Semana Santa in Mexico City

Holy Week                                                                                                                                                             April 8, 2012                                                                                                                                                 Mexico City

Outside of Christmas, Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is the biggest holiday of the year.  It is a time for vacations and the beach, but for those who stay behind in the cities and towns, it´s a time of deep, culturally rich, spiritually-weighted, centuries-old traditions.

For me, Semana Santa started when Steve was in Mexico.  We’d gone to Acapulco and were there for Ash Wednesday. All day long people had the smudges of ashes on their foreheads. 
Watching, and participating in, the events of Semana Santa, my second in Mexico City, would take highlight.

THURSDAY / Holy Thursday / Jueves Santo

Officially, Semana Santa started on Palm Sunday, el Domingo de Ramas.  That day, street stalls in my part of the city were selling palms, woven into all sorts of shapes of the Resurrection—crosses, garlands of lilies, doves of the Holy Spirit, even Christ himself.  These palms would be brought to church, waved in jubilee and would then be blessed by the priest.

But Thursday, Holy Thursday, or Jueves Santo, was the true official start of two of the most significant days in the Catholic Latin calendar.  That morning, I had a text message from a local friend, who often illuminates me on things Mexican.  “The next two days,” he wrote, “are the most solemn and quiet for us Mexicans.  As Catholics we do not eat meat, and Holy Friday is the day to cleanse our passions.  We do not listen to music, do not talk too much, especially nothing trivial.  We prefer to be apart from others and think deeply about our life.”

Late that afternoon, I headed for the beautiful church in the center of Coyoacán.  I wanted a good seat for Holy Thursday services. 

At 5:00 pm, a procession of priests, altar boys and 12 men dressed as the 12 disciples walked down the center aisle of the church.  Shortly into the service, the priest individually washed the feet of each of the men—a standard part of Thursday services in Latin America.  This was followed by communion.

At this point the altar servers climbed high up on the altar.  One of them covered all the crucifixes; another took down the Consecrated Host from a golden chamber.  The pastor held it, wrapped in a special cloth.   Four men held a gold canopy over his head.  The priest led the incense-shrouded procession with all the altar boys and 12 disciples on a slow walk from the front of the church along one side and then down the middle aisle. 
It was all very powerful and quite beautiful, even if I didn’t fully understand what I was looking it.
But it was an early night.  I had serious plans for Good Friday, and it would be an early start to the day.

FRIDAY / Good Friday / Santo Viernes

The absolute epicenter for Semana Santa, not only for Chilangos, the residents of Mexico City, but for the country as well, is in a corner of the city known as Iztapalapa.  For 51 weeks of the year this delegación is absolutely no-gringo land.  It has a nasty reputation as the most dangerous of all places in the city and, quite honestly, there’s little to draw the casual visitor. But during Semana Santa the delegacicón comes to life as they relive, year after year, a 168 tradition.

In 1843, according to its history, the original inhabitants of Iztapalapa reenacted the Passion as an expression of their faith.  Then, it was a procession from one church to another, but over the years it has evolved into a nationwide spectacle with, as they say, a cast of thousands.

And so it was that I, my friend Willem of South Africa, my Spanish teacher, Virginia, and a local friend, Alexandra, arrived in Iztapalapa at 10:00 a.m. to take part in the day’s offerings.

We’d been advised to arrive early because more than 2,000,000 people would show up by day’s end.

We wandered from the Metro and, fifteen minutes later, arrived in the center of town.  We were stunned to see thousands of pilgrims, peregrinos, streaming through the streets, carrying crosses.  With rare exception they were men or boys of all ages. Each pilgrim carried his cross, some quite heavy, barefooted and dressed in a purple robe.  Almost all of them had a white sash around their waist and another sash over their shoulder.  These sashes had all sorts of religious symbols embroidered on them—crosses, rosaries, crowns of thorns, images of Jesus, churches. Crosses, some of them quite heavy, usually had a crown of thorns, interwoven with flowers, hanging from the center.

It was quite moving, actually, to see fathers with their sons, some as young as three years old, and carrying a cross appropriate to their height, doing this pilgrimage together.  At times three generations—grandfather, son and grandson—participated. It wasn’t uncommon to see mothers and their daughters accompanying the men in their family.

Later, I asked a local friend if he’d ever done anything like this.

“No,” he told me.  “This is only for those who live here in Iztapalapa.  I didn’t grow up here and it’s not part of my tradition.”

In the end I thought this procession through the streets was a very good things for fathers to do with their sons.  In a country where girls are idolized and where even the poorest of families will find the money to celebrate their 15^th birthday—her quinceaños—with a huge party, there is nothing of equal weight for boys.

To my observant eyes, carrying a cross through the streets of Iztapalapa, with your father, participating in a 168 year old tradition, seemed like a very good thing to do.

