Inside the World’s Only Annual Holy Week Crucifixions

I watched an old man get nailed to a cross with my own eyes.

For a moment, I wanted to look away. The instinct came immediately — the body’s reflex to turn from something irreversible. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the screen of my camera as the man beside him lifted his arm. My gaze kept wanting to drift away from the screen and toward the act itself, as if seeing it without mediation might make it more believable. I struggled to accept what I was watching.

The hammer came down.

The crowd reacted before I did. A sharp, collective “AY!” rippled through the people gathered below the hill, loud, fearful, and involuntary. The man on the cross barely flinched. I don’t remember him screaming. I don’t remember any sound from him at all.

What I remember most is holding my breath. I felt lightheaded — a sensation I first blamed on the heat after standing in the sun for nearly ten hours. But now that I think about it, it wasn’t exhaustion. It was hesitation. I was witnessing a crucifixion — a story I had grown up hearing since childhood — unfolding in real time.

I couldn’t undo the moment by looking away. I had a job to do. As a photojournalist, this was the moment — not in a sensational sense, but in a factual one. Weeks, even months, of preparation, research, logistics, access requests, and uncertainty had led here. To look away would have meant abandoning the work entirely.

That moment didn’t begin on the hill. It began weeks earlier — possibly months — while preparing for a trip that offered almost no clear instructions for what we were about to document.

We were told to dress conservatively, and to prepare for the heat.

My decision to witness maleldo came from a long-standing curiosity about my homeland. Preparing for it felt like a gamble. I flew in from Japan to Manila without a clear schedule, unsure of where to go or how the day would unfold. It was difficult to know what to expect — not just for outsiders, but even as Filipinos.

I booked a house as close as possible to what I understood to be the crucifixion site, knowing proximity would matter more than planning.

The clearest instructions came only the day before, through conversations with locals. It felt like playing telephone. Everyone remembered the day differently. We walked the streets, asked which barangays would be active, where the lines usually passed, where things tended to gather. Everything else was learned by being there.

Here’s why I felt called to write this story — because I couldn’t find much information on it, even as a media representative.

We were advised to coordinate with the Department of Tourism to secure media passes and guidance. I emailed at least six official addresses. We called roughly ten phone numbers. None worked. Emails went unanswered. The only way we reached anyone was through Facebook Messenger, after weeks of follow-ups and research by my assistant.

What stood out wasn’t only the lack of response, but what was visible. Scrolling through official Department of Tourism channels, the Secretary’s face appeared repeatedly — front and center in promotional posts and announcements. Yet when it came to Holy Week in Pampanga — one of the most extreme, embodied, and culturally specific religious rituals in the world — there was a single outdated post from the year before.

Nearly a year later, during a Senate hearing broadcast on national television, public criticism surfaced that echoed the same observation. The irony didn’t escape me.

The absence of institutional structure didn’t stop maleldo. It simply meant communities carried the weight themselves — as they always have.

We woke up early. We were reminded again to dress conservatively. My team and I wore matching white long-sleeve button-down shirts, thin black pants, and closed-toe shoes. I wore a traditional rice field hat — light and breathable, because the thought of a tight baseball cap in that climate felt like its own form of punishment. Amy tied a red bandana around her head. Anthony carried a giant umbrella.

We packed water, camera bodies, five lenses, fans, umbrellas, backpacks. We hoped to catch the first procession before noon, but in true Filipino fashion, everything ran hours behind. Endurance came first. Understanding followed later.

When the penitents — men fulfilling religious vows through physical sacrifice — finally appeared, they came in long lines from every direction.

Hundreds of men. Shirtless. Faces covered. Some barefoot, some in sandals. The barefoot ones were the most devoted. You could hear them before you saw them: the haunting sound of the wooden ends of the whips striking skin in rhythmic unison, echoing through every street at once.

They moved slowly and deliberately. Their anonymity was intentional. Faces wrapped in cloth. Bodies reduced to flesh and motion. Many wore crowns made of bougainvillea — flowers that usually grow abundantly in front of homes — now thorned and woven into a reenactment of the Roman crown placed on Christ’s head.

From the front, torsos at every stage of life: slender adolescents alongside older men, their chests tattooed with the names of children, mothers, and religious symbolism.

From behind, rows of bleeding backs. The blood was a combination of their own and animal blood — most often pig or chicken — sometimes purchased from markets, sometimes sourced privately and prepared beforehand. There was no single method. Beneath it all, skin swollen and reddened, some with exposed wounds.

When we stopped to clean lenses or review shots, Anthony lifted the umbrella over us without a word, adjusting it instinctively as the light shifted. Sometimes we pulled over for a cold coconut or a Sprite, standing still just long enough to reset before moving again.

At one point, I was deep in the zone, shooting instinctively, moving closer without realizing how close I’d gotten. Suddenly, the whip struck my own back. I felt it before I registered it. I walked around the rest of the day with a large bloodstain on my shirt, exactly where the whip had landed.

