65-year-old Ruben Enaje passively drags a life-size wooden cross across the courtyard. Around him are sixteen fellow villagers, each with a Roman lance in their hand, who curse and spit at him. Every year, the residents of the village of San Pedro Cutud in the poor rice province of Pampanga reenact the crucifixion. Today, two weeks before Good Friday, is the dress rehearsal. One of the wealthier residents has opened her home so the group can practice in her shady courtyard. At the instruction of director Idol Navarro (38), Enaje falls forward into the sand. Eighteen-year-old Feliza Cipriano, who plays Saint Veronica, steps in and dabs Enaje’s face.
But the play is not just a theater piece. On Friday, April 3, fellow villagers will nail Enaje to the cross. Four-inch nails will be driven through his hands. It is the thirty-seventh time that Enaje will suffer the torment. But he fears he will not survive this year’s crucifixion. “I was in the hospital with pneumonia in November,” he says during the rehearsal break.
Due to Spanish rule, 80 percent of the Philippines is Catholic. In 1955, the crucifixion of Christ was depicted for the first time in San Pedro Cutud, on the initiative of a local writer who wrote the texts. Roles are passed on from father to son, from mother to daughter. The Jesus was initially tied to the cross with ropes. In 1962, the first resident had himself crucified with real nails. According to some residents, the idea came from an alternative healer who was convinced that the pain sacrifice would lead to God’s help in healing from illness. The act was followed and became an annual tradition, which has become world famous in recent years.
For Enaje, the crucifixion began as a thanksgiving to God. In 1985 he fell from a meter-high scaffolding while painting. “I fell from the third floor. All I remember is shouting the name of Jesus. I should have died, but I survived.” In 1986, Enaje decided to thank God by having himself crucified as Jesus.
Over time, the ritual became an important expression of his faith. “Every time I was crucified I felt bliss.” Dreams came true. “I prayed for work.” His financial situation improved. “I was able to buy land for my family.” With the role as Jesus also came responsibility. “During the procession, people touch me and ask if I would pray for them.” Since then, Enaje has been doing penance not only for herself but for the entire community. But fearing that his health could no longer withstand the torment, he decided that 2025 would be his last year. The village committee met and appointed a successor, Arnold Maniago (46).
Rehearsal in the village of San Pedro Cutud. The religious procession on Good Friday attracts many tourists. Residents are encouraged to sell souvenirs at home around the event.
Photo Pau Villanueva
Residents of the Philippine village of San Pedro Cutud practice the crucifixion that they reenact on Good Friday
Photo Pau Villanueva
But the committee has reversed its decision. Maniago went to the hairdresser and he cut his hair too short. A Jesus with short hair is not similar, according to the committee. “We proposed a wig, but that request was rejected,” says Maniago dejectedly. Enaje does have hair that reaches his shoulder, as the image of Jesus is known.
In case the committee changes its mind, Maniago has already rehearsed his text. But the effort has so far been in vain. “The committee is afraid that the wig will fall off during the procession and that we will then be laughed at,” Enaje responds. He feels so responsible for his role as Christ that he does not dare refuse the request to repeat the crucifixion for another year.
We drink gin the night before so that the blood can flow properly
For eight years, rickshaw cyclist Rolly Tiglao (28) – just like his father and uncle before him – has been joining hundreds of residents in a special Good Friday procession. In the early morning, the participants walk from the village hall to the Calvary, whipping their backs with rods until they bleed. The self-flagellation should lead to forgiveness for their sins and deepening of their faith. A dozen procession goers allow themselves to be crucified, just like Enaje. Others stick to the back-chasing. On Tiglao’s back, dozens of thin horizontal scars testify to his devotion. “We drink gin the night before, so that the blood can flow properly.”
Exercises for the crucifixion and scars of self-flagellation on the back of Tiglao
Photo Pau Villanueva
Every self-torturer runs in a team. Guiding neighbors. “In the morning, a team member cuts ten slices in my back with a piece of glass or a knife.” Tiglao will hit himself on the back with a whip with bamboo straws attached to it while walking.
Tiglao, like many residents, struggles with a crystal meth addiction. A video of him using meth went viral last year. “I feel deep shame.” He will start the self-flagellation a day earlier this year, because he wants to show the community that he is serious. “I have been clean for five months now. I want to do penance for two days, so that people can see that I am sorry for my sins.”
Because Maniago with his short hair is not allowed to portray Jesus this year, he will walk in the procession with his own cross. On the crucifixion hill he will be nailed to the wood with a dozen other devotees. For Maniago too, self-torture is a manifestation of his devotion. Through penance he hopes for God’s forgiveness and healing of his sick son. “He is nine years old and has a heart problem.” His son needs an operation, but he cannot afford it. “I want to make this sacrifice so that he will be healed with God’s help. People say I want to be Jesus because it brings fame and I would like to make money with it. But that is not true.”
A resident of San Pedro Cutud sells processional souvenirs, including rods with bamboo straws for flogging the back.
Photo Pau Villanueva
Decoration along the procession route. Images of the crucifixion and an image of the cloth of Veronica with the miraculous print of Christ’s face.
Photo Pau Villanueva
Arlene Liang Castro (55) sews the uniforms of the Roman soldiers every year.
Photo Pau Villanueva
Ruben Enaje’s workbench. He paints the helmets and lances for the crucifixion procession.
Photo Pau Villanueva
A street in San Pedro Cutud. On Good Friday, thousands of visitors will line the banks to watch the procession.
Photo Pau Villanueva
The entrance to Mount Calvary, made of volcanic sand.
Photo Pau Villanueva
Souvenirs such as whips
The annual procession through the narrow village streets attracts thousands of visitors, believers and tourists. Television images of the bloody crucifixion are broadcast around the world every year. For the past few years, the procession has been organized by the district tourism department. And that creates friction. Residents say they are encouraged to sell souvenirs at home, such as self-flagellation whips and white Veronica cloths, on which, according to legend, the imprint of Christ’s face is left.
Some residents believe that the crucifixion procession is increasingly becoming a commercial spectacle that should fill the village coffers. “They are selling our religious beliefs. But it is about sincere devotion. Not about commerce. This year the district is even renting out food stands on the Mount of the Crucifixion,” says a resident. He does not dare to have his name in the newspaper for fear of reprisals from the local government.
At exactly three o’clock on Good Friday, Enaje – or Maniago – will reach the Calvary. A few minutes after the crucifixion, the nails are removed. “That is the most painful moment,” says the painter. He shows his hands. They tremble. Two modest round scars shine in the center of his palms.
Maniago, the intended interpreter of Jesus whose hair is cut too short to portray a credible Jesus.
Photos Pau Villanueva
Ruben Enaje (65) is preparing for his 37th crucifixion on Good Friday.
Photo Pau Villanueva
