As Holy Week approaches each year, my mind travels back to childhood days spent in Gasan, Marinduque where faith was not confined to church walls. It walked the streets, lived in homes, and unfolded before our eyes in rituals both solemn and dramatic.

In our family, the season always began with a procession. Among the images carried through the streets was one that belonged to our Lolo and Lola — Christ praying in the Garden of Gethsemane.

For us children, seeing our family’s image joining the long line of santos moving through the town felt like being part of something larger than ourselves — a community bound together by faith and tradition. Whenever my Lola caught me at their house at 6 p.m., she made me join her in prayer before our santo.

After the procession, another tradition awaited us. The caretakers of our lolo’s properties would gather at his house for dinner. It was their way of honoring him and keeping their bond with our family. For us children, however, the evening carried a peculiar ritual. We were required to receive the sign of the cross with saliva from them on our foreheads and stomachs. It was believed to be a blessing and a protection against stomach aches.

At that age, we did not fully understand it, but we obediently lined up anyway, submitting to a custom passed down through generations.

Good Friday in Marinduque was even more striking. The procession on that day was joined by penitents who transformed the streets into a living tableau of sacrifice and repentance.

Some would strike their backs with small bamboo sticks until blood slowly oozed from their wounds. When the procession ended, they would walk straight to the sea, believing that the salt water would hasten the healing of their wounds.

My mother participated in a different expression of devotion. She joined a group of women dressed entirely in black, leaves placed on their heads, walking barefoot under the punishing heat of the asphalt road.

Their silent march was a quiet yet powerful act of penance, a reminder that faith is sometimes carried in simple but profound gestures. This memory led me to purchase a painting by a local artist entitled “Prusisyon” because it reminded me of my mother.

All throughout Holy Week, figures dressed as Roman centurions roamed the streets. They were the morions wearing brightly colored masks and armor as part of the island’s famous Moriones Festival.

To us children, they were both fascinating and intimidating as we taunted them “moriong bungi me tae sa binti” so they would run after us. Their presence turned the entire island into a stage where history, faith, and folklore merged.

The climax of the celebration came in the dramatic reenactment of the story of Longinus, the soldier believed to have pierced Christ’s side. In the final act, Longinus is captured and beheaded, a symbolic end that marks the culmination of the week’s religious drama.

Looking back, those Holy Weeks were more than spectacles. They were lessons in devotion, sacrifice, and community. In Marinduque, faith was not merely preached — it was performed, endured, and lived.

Even today, whenever Holy Week approaches, I remember those days and realize how deeply they shaped my understanding of faith: not just as belief, but as tradition shared, suffered and celebrated together.