Photographed by Tatiana Karpenko
In the Philippines, religion is rarely confined to private devotion. Filipino Holy Week traditions are firmly rooted in community as much as they are in belief.
Every year, along with the rising temperatures of the country’s dry season, the tempo of life in the Philippines changes. Schoolyards grow still, city streets empty out, and the usual hum of daily bustle gives way to something older, slower, and deeply embedded in the national psyche. Catholics, which make up about 80% of the population, observe Holy Week.
Filipinos begin preparing long before Palm Sunday. From Ash Wednesday, consuming meat is discouraged every Friday until Easter, and many give up small indulgences for Lent like alcohol, social media, rice, or coffee. It’s both a spiritual exercise and a personal test of discipline. It’s a tradition as familiar as summer rain: a 40-day act of sacrifice that culminates in the most solemn week of the Christian calendar.
The silence of Good Friday, the flickering candlelight of a Visita Iglesia, the barefoot penitents moving through dust and devotion are not merely rituals but inherited expressions of faith.
To understand Holy Week in the Philippines is to recognize that religion here is rarely confined to private devotion. Public displays of belief, carried out in plazas and barangays, have become part of the national identity. Semana Santa, as it’s locally known, draws from Spanish Catholicism which, depending on who one may ask, can either be a gift or a curse from our colonial era. It has since merged with indigenous practices and is equal parts tradition, theatre, pilgrimage, and personal reckoning.
Below are some of the enduring traditions Filipinos participate in: acts that continue to evolve with time while remaining firmly rooted in community and belief.
Palm Sunday: Welcoming the Journey
Holy Week begins with the waving of woven palm fronds called locally as palaspas. On Palm Sunday, each Catholic family purchases one near the church and taking it with them to mass, echoing Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. These aren’t your standard palms. They come in various levels of intricacy as locals transform them into braided, spiked, and spiraled creations, often bearing tiny crosses or floral patterns.
After the blessing, the palaspas are taken home and pinned on doors or windows, believed to serve as protection against misfortune.
Pabasa ng Pasyon: Chanting the Sacred Story
Beginning as early as Holy Monday, groups gather under makeshift tents or in family homes to recite the Pasyon, a verse narrative chronicling the life, passion, and resurrection of Christ. The chanting is continuous, sometimes lasting over 24 hours. Participants take turns in singing couplets from a book that speaks of doctrine and the story of the savior. The melody may vary depending on region or generation, but the intention is consistent: to offer time and voice in remembrance.
Some renditions are solemn and slow, others upbeat and conversational. The Pabasa serves as both a meditative experience and a communal offering, with refreshments and meals often shared among participants. For many, it is a yearly promise kept and a chance to spend time with fellow devout Catholics in the community.
Maundy Thursday: Acts of Humility and Pilgrimage
Maundy Thursday ushers in the Paschal Triduum, the three most solemn days in the liturgical calendar. In churches across the country, the “Washing of the Feet” is reenacted—symbolizing humility, leadership, and service. The priest washes the feet of twelve parishioners, echoing what Christ did for his disciples.
But the day’s most iconic activity is the Visita Iglesia. Devotees visit a minimum of seven churches, praying at each one and often reflecting on the Stations of the Cross. Families plan their routes in advance, sometimes combining the spiritual with the scenic. In heritage cities like Vigan or Cebu, the pilgrimage takes on an architectural and historical dimension as well.
Good Friday: Silence, Sacrifice, and Solemnity
If there is a single day in the Philippine calendar that feels completely suspended, it’s Good Friday. The streets fall silent—as if there’s a Manny Pacquiao title bout on TV. And yet, even the airwaves are hushed. Television and radio switch to religious programming, and before the era of Netflix, most young people would admit to how boredom was almost liturgical. Most businesses shut down. In many towns, the only sounds are the tolling of church bells and the slow, deliberate rhythm of processions winding through narrow streets.
Key rites include the Siete Palabras or meditations on Christ’s seven last words, and the Veneration of the Cross. In the provinces, however, Good Friday takes on a dramatic dimension.
In San Fernando, Pampanga, flagellants lash their backs in penance, while some—like Ruben Enaje—volunteer for full crucifixion reenactments. Enaje, a sign painter, has been nailed to a cross over 30 times. In 2024, he said he dedicated his crucifixion to fervently ask the heavens for peace in Gaza and Ukraine as well as a resolution on the West Philippine Sea issue. Despite official disapproval from the Catholic Church, these acts continue to draw crowds and provoke both admiration and discomfort.
Black Saturday: A Quiet Anticipation
Holy Saturday is marked by absence. It is the day when altars are stripped, bells are silent, and there is no celebration of Mass until the evening. Many use the time for quiet contemplation or household chores—part tradition, part superstition.
It is also the night of the Easter Vigil, when churches darken and then slowly come alive again with candlelight and the announcement everyone’s been waiting for: Christ is risen.
Easter Sunday: The Salubong and the Return of Joy
At the break of dawn, many communities stage the Salubong, a symbolic meeting between the risen Christ and His mother, Mary. In some towns, children dressed as angels are hoisted on harnesses to lift a black veil of mourning from the statue of the Virgin Mary, marking the transition from grief to joy.
The event is theatrical but tender, often accompanied by choral singing, brass bands, and flower petals cascading from balconies. By mid-morning, the mood would shift entirely: church bells ring, markets reopen, and kitchens fill with the smells of feasting. Finally, a cause for celebration.
Despite the rise of modern distractions and the shifting priorities of a fast-paced world, Holy Week in the Philippines remains a national anchor, an annual recalibration of spirit and self. The rituals may vary across regions, and interpretations may evolve with time, but the impulse remains the same: to pause, to remember, to reflect.
While some might argue that it can feel performative, it is more about collective memory, one performed not in silence but in candlelight, chants, and the measured footsteps of a procession. Faith here does not whisper. It marches barefoot, sings through the night, and bows its head at three in the afternoon on Good Friday.
Even those who no longer hear mass weekly or struggle with parts of the doctrine find themselves lighting candles, joining a Visita Iglesia, or skipping the meat at the table. Because in the Philippines, faith is less a declaration and more a rhythm—quiet in some years, loud in others, but always present. And during Holy Week, that rhythm becomes a national beat, reminding everyone, if only for a moment, what it means to take time, to make space, and to carry meaning forward.
