VIA DOLOROSA

*Via Dolorosa is a Catholic tradition that commemorates the agony and grief of Christ as he carried the cross until his crucifixion.

Good Friday, April 15, 2011

 

The road was dusty.

Swirls of dried and clinging powdered mud whipped from the ground as hundreds of mostly slippered feet disturbed its rest on the rough ground.  The slippers, mostly flip flops were undistinguishable.  Almost all were covered with the gray of the dust.

The religious trudged on, some holding on to the cable wires that connected several flower filled carts bearing decorated statues of wooden saints and images of Christ’s way to the cross; a few, even costumed in shiny silk robes that described the apostles.  Several others were in the cotton smocks of altar boys. From somewhere in the back, the monotonous female drone of a prayer is being echoed by all the rest joining the procession.

 

The procession was solemn, or mostly so except for the few young ones who were there for the chance to whisper sweet nothings to other young ones.

One more bend and the procession entered the church grounds.  The sun has finally settled behind the volcano, the foot of which was where the barrio was located. The darkness of night was finally creeping in. The statues, with their ghastly lights were left on the streets outside the compound for the onlookers and penitents to gaze upon during the night’s bisita iglesia, the people milling around like a flood of souls all there for the sole purpose of being pious.  

The procession has ended, for most at least. But for others, those that were tasked to do church work during the next days of Lent, it was just rest.  These went on to the local high school grounds right at the back of the church. To rest, dinner and to ready themselves, some need to assist in the church visiting hours later in the night.

The school was dark. 

Except for a few rooms where fluorescent lights were lit, the grounds were shrouded by shadow.  Eerie shapes and night sounds of crickets and other nocturnal creatures lent the school a peculiar ambiance.  Trees bent with age and leaf-less because of the unrelenting summer heat added to the sinister aura.

In one of the darkened rooms a slight shuffle was heard by invisible ears, small tentative movement from a young girl of fifteen.  With hesitation, she moved forward into complete darkness.  Listening, her eyes dilated as she peered into the darkness only to see nothing.  Although, she knew she had to be there.   A whisper has commanded her to be there.

“You came…” a male voice whispered in her ear.  She only felt the littlest touch of air but she could not feel a physical presence of warmth. 

“Thank you,” the voice continued as everything went blacker; if it was even possible to shut out light where there was none.

After awhile, the girl’s eyes opened once more.  She sat up and slowly rose from where she fell on the cemented floor when she fainted.  Slowly, she walked out of the room and walked purposely into one of the lit rooms where the rest were eating.

She just stood at the doorway and looked at everyone, lingering on the elder ones as if seeing them more interesting than the youths.

“Where have you been Anita?  Get your plate and have dinner, we need to go to church in a bit,” someone mentioned after seeing her standing there.  But she just looked at the older lady and slowly smiled.

“Charlie wants to tell you to pray for him,” Anita blurted out all of a sudden.  The lady, the one that spoke earlier looked at the girl, suddenly speechless.

“He says that he wants you to know that he is all right.”

Everyone looked at her then, not a few with mouths open and gawking at the young girl.  Almost all thinking that she could not have known Charlie, the lady’s son.  He died five years ago, when the girl was about ten.

“Anita,” the lady stammered, “that is not a good joke.”

“I am not Anita.  My name is Rafael.”

Someone gasped as a plate dropped to the ground, spilling food all over. Anita turned her head and looked at the elder boy.

“How are you Nico, we used to be classmates.”

Everyone was silent, the food on their plates completely forgotten as all stared at the young girl who has suddenly bothered them with talks of those that has been dead for years from that barrio.  Rafael, the boy the girl’s voice claimed to be was a teenaged boy from that same school who died of tetanus more than ten years ago.  She couldn’t have known him, couldn’t have heard of him.  His memory has long been replaced my more current histories of those that were busy with their own lives.

But the girl continued to talk.  She was mentioning random names of dead young people that died much too young for their time.  Talking about them as companions and entities that were not dead but living yet.

Somebody told others about what was happening and soon more people were filling into the room.  Others listening in on the girl’s voice that has suddenly began to have a more masculine timbre.

“It is Rafael’s voice,” someone blurted out.

To those who knew the boy, they swear that the Anita was displaying Rafael’s actuations; inflecting words with phrases and small sounds that reminded them of those that were of who he claimed to be. 

The young spirits he said were all there, trapped in some space within the volcano.  All of them tasked to stop the eruption that has been continuously predicted, all of them young when they died. 

He spoke of a boy who died in an accident with friends, he talked of one who was taken when the volcano coughed up ash, he spoke of others that were known to those in assembly; names and details that could not have been known to Anita. 

 

 

 

“I would like to go home, and sleep on my bed,” the young man’s voice broke a little bit as he said it, as if he wanted to cry.  “I miss my bed.”  Not a few of those around him had tears streaming across their faces. 

“It’s good that I was able to visit today.  Any other day and I would not have been able to come. It’s just not allowed.  In fact, I had a hard time coming today.”

All those around him were listening intently.  Most of those around were speechless and eyes were filled with questions that were not voiced out.  With a little smile on Anita’s face, Rafael just looked at those in attendance; sometimes at a particular face for a little longer than the rest �" to this his smile deepened, like he was greeting long lost friends.

Somebody went with him.  Anita’s steps filled with purpose as she took the familiar twisting roads into Rafael’s house.  A place the girl has never been to.  Rafael’s family was in tears.  But the girl just went inside, straight to where Rafael’s room used to be and fell asleep.  Rafael’s mother sat by the bedside and looked on.

“She is tired,” Rafael said when he awoke.  “I cannot stay longer.  But please pray for me.  Please pray for all of us there.  Do not ever forget.  My grave has not been cleaned in awhile, maybe if you remember about me and not just focus on my youngest sister then you might find time.  It’s not just me; there are a lot of us.  Tell their families, and tell everyone.  We can still feel. Remember us, Please!”

There was silence, as if Rafael was thinking and his mother was speechless.

“How is Stacy?”  referring to an old girlfriend.

“She is married now, with a child.” The mother answered.

“I know, just tell her please, that I still remember,” with that Anita’s eyes filled with tears and as the drops flowed on her cheeks Rafael’s voice continued.

“She tired, I don’t have time.  Goodbye mother, I love you! And tell Anita thank you for me, we’ll be fetching her soon.”

A cold wind wrapped around all those that were watching.  Anita slowly closed her eyes as Rafael’s mother and sister cried.  Nobody said a word as the breeze left through the windows and the girl dropped to the floor in a faint.

It was Black Saturday and Rafael has moved on.  But he is still watching, along with all the others who continue to watch over us.