Without meaning to, I crossed a line — from observer into the ritual space. I apologized out of instinct, but the line of whipping continued in silence, as if I had never interrupted.

We followed the penitents from church to church, through different barangays — local neighborhood districts that form the basic unit of community life in the Philippines. Nuns were everywhere, bearing witness. The ritual moved through Pampanga like circulation — entering and exiting neighborhoods as if the province itself were breathing.

Maledlo — also called penitensya — is not an official Catholic sacrament. It is a folk devotional practice passed down through families, often through panata: vows fulfilled through physical sacrifice in exchange for healing, forgiveness, protection, or miracles. Pampanga became its epicenter through early Spanish evangelization layered onto an existing culture of ritual and communal participation.

Participation is considered an honor — to walk, to carry, to endure. Many teenage boys take part. It functions less as imitation than initiation: a public assumption of responsibility, where the body becomes proof of sincerity, carrying the prayers of a family or community through discomfort, even pain, year after year.

The Vatican does not endorse crucifixion reenactments, and official Catholic doctrine discourages extreme bodily self-harm.

Philippine Church leaders have been explicit about this distinction. As Fr. Jerome Secillano of the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines has stated, “We do not encourage acts of self-flagellation and crucifixions… The suffering and crucifixion of Christ is already enough to save humanity.”

And yet, the Church does not explicitly forbid maleldo either. It exists in a gray zone — unsanctioned, but not erased. Framed as voluntary, temporary, medically supervised. Left to local communities. That silence allows Filipinos to continue a practice uniquely our own.

Despite institutional discomfort, the Philippines remains the only place in the world where actual, voluntary crucifixions still occur during Holy Week — a practice that exists not as doctrine, but as Filipino culture.

The crucifixion site sits on top of a hill. Three crosses stand against the sky.

The man portraying Jesus was Ruben Enaje, a local carpenter who has participated in the crucifixion reenactment annually since 1986. He has been nailed to the cross more than thirty times. Knowing this, his silence made sense. What began as an individual commitment became something the community agreed to carry with him. Elders and organizers assessed seriousness and physical readiness. Medical teams stood by.

At the foot of the cross, the community reenacted the beating — whipping, kicking, shouting. Some children participated. Others watched closely.

What struck me most was how close tourists stood — sometimes deeper inside the crowd than the media itself. Close enough to film. Close enough to reach out. Close enough to be almost inside the ritual.

It felt audacious — a proximity that blurred devotion, observation, and spectacle. Repetition dulled gravity, creating a strange desensitization born from intimacy.

The difference wasn’t just aesthetic. It showed how easily a holy ritual can be reduced to spectacle when its context isn’t fully understood — or respected.

Cultural preservation requires more than visibility. It requires structure. The Department of Tourism exists not only to attract visitors, but to safeguard how culture is presented and experienced. If foreigners choose to witness Maleldo, they deserve clear guidance on how to observe respectfully, where to stand, what to expect, and what they are actually looking at. Without that framework, devotion becomes content, and something sacred risks being mistaken for a festival.

Earlier that morning, before the crowds arrived, the women performed their ritual.

There were far fewer people watching. Only women stood in the circle. All dressed in white. Faces covered. They sat together, wailing, hands raised toward the cross above them. One by one, they collapsed, fainting to the ground. Their bodies were laid face down, arms extended like crosses, white cloths placed over them.

Without context, it could have been mistaken for something punitive rather than devotional. I say that carefully — not to sensationalize, but to acknowledge how stark and unfamiliar it might appear to an outside eye.

Their suffering was inward, contained, less violent, less visible. And far less watched. It felt familiar — the way women are often expected to carry pain quietly, privately, without spectacle or reward.

I wasn’t horrified the way I thought I would be. I was captivated — and that surprised me.

Because when you step back, the structure is familiar.

Offerings.

Food.

Incense.

Fasting.

Kneeling.

Hands raised.

Blood.

Sacrifice.

These elements exist not only in Christianity, but across ancient cultures worldwide.

When Catholicism arrived in the Philippines, it was not entirely foreign. Many indigenous Filipinos already practiced ritual offerings, communal sacrifice, fasting, and embodied devotion. The spiritual framework was familiar. Catholic rituals and ideals mirrored structures that already existed within Austronesian belief systems. That familiarity is part of why Catholicism took root so deeply.

European Catholicism today expresses devotion through art, beauty, tourism, and cultural heritage. Doctrine no longer governs civil law in most of Europe. Many historically Catholic countries are now among the most progressive in the world when it comes to sexual and reproductive rights.

Filipino Catholicism is different.

