Lilles 2005, Mandia 2002, 2005). The disembodied voices in the sinakulo were created by actors, some of whom are now presumably dead, and delivered by living actors in a style that is gestural, highly dramatic, and at times ponderous, very much in the tradition of the great Hollywood epic films of the past. Music drawn largely from the film The Ten Commandments underscores the action of the play and heightens moments of dramatic tension, much as it did in the original Hollywood movie.
The actor playing Longinus, the lead morion, assumes a prominent role in the crucifixion scene on Good Friday when his sight it restored, and also on the final night of the sinakulo on Black Saturday when he exhorts his compatriots to accept Christ’s mercy, leading to his inevitable confrontation with Pontius Pilate and his equally inevitable beheading, an the staging of which provides the dramatic highlight of all three nights. Of course the star of the sinakulo is clearly the actor playing Christ, enacted for the last six years by Allen Madrigal, who hails from Marinduque but lives in Manila where he designs furniture. Madrigal enacts Christ in response to a vow, and though he was initially hesitant to undertake a role he was drafted into by Provincial Governor Reyes, he has grown more comfortable with the demands of playing Christ over time (Lilles 2005, Madrigal 2005). Madrigal manages to capture Christ’s quiet intensity and sense of resignation to his fate in a way that is profound and moving. Not surprisingly, Madrigal comes close to the romanticized image of Christ as slender, smooth-bodied, light-skinned, and good-looking.
Friday’s events formally kick off in the early afternoon, when the audience gathers around the temple stage to witness Pilate condemning Christ and the two criminals, followed by the public scourging and humiliation of all three in the streets of Boac and their eventual crucifixion. After Christ is condemned, the action moves from the raised stage through the area where outdoor scenes are staged, and out onto the streets of town. Moving with them are the marions, who summarily beat Christ and the other prisoners—meant to represent the criminals Gestas and Dimas—with rope whips. The beating does not approach the level of intense blood-letting found in other parts of the country, most notably in San Fernando in the Pampanga region north of Manila, though welts are raised on the skin and abrasions and cuts result in some blood loss. While blood-letting is kept to a minimum, given the mid-day heat and the fact that the penitents are all carrying crosses, there is no doubt that this ordeal exacts an extreme physical toll on participants.
When asked about his motivation for undertaking the role of Christ year after year, Madrigal’s response is very much consistent with the larger impulse motivating the morions. His suffering as Christ, he feels, “is sacrifice,” and is done so that others realize that’s how “Jesus experienced these things” (2005). The need for an experiential connection with the sufferings of Christ is a recurrent and dominant theme in the Tagalog relationship to Christ. This desire to connect personally with the sufferings of Christ is in many ways an expansion of the Catholic belief that “the sacraments of the Christian dispensation are not mere signs; they do not merely signify Divine grace, but in virtue of their Divine institution, they cause that grace in the souls of men” (Catholic Encyclopedia, “Sacraments,” 2005). Filipino Folk Catholicism as practiced in Tagalog-speaking regions would appear to extend this direct link between action and divine grace into the ritual activities connected with Holy Week, notably to those who undertake the vows and penitential practices of the morion, as well as those who take on the sufferings of Christ in the streets of town on Good Friday. That the morion practice of the panata was largely identified with the barrio-dwelling poor for most of its history suggests that this identification with the sufferings of Christ may well have a basis in class, and an appeal that speaks directly to the poor.
On the other hand, poverty alone does not go far enough to explain the rapid acceptance of the Catholic faith in Tagalog-speaking regions of the Philippines, and the need for an experiential relation with the sufferings of Christ. Beltran Benigno argues that the Filipino experience of being Catholic “is characterized by a thaumaturgical thrust—the desire of the people to experience the extraordinary effects of the supernatural in their lives,” in contrast to the less folk-centered and more Western practice of Christianity that “is oriented toward the cognitive dimension of the faith” (1987, 6). He asserts that though “the idea of corporal mortification as a penance for sins was foreign to ancient Filipinos” (115) it fed into the Filipino cultural construct of damay, or compassion. Filipino sociologist F. Landa Jocano in turn places damay in its broader context, noting that it is one of three components of selfhood known collectively as damá, which deals with how Filipinos organize the way they feel about the world; along with kahulugán (the meaning attached to events, people and objects) and habág (sympathy for people in need), damay is “is to show in actual practice the act of compassion” (2001, 106). Thus in the universe of expressing one’s feelings as a Filipino, he argues, mere emotion attached to people or objects or the extension of feelings through sympathy is not enough; required to complete the circuit of a feeling person is the willingness to undertake compassionate acts in support of one’s fellow man.
