How do I choose the words for what I witnessed… let me take you on a little journey and perhaps you can choose for yourself.
Being On The Other Side
For 4 months now we have met nearly every week day evening to practice a play. Not just any play, but the story of a humble man, a healer, and a leader of men. And not his life, but his death. A play about the death of a man; not a great plot you may say, but this was no ordinary man and this was no ordinary story.
I cannot stress to you how important this story is to those with faith, and here in a small mountain town in Sicily, it is overwhelming and the amount of time and effort that goes into portraying it, is enormous, and the level of pride to be able to take part, huge. And for me? An English woman who has only been here for 2.5 years – a stranger – it is an honour and a privilege to spend my time amongst the most beautiful people I have ever had the joy to meet.
Last year I was simply an observer, and saw all this through new and naive eyes I guess. As an observer I don’t have to watch and think about how many hours had been spent on the creation of costumes or the props, nor how many hours they had spent going over a particular scene or action or word, and nor did I have to think about planning, the production, or the preparation. All I had to do was watch and enjoy.
This year though, that all changed.
A Stranger In Her Paradise
How did I get to this point? Well I guess it began last year whilst having coffee with a complete stranger… I am trying to learn Italian and what better way to learn than meeting someone for coffee who speaks only Italian… I met the most amazing woman and we managed to find out about each other, and in there was a mutual love of the theatre and she told me about her work in the Pasqua spectacle.
Therefore when it was time I received an invite to come and join rehearsals in January and write a little toward their social media – I was never going to say no to that!
Footnote: I have to thank my Italian teacher here who helped me, not only in translating the words,
but helping me understand Italian colloquialisms, grammar, social etiquette and expressions that
would only be used in Italian and never in English, and vice versa. It has been a huge learning curve, but to her I give my thanks.
What Is It To Be English In A Sicilian Reheasal?
Rule number one…. Never be so English as to turn up early or on time – this is Sicily and things never begin when they say they will begin. If you turn up on time? Well you will just have to wait and enjoy the time and people who are there – wait in the knowledge that at some point everyone will be there and you will begin. There is no rush, so enjoy.
Rule number two…. There isn’t one – this is Sicily.
Palm Sunday Online – Now That Was A First
Well that was a bit different and for many reasons one I wouldn’t choose again but for once I had to love technology. For reasons that do not need to be known here, I was between two flights as the town celebrated Palm Sunday, and was feeling very low that I had missed the beginning and could not be there to support everyone. And then I went on Facebook thinking people would at least put photos on… I was in a different time zone and had completely miscalculated and what I actually got was Palm Sunday Live!
To see on my phone screen the beautiful faces of my friends on a warm sunny day in Cianciana filled my heart with joy. It was just what I needed. I was able to witness the journey of Jesus entering Jerusalem, on the back of a donkey (also a much loved local), see the children running down the main street waving their palm leaves, and the priests alongside the man that most would turn against soon enough.
As last year, some of the towns people were crowding around Jesus as the procession moved
through the narrow streets of Cianciana, some leant over their balconies, some on the roadside and some waiting in the town centre at the foot of the main steps. I watched as the camera panned
across and was able to be part of the priests and their flock singing, praying, celebrating. I cannot
really describe the reverence of this whole event, but the silence from the crowd is palpable as the
priest speaks, only broken by responses to his words. I wish I knew what was being said, but it is beautiful just the same.
I managed to see the whole event before I had to head for my second and final flight home. Thank
you to the people filming, I will be forever grateful for that hour or so. Much needed was the town, the sunshine and its people, but at least I had been able to witness this part of the event and couldn’t wait to be a part of what everyone had been working so hard towards later in the week.
Final Rehearsals Lead To This
Until the acting, the props, the costumes, makeup, lighting and sound all come together, you don’t
really know for sure what it is going to be like. I was in the last few rehearsals and if I hadn’t
experienced these personally in times gone by, I wouldn’t have understood the organised chaos as
people make use of the last few hours of rehearsal to refine their words and actions; but in my heart I knew there was no need to worry as these amazing people had it all in hand.
With hours to go there was a huge push in manpower and effort to create a stage in town; you have to remember that this is a working town and the supermarket still needs its parking spaces and the last bus from Palermo needs to pass
through before we can begin, so this a massive ask of the team constructing the stage and a job well done.
Last year it was the Last Supper that grabbed my heart. Slightly different this year as I was front and centre when Jesus begged to be heard, to be helped and when he was flogged. More of that later as there is no denying that one scene I adored, that was that of Herod and Herodias. It was for me, the first scene that showed the
strength of the women of this story. I will never hear the words “marito mio” and “paura” again without seeing Herodias’ face in front of me. There was a silence, a stillness and venom of the most beautiful and dangerous kind behind those words when spoken, that said more about her role in this time than could ever be written.