It is immersive. Embodied. Highly socially regulatory. Faith shapes belief, behavior, family life, and law. The Philippines remains the only country in the world without civil divorce. Abortion is illegal in all cases. Women’s bodies, marriage, reproduction, and education remain deeply influenced by Catholic doctrine. From family planning decisions to the impossibility of divorce even in abusive marriages, to limited education about one’s own body, faith becomes inseparable from law, shaping not only belief but the boundaries of choice.

Martyrdom sits at the center of this overlap — deeply Catholic, and profoundly Filipino. Endurance is praised. Sacrifice is rewarded. Silence is reframed as virtue. Suffering promises belonging and approval.

And that logic doesn’t stay in church. It appears in families. In work. In politics. In governance. In what we tolerate from institutions and from each other.

As Filipinos, we often endure more than we should — not because we are weak, but because suffering has been taught to mean something.

I went to the Philippines four times last year. Most were for family. This one was for work.

My parents found us on live news that day. They saw Anthony holding the umbrella over us in the sun. Amy changing lenses. Me moving through the crowd in a rice field hat.

One of my team members on this project was my youngest aunt, Amy — the one I grew up with like a sister. For the first time in ten years, we spent real time together. At night, we talked about religious trauma, family trauma, gossip, betrayal, and the abuse embedded within our very religious upbringing — sins from our bloodline that once silenced and shamed us in order to save face.

We were the black sheep, documenting one of the most extreme expressions of devotion together. The next morning, we chased down the man selling taho like we were kids again.

This piece is not a critique. It is recognition.

Recognition of what happens when sacrifice is given cultural value: it begins to shape belief, family hierarchy, national law, personal limits, and identity itself.

Whether one agrees with the ritual or not — Christian or Catholic, Filipino or foreigner — it must be met with respect for the Kapampangan people who carry it. Maledlo is a deeply honored and foundational result of our country’s history, where Spanish Catholicism and indigenous instinct met and settled into something alive and unmistakably Filipino.

References & Further Reading

I believe knowing our history is one of the most powerful things we can consume. Below are the materials that informed this piece — offered to further spark your own curiosity and exploration.

Boxer Codex (c. 1590–1595).

An illustrated Spanish manuscript documenting early inhabitants of the Philippines and Southeast Asia, including visual and written accounts of indigenous spiritual practices prior to full Catholic consolidation.

Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington, USA.

Archivo General de Indias. Established 1785. Seville, Spain.

Repository of 16th–19th century Spanish colonial records relating to missionary activity and evangelization in the Philippines, including early accounts of indigenous ritual life and Catholic adaptation.

Jesuit Cartas Anuas (Annual Letters), 16th–18th centuries.

Missionary correspondence describing evangelization efforts in the Philippines and the negotiation between indigenous cosmology and Catholic doctrine.

Archivum Romanum Societatis Iesu (ARSI), Rome; microfilm collections available at Ateneo de Manila University Archives.

Scott, William Henry. Barangay: Sixteenth-Century Philippine Culture and Society. 1994. Ateneo de Manila University Press.

A reconstruction of pre-colonial Philippine social structures, ritual practices, and community life based on early Spanish documentation.

Ileto, Reynaldo C. Pasyon and Revolution: Popular Movements in the Philippines, 1840–1910. 1979. Ateneo de Manila University Press.

Examines how the Passion narrative shaped Filipino interpretations of suffering, sacrifice, martyrdom, and political consciousness.

Cannell, Fenella. Power and Intimacy in the Christian Philippines. 1999. Cambridge University Press.

An anthropological study of embodied Catholicism in the Philippines and its integration into kinship systems, moral order, and social regulation.

Catechism of the Catholic Church. 1992. Vatican City.

Sections on penance, redemptive suffering, and bodily mortification clarify the Church’s doctrinal position on sacrifice.

Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines (CBCP). Public Holy Week statements, various years. Manila, Philippines.

Official clarifications distinguishing Catholic doctrine from local folk penitential practices such as self-flagellation and crucifixion reenactments.

Reuters News Archives; Philippine Daily Inquirer; GMA News; ABS-CBN News.

Annual reporting on Holy Week crucifixions in Pampanga, including long-term documentation of Ruben Enaje’s participation since 1986.

Spanish Constitution (1978); Law 13/2005 (Marriage Equality); Law 14/2006 (Assisted Reproduction); Law 4/2023 (LGBTQ+ Protections).

Referenced for comparative discussion of contemporary European Catholic-majority societies and secular governance structures.

Vicente L. Rafael. Contracting Colonialism: Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog Society Under Early Spanish Rule (1988).

Strong academic work on how Catholicism was translated and absorbed into indigenous frameworks.

About the Author

Nessa Rae Apostol is a Filipina American photojournalist, writer, and documentarian exploring anthropology, history, identity, and faith through a diasporic lens shaped by a third-culture upbringing. Her long-form features are grounded in archival research, historical context, ethnography, and lived experience.

Nessa is currently working and studying in the South of France.

For more of her work, follow her on Instagram @ariesmedia.style.

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