When faced with the sufferings and sacrifice of Christ, the deepest act of compassion for the dead Christ is to suffer as he did, taking on a lesser form of pain, but inviting a one-to-one identification nevertheless. The scale of Christ’s sacrifice requires an appropriately meaningful, experiential, and active response, and it is no accident that the Philippines is famous around the world for the number of devout Christians who flagellate themselves and offer up their bodies for actual crucifixion. Vicente Rafael suggests that one of the factors that may explain massive and rapid conversions in the Tagalog-speaking regions was the sense of eternal indebtedness to Christ, a debt that cannot be paid fully, aligning it with the cultural concept of utang na loób, generally translated as “debt of gratitude,” but with the additional sense that such a debt, if to ones’ parents for instance, can never be paid. He observes: “To say that ‘Christ died for you’ is to say that you are perpetually indebted to God insofar as you have become a recipient of a gift so enormous as to defy equal return,” adding that “such a gift can never be fully repaid” (1998, 96). Thus the scale of the debt owed to Christ, combined with the culturally-driven tendency to engage in active acts of compassion, may account for the pervasiveness of Holy Week activities that involve a panata which actively takes on some form of suffering.
After a week of activities, events, and rituals, many of which enact some form of panata, the promise of the resurrection would almost seem to be an afterthought. Such is the case until Sunday morning at least, when the tenor and tone of the previous days activities shifts radically. Shortly after 4:00 on Easter Sunday those living in the center of town are awakened by a chorus of children from the streets below, heralding the arrival of a angel who literally lifts the veil of mourning from an effigy of Mother Mary in a ceremony known as the salubong. Immediately after this ritual street performance concludes, a marching band begins playing as the crowd files behind the karos (or wagons) upon which sit the effigies of saints that ordinarily reside in the town’s church. As penitents make their final ascent toward the 200-year-old church on the hill, the bells in the church tower start clanging frantically, drowning out the marching band and demanding that everyone in the valley resurrect themselves.
At the top of the hill in front of the church, the karos are parked in set positions, while those who marched behind them through the streets of town filter into the church, filling up every pew. It is no accident, notes the priest in his homily, that the resurrected Christ first revealed himself to women, and to his mother, as women are the backbone of our world. In a country with a female President and where women hold many key positions of power, this message does not fall on deaf ears. Communion follows shortly after the sermon and the mass ends shortly after 6:00 am, just as light has broken. As I walk out into the new day, it strikes me that in a country where there sometimes seems to be so little that works well and where beauty and tranquility, especially in the urban areas, is so hard to find, there is no substitute for the comfort of participating in an ancient ritual done with great care and love. The power of ritual is certainly manifested on Easter Sunday and suddenly I understand what motivates people to engage in the same repeated actions years after year; every Sunday morning procession will end at the church, while every sunrise service will release one into the dawn of a new day and the promise of renewal. The occasional wackiness of the morions and their sometimes wildly extravagant costumes, the tackiness of the voiceovers, the swelling Hollywood music, and the sometimes tortured acting in the sinakulo, all seem to be a necessary part of the whole experience as Holy Week contains something for everyone: part circus, part show, part spectacle, part street theatre, its foundation and reason for being is where it all ends, here in the churchyard on Easter Sunday.
Works Cited
Asuncio, Dindo L. 2004.
Marinduque: The Heart of the Philippines. Provincial Government of Marinduque.
Benigno, Beltran P. S.V.D. 1987.
The Christology of the Inarticulate: An Inquiry into the Filipino Understanding of Jesus the Christ. Manila: Divine Word Publications.
Catholic Encyclopedia New Advent Website. 2005
“Sacraments” Entry. http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/13295a.htm
Jocano, F. Landa. 2001
Filipino Worldview: Ethnography of Local Knowledge. Diliman, Quezon City: PUNLAD Research House, Inc.
Lilles, Joven M. 2005.
Personal Interview. Boac, Marinduque, 25 March.
Madrigal, Allen. 2005.
Personal Interview. Manila, 16 April.
Mandia, Danilo Ledesma. 2002.
“Moryon: Panata sa Likod ng Maskara.” M.A. Thesis, University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City.
_____. 2005.
Personal Interview. Quezon City, Philippines, 19 March.
Rafael, Vincente. 1998, Second Printing 2000.
Contracting Colonialism: Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog Society under Early Spanish Rule. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.
Tiongson, Nicanor. 1994.
Cultural Center of the Philippines Encyclopedia of Philippine Art, Volume VII, Philippine Theatre. Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines.
http://www.yorku.ca/ycar/CCSEAS%20Papers/Moriones%20Festival%20Paper.CASA%20Conference.05.10.pdf
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