An Immortal Story

(For the feast of Our Lady of Peñafrancia I could not think of any better story to write except to republish a timeless piece that my dearly departed brother Carlos wrote several decades ago in honor of our Blessed Mother, Nuestra Señora de Peñafrancia. This article first appeared in the now defunct Parents Magazine many years ago but the story is still “as radiant as the sun and as gentle as the monsoon rain.”)

VIVA LA VIRGEN / Carlos Ojeda Aureus

Suddenly it is September again, and Naga is ringing with bells in honor of Our Lady of Peñafrancia.

September means the Traslación and the Fluvial Procession: how these words evoke a flood of memories.  It is the Virgin’s cruise on the Bicol River at twilight time.

The fluvial procession then and now has remained the same for the Nuestra Señora.

I always love coming home to Naga in September.  I love to watch the riverbanks swell with devotees ignoring the mud under a late afternoon sun threatened by sudden rain.  It is only during the fiesta in Naga, climaxing in the Fluvial Procession, where the memories of youth repeat themselves like sweet refrain.

Suddenly fireworks swish up and explode. The Virgin is arriving! The riverbanks teem with people sardine-packed.  Hoarse shouts of “Viva” roar and roar across the banks.  Up the river now drifts the luminous pagoda bearing the Virgin and the Divino Rostro.

The band is playing a religious march, while the loudspeaker leads the faithful to prayer.  In the distance, the church is ringing with bells, as voyadores, handkerchiefs tied around their heads, bob and weave in the waters, booming: Viva la Virgen!

We, Bicolanos, have often been asked: Why do we honor the Virgin? And why with so much fervor and devotion?

Why is this so? Because Naga is a city only in name.  In spirit we are cimarrones.  Outside September we pretend to behave like the rest of the urban world.  In September we show our real selves.

When the Spaniards first came to our region, most of our forefathers refused the new images.  We already believed in God; only we called Him by a different name.  We already had our Ina; we venerated Her our own way —with song, dance, and wild frenzy.  Why change our ways?

So they called us pagans, meaning country-dwellers, because we would not worship the accepted way, the urban way.

Western Christian fanatics do not understand our culture of icons.  They accuse us of idolatry.  In doing so, they reveal their ignorance.  If they were wiser, they would look into the etymology of the word “idol,” and find there “image” or “representation.”

So that if we kiss the photo of our loved one, we think not of the paper but of the person behind it.  So also with our statues and images — all these are representations, not objects of veneration per se, but symbols intended to remind us of the Virgin and turn our thoughts to Her.

PTL Christianity, the latest conquistador of Naga, is a western invention.  Child of materialistic science, it tends to over-simplify the human predicament.  That is why it cannot see beyond the elaborate rituals and symbols of the Roman Catholic Church.  That is why it interprets everything literally.

It is no different from the example of the poetic imagination: one who does not understand the language of metaphor, who reads poem about a rose and sees nothing but a rose, is forever lost to poetry.  Ignorant of prosody, the prosaic mind says: “I do not know this, therefore it is false.”

I am hurt when PTL objections go farther than icons.  They discredit Marian devotion itself: Mary does not deserve all that praise.  She should not be called Mediatrix, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope.  That is too much veneration for a woman, they say.

Well, male chauvinism has come of age.  It holds that woman is inferior and can never stand on equal ground with the male.  Therefore, any outpouring of worship must be reserved only for the male.  That is patriarchy, a product of urbanism.

But Naga has never been urban, or else devotion to Woman would never have flourished.  In Naga, the dominance of the male is a myth. Our men go to market, wash the clothes, and cook.  Not only that: we cut and sew, sweep the floor, and sing lullabies to babies in our arms.  None of us think of these as unmanly.

So I invite you now to Naga City on the third Saturday of September to understand us better.

About the middle of the afternoon, a long procession leaves the ringing Naga Cathedral.  Priests and seminarians from all over the Bicol Region lead the faithful in singing: Resuene vibrante el himno de amor/ Que entona tu pueblo con grata emoción.