Sometime around 11:00 a.m. there were regal sounds of trumpets and other instruments.  How fortunate we were to be in the right place at the right time.  The entire “cast of characters”—some 1,000 strong—marched down the street.  This took almost forty minutes.  Legions of Roman soldiers rode in on horseback.   Roman officials rode in on chariots. Mary, solemn and sad, dressed in black, came into the center surrounded by the disciples. Judas, hands tied, shouted curses.  Jesus rode a chariot, accompanied by an all-tuba band. Hundreds others made the procession as well—young and old, male and female—all dressed in clothing typical of 33 AD. 

It was quite the entry.

By 11:30 we’d been advised to find a place to observe the first part of the passion—Jesus in front of Pilate.  We were extraordinarily fortunate to find an elevated seat on an eight foot wall.  We weren’t exactly comfortable as we were sitting on the edges of huge cement flower pots, but we were dead-center to the action—Pontius Pilate’s palace—about 200 feet in front of us. 

And so for about 90 minutes we just waited.  Not that it was boring.  There were all sorts of things going on around us.  A rosary was being broadcast live from the nearby church.  Helicopters buzzed overhead.  (This was being broadcast live around the country and their presence was an interesting mélange of the 1^st and 21^st Century.)  Technicians tested equipment…”uno…dos..tres.  Uno…dos...tres.”

Below us, vendors plied the crowds selling all sorts of things—ice cream, baseball caps, soft drinks, candy, gum, water.  My favorite was crowns of thorns for 10 pesos.  That’s less than a dollar.  Kids, mostly, were scarfing them up, wearing them on their baseball caps.  Almost everyone was carrying small bouquets of manzanillas—the traditional flower of Good Friday, the flower, at least in Mexico, associated with the burial preparation of Jesus after his death on the cross.
This was really a great show.

By 1:00, when the trial began, there were literally thousands of people in front of us.  The crowd was thirty thick and those in the back could see nothing of the performance on stage.

But for us, though, we witnessed the Passion first hand.  Jewish officials demanding the life of Jesus, Roman officials wanting a reason, arguments back and forth. 

All this, of course, was done in rapid-fire Spanish and was totally incomprehensible.  Fortunately, we all knew the story, so we’d have to be content with just being part of this great drama—the largest Passion Play of its kind in Mexico.

Jesus was ultimately condemned, and scourged.   The long, cruel walk to Calvary was to follow.
This was our clue to give up our bird’s eye perch.  By now, we’d made “friends” with those around us.  We’d been warned to bring along food, which really hadn’t been necessary.  We’d been jettisoning the apples and sandwiches to those around us who’d seemed pleased by our altruism.

“A dónde vamos, ja? Where to now,” I asked our neighbors.  “Follow the people,” they said.
And follow we did.  Not that we had a choice.  We simply entered a dangerous river of people—a crowd so thick that one mistake could have meant disaster.  Our goal was to follow Jesus to the cross, but what we didn’t expect was how fast the river would move.  Periodically we’d be forced to stop when a Roman official, on horseback, barking stern commands, would push us to the side.  Once, Judas passed, this time screaming curses, and throwing gold coins into the crowd.  Had we followed him, we’d have seen him hang himself shortly after.

There came a point when following Jesus carrying his cross was just not possible.  There really wasn’t all that much to see, and it was dangerous trying to stay in the river of people—now a torrent racing down the narrow streets of Iztapalapa. 

We waited for the action to fully pass, let hordes of people go ahead, and moved forward when we felt it was safe to proceed.  We’d make our way to Calvary to witness the crucifixion.

Or at least that’s what we thought we’d do.  Not long after proceeding along the now-quiet street, we hit a barricade.  It was literally of wall of police, all linked together.  No one could pass.  No one.  I finally asked one of the police which way to go.  He directed me down the street, then up. 

And that’s what we did, but what we entered was a full-fledged Mexican carnival.  Rides for kids, Mexican carnival food (deep-fried plantains smothered in lechera and chocolate sauce, my favorite), kiosks selling all sorts of things.  This “carnival” stretched for almost ½ a mile.
In the matter of two minutes, we’d gone from the sacred to the profane.  Leave it to Mexicans to turn a religious spectacle into an opportunity to make money.  For several hours I’d been living, theatrically at least, in the 1^st Century.  The story of Jesus’ death had come to life.  To see it cheapened like this upset me a great deal.

We managed to get ourselves through the maze of vendors and rides, finally got to the hill, but the Crucifixion had passed and the bodies had been taken down from the cross.  It had taken us that long to get from A to B.

Much later, though, I learned that we’d never have gotten to see it anyway.  Entry to Calvary had closed by 8:00 a.m.  People had spent the night before waiting to gain access.

We were only slightly disappointed.  It was impossible, we learned, to see it all.  We’d been fortunate to see the grand entry of characters, and to participate in the pilgrimage of men carrying crosses.  And our seats on the large flower pots overlooking Pilate’s palace had been enough.
he day had been beyond marvelous—a glorious, hot, brilliant blue day where we’d been witness to a 168 year old pageant that was shared by more than 2,000,000 others.

