Lent and quarantine

The Luzon lockdown in Lent 2020 will be fixed in history and memory for many of us now forced to focus on the fragility of life and the things that really matter: family, friends, and, after this is all over, holding people to account for the avoidable inconveniences we’re now enduring for the common good.

It is significant that the lockdown fell within Lent, which an older generation of Filipinos knew under its Spanish name, Cuaresma, from the Latin Quadregesima, or marking 40 days of penance that begins on Ash Wednesday and climaxes on Easter Sunday. Few people make the connection with Lent and quarantine, which traces its origin to the old Italian quaranta giorni or quarantino, referring to the 40 days of isolation imposed on ships from plague-infested ports before its crew, passengers, and cargo were given permission to land in Mediterranean ports during the 14th-century bubonic plague. It makes my stomach turn just thinking of an infection carried by fleas from rats the Black Death that swept over Europe, killing people by the millions.

Before the 14th-century San Roque became the overall patron saint against the plague, there was another saint aptly named Corona, a Roman-period Christian martyr. Refusing to renounce her faith, Corona was punished in a very unusual way. Her arms were tied to two bent palm trees, then these were released to split her in half! San Roque’s end was not as dramatic. Infected by the plague, he isolated himself from people, taking refuge in a secluded forest where he survived on bread supplied by his pet dog, who also licked his wounds and cured them. Returning to town in disguise one day, he was arrested as a spy and thrown in jail, where he eventually died.

In the Philippines, the image of San Roque was brought out in procession during outbreaks of cholera and other diseases. Smaller images were made for household use, and they are now considered collectible antiques more than objects of devotion. Aside from protection against plague, San Roque is also the patron saint of dogs, bachelors, and the falsely accused. He should be the patron of hot pan de sal, too. Fernando Poe Sr. died in 1951 from a superstitious belief in San Roque. He met an accident on set while making a film, but instead of seeking medical attention, he made a puppy lick his wound, not knowing it was rabid. Now I know better than follow Fernando Poe Sr.’s example, or test the late National Artist Alejandro Roces’ advice that to stop a dog from biting you, hold out your hand at its fangs and shout “San Roque!”

My parents were not devout, and while they dutifully brought us to Sunday Mass, I never saw them receive communion, which made me imagine the mortal sins they kept from their children: murder, theft, taking the Lord’s name in vain, or fornication? My father only started receiving communion as a widower in his 80s, to set an example to his grandchildren. In his 90s, he learned to pray the rosary more out of boredom and curiosity than religious fervor.

In this family context, my childhood experience of Lent encompassed extremes of church and beach. Childhood Visita Iglesia in Pampanga meant seeing images of saints inside the church covered up with purple cloth, while faceless penitents outside had backs glistening in the hot sun from the sweat and blood drawn from cuts made raw by self-flagellation. Holy Wednesday evenings were spent walking behind a carroza in my father’s hometown of Minalin, Pampanga, where at a specific bend in the road, he would annually point out a barrio teeming with children as proof of the failure of the population control program. Holy Thursday to Easter Sunday was spent on a beach with other children who didn’t understand why we weren’t allowed to bathe or swim on Good Friday. Adults just waved their hands and said: “Ah basta, patay ang tubig (the water is dead),” whatever that meant.

Six years in a Benedictine monastery gave Lent a new meaning for me. On Ash Wednesday, the Glorias, Alleluias, and incidental music at daily Mass disappeared, only to return with a vengeance at the Easter Vigil when the first Gloria in a long time was intoned to signal lights, fanfare, and bells breaking through the darkness. On this night, Alleluias were sung not once but thrice, as if to make up for lost time.

The coronavirus trumps Holy Week this year, making the season truly penitential.

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