In the heart of Cebu City, silence is usually a warning sign that something is wrong.
It is a city that is constantly moving, where the heavy honking of jeepneys, the crowd noise that floods the markets and vendors shouting their products are signs of a brand-new day happening all at once. But when Holy Week starts, everything pauses and breathes. For a few days, the city becomes a ghost town, where every laborer — the very veins of the city — spends time with their loved ones.
Holy Week is the most important week in Catholicism. It is a time of reverence and reflection spanning the final days of Jesus’ life. You know Holy Week is approaching when your parents bring home blessed palms from Palm Sunday Mass, ending on Easter Sunday when Jesus rises from the dead.
We grew up loving the binignit our mothers cooked for us and asking for biko from our neighbors, while our parents and aunties were busy having chismis with their fellow marites. What’s shown on television are classic biblical epics or The Passion of the Christ — and as a child watching it, you definitely cried. It’s something uniquely ours, rooted in our homes and communities.
Meanwhile, many in the workforce head back to their provinces, enduring long lines in terminals just to spend time with their families. I find myself included — no matter how tiring the wait or how sleep-deprived I am, the long bus ride home is always worth it. Still, let’s not forget the unsung heroes who stay in the city: the vendors who sell ingredients for your binignit, the jeepney drivers who continue to serve commuters and the people trying to get by without a break.
What makes the Cebuano Semana Santa unique?
Beyond the quiet streets, there are specific traditions that define our experience:
The “Secret” Ingredient (Landang): While many Filipinos eat a sweet coconut stew, Cebuano binignit is unique because of landang (palm flour jelly balls from the buri palm), giving it a texture you won’t find anywhere else.
The Meat Exemption of Bantayan: Bantayan Island holds a historical “meat exemption” (Bantayan Indult). Granted by Pope Leo XII in 1824, it allowed locals to eat meat on Good Friday when fish was difficult to source due to fishing restrictions.
Urban Pilgrimage: For those in the city, the “Sacred Pause” involves a physical climb at Celestial Garden, which becomes a major site for the Via Crucis (Way of the Cross).
The “Easter Capital”: In Minglanilla, the Sugat Kabanhawan Festival features “flying angels” (children on wires) who descend to lift the mourning veil of the Virgin Mary.
The Mystical Silence: Between faith and folk belief
The pause isn’t just about prayer — it’s about a deep-seated tinouhan sa mga gulang that the spiritual world shifts while “God is dead.” There is a widespread belief that from 3 p.m. on Good Friday until the Resurrection, divine protection is “on pause.”
The 3 P.M. Rule: Elders warn that bathing or doing laundry after 3 p.m. on Good Friday brings bad luck. Some even say you might turn into a mermaid or merman if you’re in the water when Jesus dies. Many avoid traveling or risky chores to avoid the “quota” of accidents attributed to di ingon nato (unseen beings).
Slow-Healing Wounds: A common warning for children: any wound sustained on Good Friday will supposedly never heal, or will take much longer to close, because the “Healer” is dead.
The Power of the Mananambal: While the church mourns, folk healers are busiest. They perform pangalap in the mountains to gather herbs at peak potency. They prepare lana (medicinal oil), said to react in the presence of an aswang, and use the silence to “recharge” their anting-anting.
What begins as a ghost town in the heart of a busy city transforms into a quiet commitment to faith, quirks and resilience. The exhaustion of the journey is part of the Holy Week experience itself. We endure the heat and the long hours because, for the Cebuano, Semana Santa is more than a religious obligation — it is a homecoming.
It is the aroma of binignit in a steaming bowl, the shared silence of a neighborhood and the collective breath we hold until the Easter bells finally toll. Whether climbing a hill in Banawa or stepping off a bus in our hometown, this “Sacred Pause” reminds us that it’s okay to take a breather before the pulse of the city resumes its relentless rhythm.