In the end, after I processed all I’d seen and experienced, I came to realize that this Friday probably wasn’t much different from the Friday Jesus was executed.  It had likely been a hot, sunny day in Jerusalem.  There was probably a festive air about the city with so many Jews in town for Passover.  Despite the violence attached to the Iztapalapan Passion, it was still a mighty festive day in that part of Mexico City.  Most everyone, it seemed, was out for a good time.  I’m sure it was the same in Jerusalem in 33 AD.  I can’t image vendors not taking advantage of the crowds in Jerusalem that day 2,000 years ago.  People were hot and hungry and, just like their Mexican counterparts, Israeli’s of the day took the advantage to make an extra shekel.

SATURDAY / Holy Saturday / El Sábado de Gloria

In Mexico, Holy Saturday is known as El Sábado de Gloria, The Saturday of Glory.  Early in the day I’d met some friends and we headed for a Saturday bazaar in San Angel.  Both of these women speak fluent Spanish and have degrees in Spanish.  I was intrigued by the devilish papier-Mache figures I was seeing at street stalls.  “It’s Judas,” Allyson told me.  “They’re only sold and displayed today.”  Some were tiny, but others were four and five feet tall.

That evening a small group of us was brought to a section of the city that most of us avoid.  It’s not the safest place in the city, and certainly a no tourist-zone.  But we were with a long-term resident of the city, and she was bringing us to one of the quirkiest events that take place in the city on the evening of El Sábado de Gloria.

We were on our way to La Quema de Judas, the Burning of Judas, an old European custom that found its way to Mexico centuries ago.

We were the only gringos in a notorious part of the city, but there was safety in numbers.
Tucked away behind the Merced market, down three side streets, sandwiched in between two industrial zones, was the street.  Strung up between two homes, on either side of the street, was a long rope, and hanging from the rope was the first Judas to be burned.  I say burned, but that is not really the right word.  Each papier maché figure was filled with an assortment of fireworks and explosives.  A proper Judas cannot simply blow up, but should explode in stages…leg by leg…arm by arm…followed by a fantastic finish of an exploding torso and head blown to confetti. Mexicans love to flex their satirical and artistic muscles by creating effigies of politicians, world events, and "diablos" in papier maché, then blowing them up in spectacular fashion. One might expect Judas himself, but it is the idea of a traitor, the liar, or one with two faces that is being publicly destroyed.  Indeed, there was more than one Felipe Calderón, Mexico’s increasingly unpopular president, blown up that night.

By dusk, the first Judases began exploding.  The crowd, close to a thousand, screamed with joy then cheered even louder when the effigy blew up.  More than once, the figure fell off the rope, crashed to the ground, but continued exploding, sending small fire bombs in the direction of spectators.

At the beginning, the six of us stayed relatively close to the fireworks, but by the time we left, four hours later, five from the group were a good 40 feet from where they started.  I, on the other hand, video camera in hand, stayed close to the drunks in the crowd, taping the entire spectacle.  I’d run back to the group, a huge grin on my face.  This was just so, so cool.

By 10:30, only the big boys were left.  Huge, 12 feet diablos, with frightening faces and limbs, were  blown up.  The entire process would take up to three minutes for them to fizzle, burn then explode into a million pieces.

We were out of there by 11:00, all of us super-energized by what we’d seen.  This was definitely way, way off the tourist map.

What a way to end the day, to wrap up Semana Santa in Mexico City.  It was hard to get to sleep that night.

SUNDAY /Easter / Pascua

I arrived home from the Quema de Judas just before midnight.  I crawled into bed shortly and was startled awake at 12:00 a.m. with a huge display of fire crackers somewhere near my apartment.  It was almost as if whoever did wanted to shout out, “He has risen.”  To me, it seemed a joyous display of the Easter message.

By 8:00 a.m., the house I live in, which had been very quiet during the days of Semana Santa, was a flurry of activity.  The staff had taken Friday and Saturday off, the most important days of the Easter weekend.  My landlady was in NYC, and was coming home later in the day.  Today was just another Sunday, as Easter is in the Latin World.  There was a lot of work to be done to get the house ready for her return.

On the streets, garbage was being collected.  Stores that had been closed for two days reopened.
I left early for La Casa where I attended 11:00 meeting.  At 1:00, the volunteers, all Americans, and accustomed to an Easter dinner, gathered.  It was a quiet dinner, only a large handful of us, but it was a custom shared by us all and something we wanted to do.  The rest of Mexico went about its normal Sunday business.  Theologically, it all ended on Friday; man’s sins had been forgiven on Santo Viernes.  Sunday was just additional proof that Jesus was God.

That night, I thought back to the power of this Holy Week/Semana Santa.  I thought I did it all with a Latin Easter three years ago in Bolivia, but this…this just topped everything, and I know exactly where I’ll be next April—right back in Iztapalapa, but this time from Palm Sunday right through Sunday, when the full drama of Easter comes to life—Jesus is resurrected from the makeshift tomb he’s been in since Friday.

I can’t wait!