brutal faith

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BRUTAL FAITH

City of San Fernando, Pampanga | PhilippinesApril 2013

Text J. D. BATACImages + Design LIZA T. AVELINO

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- ShareAlike 3.0 Philippines License.

AttributionYou must attribute this work using the following format:Brutal Faith (2013) by J. D. Batac and Liza T. Avelino.

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Text J.D. BATACImages + Design LIZA T. AVELINO


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Time moves and things change, but memories linger far

longer than the scabs of wounds self-flagellantsinflict upon their bodies.


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Along highwaysacross the provinceof Pampanga, nakedmen in masks whiptheir torn backs withbamboo sticks tiedto a rope, hittingthemselves repeatedly

as they traverse theconcrete pavementscorched by the sun.Behind them theyleave a trail of blood- on the road, against

walls, and on theshirts of spectatorsstanding close by fora view of the blood-soaked fest. They walkin a single file, slowly,

each of them wearinga crown of thorns inan apparent relivingof the Son of Manstortured passion.Each whip tearsopen wounds andsplatters blood quicklycoagulating under themidday sun, each whipan introduction to anentirely new world ofpain and suffering.


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In the City of SanFernando, thejourney for most self-flagellants reachesits pinnacle out inthe concrete porch

of the 258-year-old MetropolitanCathedral of SanFernando downtown.Sodden-looking andexhausted from the

merciless mix of painand balmy weather,the flagellants maketheir way to the porchand lie down on theirstomachs to kiss

the earth, their armsoutstretched as if in

unequivocal surrender.Each self-flagellantremains motionlesswhile in that state,silent as his whipis taken either by a

friend, a brother, aparent, or a wife whothen lashes it againsthis back. Once done,the self-flagellantpicks himself up and

kneels to mutter aprayer. He then hangshis crown against ametal railing frontingthe cathedral before heturns his back to leave,

the distinct scent ofiron wafting in the

humid air. Often, theend of this self-imposedordeal signals the startof an alcohol binge;men still nursing freshwounds on their backs

down effusive drinks todrown out their pain.There is an apparentcollective sense ofredemption born outof the notion of sins

being washed away byblood, of being given ayet another opportunityto start all over withnone of the burden ofyesterdays guilt. A year

from now, this cyclerepeats itself anew.


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Catholic church officials refuse to recognize the legitimacy of such practice,claiming that repentance (or some semblance of it) may be had bybelievers without the need for self-mutilation. But spirituality and faith

have always been intertwined with violence and coercion, and historyfeatures a long series of bloodbaths and subjugations waged in the nameof religion. Self-flagellation as a practice may have paganistic undertones,but it is doubtlessly reflective of the core teaching of the Catholic church- for its flock to suffer in the name of an unidentifiable deity.


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Such a sado-masoch-istic affair is bound toearn its own share ofcriticisms from thosewho see it either as acheap public spectacle,an exercise in over-

compensation, a mind-less act of extremereligious fervor, or asheer display of crude

machismo. But whilethe mere sight of bloodautomatically repulsesmany, this is also pre-cisely what lends it agory appeal, particular-ly to those who choose

to exoticize the affairby viewing it throughthe prism of a colonialmindset. Through this

prism, self-flagellantsbecome a group of un-civilized barbarics whotake delight in seeingtheir blood drawn outviolently, their indi-vidual histories and

characters relegated tothe periphery as theyare collectively cast asThe Other.


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This colonial narrative helps explain why inrecent years, self-flagellants on Good Friday

have become a must-see for tourists out towitness Lenten rites of a different sort. Thebanality of the affair decades ago has explodedinto a modern-day spectator sport devoidof meaning, with cameras clicking and videorecorders assembling a portrait of an event

that is at once gross and exciting and perfectfor YouTube. This intersection of faith (or lackthereof), colonial narrative, modern sensibilities,and democratized technology has definitelyreshaped the discourse of things in these parts.


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Its never quite thesame, a toothless

elderly laments asthe jeepney she isin whirs past a longrow of youngsterseach clutching awooden cross on their

backs. A middle-agedwoman aboard thesame jeepney nodsin agreement beforeshe launches her ownlitany of nostalgic

tales of Lent fromdecades past, whenpenitence by menwerent interruptedby penitents sporadicattempts at video

recording their acts viacellphones, when menflogged their bodiesnot to draw attentionto themselves butas genuine contrition

for their misgivingsas individuals and asCatholics, those dayswhen the observanceof Semana Santawas done with piousreserve and none of

todays modern trappings. But its all memoriesnow, the ladies aboard the jeepney say, as they

look out the window of the moving vehicle tothe sight of youngsters goofing around in theirscarlet robes and aviator shades and the influxof camera-wielding tourists gawking at it all.


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J. D. BATACworks as an editorialassistant at an academic publishing

firm where he pores over textbookmanuscripts, coordinates productionwork, and assists in carrying out thefirms marketing initiatives. His workshave appeared in various books,newspapers, and magazines. Hegraduated with a degree in journalismfrom the University of the Philippinesin Diliman, Quezon City.

Email: [email protected]

LIZA T. AVELINOis a visual artist

who spends most of her days as agraphic designer and illustrator for alocal publishing outfit. Her portfolioencompasses a diverse range ofoutputs that include, but is not limitedto, marketing collateral, event posters,book covers, websites, businesscards, magazines, and billboards. Sheobtained her fine arts degree from

the Philippine Womens Universityin Manila.

Portfolio: http://lizaavelino.wix.com/digitalportfolioInstagram: @Liza_Avelino


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