Men, women, and children swarm the cobbled streets, stirring Naga to a tumult of exploding “Vivas!”  The Virgin rides high on the shoulders of the strong all the way to Tabuco Bridge where a pagoda, festooned with arches, awaits.  As the image arrives, the skies sparkle with millions of waterbursts:  the paddles are splashing and water is flying in all directions.  All hands are clapping.  It’s a baptism in the air, a spasm of joy.

Those who join the pagoda include the band, some priests and seminarians, some policemen, and a throng of voyadores.  The more unlucky are not allowed inside, so they cling to the sides of the raft.  Their weight pulls down the raft so that it nearly always ends up half-sunk in the water.

Meanwhile, along the banks of the river, thousands await the holy cruise.  It is almost twilight when the Virgin drifts from up the river, and the hillsides are now dotted with votive candles.  The pagoda draws near and the cries of “Viva” get louder.  Eyes peep through clusters of leaves.  Suddenly in the distance, everyone is booming: Viva la Virgen!

This is Naga in September.  Outside September, Naga is a quiet city sleeping peacefully in the past.

Silence is broken only by the noise of parochial boys during recess and dismissal time.  In the evenings, one does not hear much noise save the drone of passing trimobiles, the rattle of creaky mini-buses and jeeps bound for the nearby fishing towns, and the clip-clop of calesas.  Roman Catholic Naga!

In Naga, the past does not fade into the light of common day.  Parochial boys still converge in the sacristy every morning to serve Mass.  Families pray together the Holy Rosary before home altars every evening.  Father prays to our Lady of Lourdes, grandpa to Our Lady of Fatima, and grandma —ah —to all of them!

Years ago, I left my country, and vowed never to return.  I chose Spain as a place of exile because it has the one place on earth I wanted to visit: the Shrine of Our Lady of Peña de Francia in Salamanca.

I went up that mountain to fulfill a life-long dream, both for myself and for my family.  One ailing aunt especially urged me to make the pilgrimage —that I may realize the promise she was no longer capable of fulfilling.  Say a little prayer for me, Caloy, when you get to Salamanca, were her parting words.

When I reached the top, the winter was still on.  The winds tore fiercely through the moor below and seeped through the crags.  When they reached the top, they howled and sent chills all over me like I was covered with a sheet of ice.  I hugged my sweater to keep it from flapping like the albatross’ wings.

It was very cold but the view from the top was magnificent.  I was on top of the world, touching heaven.  Caceres, Castilla, Leon all lay in the distance before me.  I could not believe it.  After long years I was in Peña de Francia.

The early evening seemed to genuflect, inviting Angelus, but I found myself, like an eager son, rushing inside the church and embracing the most beautiful and sweet image of Our Lady of Peña de Francia.  The next thing I knew, I was sobbing like a little boy.

It was very late when I arrived in Madrid.  My favorite café was closed.  The drone of the street cleaners filled my ears.  They sprayed the water so noisily that I hardly heard the phone ringing in my flat.  It was an overseas call from my brother Awel: my aunt had died peacefully the very day and hour I reached the summit.

I went towards the window to stare blankly at the sleeping city.  The street cleaners were done, and Madrid was quiet at last.  My mind raced back to Peña de Francia and the fierce winds.  I thought of Naga and Spain, and the country that I may never see again.

And as usual, every time I thought of Naga and the Peñafrancia, tears fell from my eyes.  In the loneliness of exile, I thought of the voyadores and comforted myself that as long as they are there to shout praises to the Virgin, the memory of this tender tradition will never die.

After all, suddenly it will be September again, and Naga will be ringing with bells in honor of the Virgin, radiant as the sun, gentle as the monsoon rain, Nuestra Señora de Peñafrancia, Patrona del Bicol, reina de mi corazón.

Viva la Virgen!