holy? week

on my way home this morning after spending our time at my colleague's unit, the ride seemed so absurd it got through my nerves! it actually did not have anything to do with me but it was something that should bother us catholics. streets were congested, drums were heard from almost every corner and droplets of dried blood patterned the floor. it was a thursday morning of the holy week and one must not ask why the hell people go crazy scouring themselves hard as their Lord, our Lord i mean, felt.



blood came forth gushing from his lacerated skin. he was sun-tanned and sweat wrapped his body all-over. funny strips of bladed bamboo leaves tied on a stalk slashed his integument on hard beats of the drum. it was awful. it was grave, yet it was funny. people followed him. they were dressed in shiny robes, as if weeping, breaking their hearts when sounds of slashes burn their ears. drama, that's all it was.

on almost every corner stood iron pillars decorated with white lacy garments and yellow flowers, and some table at the center of the group. they were crying in prayers. solemn? i doubt. leaders throw the loudest. growls, i say. and people behind them nodded while painstakingly washing themselves and their sins under the burning rays of the sun. sweat drooling all-over their bodies. with their booklets polka-dot-wet with mouth rains and body fluids, they sung in chorus. amen, i say.

children lead the group. little voices scraped the roofs-loans. they cried in chorus. they led older people. now i ask, did they know what they were doing?

keeping up with tradition never seemed worse lest the intentions were clearly understood. if people just jump into the wagon and follow the clowns, then who, now, looks foolish?