Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

I squint out the window of the bus. The main roads and narrow side streets of Málaga are completely clogged, and our bus sits motionless amidst a sea of cars and humans. Through the window, I see a group of people in white robes and pointed hats approaching, and for a terrible second, I wonder if I’m trapped in a massive Klu Klux Klan rally. But then I realize it’s Semana Santa, or Passion Week, during which Spain unites in commemoration of Christ’s suffering and His resurrection from the dead.

Forty-five minutes later, we have inched forward maybe half a mile. I glance around the bus, looking for the company that is supposedly loved by misery, only to find that my fellow passengers seem to be enjoying themselves. An older man takes note of my perturbed state and reassures me: “Don’t worry, Christ walked on water and parted the seas. I’m positive he can get us through this traffic.”

And then, as though on cue, the bus driver announces that we will not be able to make it to the station—we have reached the end of the route. I groan. Everyone else continues their animated banter as they gather up their belongings, seemingly grateful for an excuse to join the festivities outside.

“There is no other way?” I ask the bus driver, contemplating the hour-long walk to my house.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, my child.”

As I disembark, I am immediately engulfed by a jungle of laughter and noise. Nearly everyone in the crowd seems to be wielding balloons and churros, and the shrill sound of blow horns echoes relentlessly through the city streets.

Moving through these droves of people, one might get the sense that Spain is filled with religious devotees. And yet, most of the Spaniards I have met rarely go to church. I begin to wonder, where did all these people come from?  

A few Sundays ago, while lounging on my terrace and soaking in the sun, I asked my Spanish flatmate, Javier Arias Adame, “Why is it that I almost NEVER see people going to church on Sunday?” It’s true that Spain is a predominantly Catholic country—Catholic rituals like baptism and communion are highly revered, but regular church attendees seem to be few and far between.

Javier, glancing up from a thick engineering book spread across his bare belly, broke out into a grin. “Is it time for another cultural lesson for my foreign friend?” he asked. He pushed his book further down his stomach. “You see Lorena,” he began, “here in Spain, religion is political. With Franco’s death, Spain was liberated from the religious oppression that suffocated its people. Most people rebelled against the Catholic Church, which they associated more with right-wing politics than with any kind of spirituality. But now that we don’t have religion forced down our throats, we freely choose which parts we want to celebrate and which parts we want to ignore. Even though we consider ourselves Catholic, if you ask most people in the streets of Andalusia, they would say that our religion is more of a socializing institution than anything else.”

I was raised Catholic myself, yet the social aspect that dominates Spain's religious landscape is a stark contrast to my own experience in the United States. For one thing, balloons and deep-fried pastries were never involved. As a six-year-old, I spent Sunday mornings wailing relentlessly in the back pews of my church. At age 10, I was forced to attend my church's Sunday school, where we were asked to read from the Bible and interpret the text from a literal and metaphorical standpoint. I spent more time in the corridors of the church activity hall than in class, where I amused myself by tracing invisible pictures on the marble-speckled tile.

From what I’ve seen, Catholicism in Spain is much less about cultivating one’s personal relationship with God and much more about cultivating relationships with one another. While I know few Spaniards who attend Sunday mass, I know many who gather in church courtyards on Saturday afternoons—often with beers in hand, recounting the week’s events over chuckles and cigarettes.

Passion Week, as I’m quickly learning, takes religious revelry to a whole new level. I propel myself through the rowdy streets, making it about a quarter mile until I hit another obstacle. This time, it’s something even more formidable than a wall of excited Spaniards—it’s a gate blocked by a swarm of armed policemen. I begin charting out my new path when suddenly the crowd begins to chant something that I can’t quite make out. And then, with a disconcerting suddenness, silence falls.

For a second, I think I’ve gone deaf. The children stop playing their games; the tourists stop reading from their guidebooks; the teenagers stop comparing their scooter bikes; the elders stop swapping stories about past Passion Week experiences. I turn to see the object of such commanding fascination.

My eyes meet the enormous figure of a life-like Jesus Christ. His body sways back and forth, matching the beat of a solitary drum. About eight feet above the ground, carried by a small army of men, the massive platform supporting the statue seemingly floats in the air toward me. The hairs on my neck stand erect as the melancholy voice of a flamenco singer traces the history of Jesus Christ from a far-off balcony.

The people at my side begin to weep. An older woman turns to me, tears streaming down her face, and says to me in Spanish, “Nowhere else in the world is there this type of beauty, this type of unity as a nation.” She either doesn’t realize I’m not Spanish, or doesn’t care. But standing next to her, I realize that I don’t care either. This ceremony isn’t about religious or national divides. It’s about surrendering to the wonder of the moment—together.