What was it that grabbed my heart on this cold April evening though? With the amazing music playing in the background and the stillness of the huge crowds I was transported to a time long forgotten when men of heart were put to death because of fear from those in authority. As I heard “Padre Santo non abbandonarmi, difendimi, proteggimi o Signore. Ascoltami, fame sentire la tua voce… aiutami” (the translation does not give me goosebumps, but for the English readers of this here it is… Holy Father, do not
abandon me, defend me, protect me oh Lord. Listen to me, I am hungry to hear your voice… help me). A man broken, on his knees begging,
desperate, lost and alone. Turned against by all those who knew and loved him, deceived by those who once loved him. Desperate. My heart was squeezed too hard and tears left my eyes.
I had only just gathered myself when we were at the moment of his flogging – those soldiers enjoyed this a little too much! Their imposing size and strength, their laughter at the sight of this man so lost and broken, unable to understand why he had been abandoned by all who loved him, and the strength of the beating so hard that you winced and flinched at each and every blow.
So utterly believable, all the soldiers being immaculately dressed in full Roman attire, drums sounding throughout town, flame lit poles to light their way, spears, leather boots, cloaks and plumes and the standard bearers marching them through – we all knew they were not real but they were so imposing you could feel the effect they had on people as they marched strong and with purpose.
This was no minor re-enactment, this was a fully staged event with lighting rig and sound system that never failed once, providing perfect background music to the action on stage. These were men, women, and children from a small town in Sicily, but oh my they could have been on any stage anywhere in the world, playing to a paying audience.
I have never seen, heard or felt such passion, such commitment, such emotion in a group of players before. No forgotten lines, no hesitancy – this was as real to them (and therefore to me) as the original conversations would have been and that was felt by everyone.
They captured each and every one of the people watching, which I think was the whole town and then some, and we were in it, not simply watching it. We were the crowd that had to witness this barbaric treatment of a young man
whose purpose was to love, to heal and to bring joy and peace to those around him. After the order of his death, they led him away, beaten, I am sure scared, for what was to come even if he was the son of God, and wearing a crown of thorns cutting into his scalp.
The Crucifixion And That Walk…
Oh my, why do I live in a town where it feels like everywhere you go is UP, but at least I didn’t have to do it whilst being beaten or carrying a huge wooden cross…
I think this is one of the most beloved, cruelest and yet most moving part for me. It is hard watching it this year as, to an extent, I know what is coming (whereas last year I didn’t know how they would depict this) and yet it didn’t leave me any less moved at the response of the crowds. I am also chasing for the best photos I can capture without getting in the way of the actors or the crowds. I would rather lose a shot than lose the atmosphere of the event. I like to capture the energy of those in it and watching, so capturing moments and things is as important to me as capturing the action.
The soldiers again marched in from the centre of town, drumming the audience to the square and taking up their places, awaiting the arrival of the man they called the Messiah. He was dragged through the crowd and up onto the stage, swiftly followed by Barabbas, the other prisoner held by Pilate but released in the customary pardon before the feast of Passover.
There was a hushed distress in the crowd, eager to see what was going to happen to this man, no one accepting that they already knew the story so
could let it just happen, this was a crowd in the moment. Barabbas was free, Jesus sentenced to
death and along with two others, was to be crucified.
The two were chained to wooden yokes to be walked through town and beaten (and no these soldiers didn’t hold back) as they went. Jesus picked up his cross and yes it was a heavy one, there was no need for too much acting having to drag this through town, he too was beaten.
Whilst I took photos last year they were for me and I was making memories; this year was different and I was capturing these for everyone
who took me in, welcomed me and allowed me to witness their journey during rehearsals to this moment – these had to be good, I wanted to do
what we saw justice; it was deserved. From the changing room to the final breath I wanted these to capture the beauty, the excitement, the pain and anguish but most of all the talent of absolutely everyone involved and the reaction of the crowds watching. They deserved to know what this means to everyone who had the privilege of watching this spectacle.
I knew this next stop at the centre of town was going to be precious. It is the moment where Jesus falls to his knees under the weight of the cross
and Mary in her black robes comes to him, sobbing, falling to her knees to touch his forehead with hers. This was as real as any mother in distress at having to watch the fate of her child, but she was pulled away by a soldier and Jesus was forced to his feet to make the climb to the place he would be crucified. His final walk.
And what a walk…
Last year I had the joy of walking this walk with the crowd. A nice even pace and able to reach the
top without an oxygen tank on standby (I exaggerate but it is incredibly steep), but this time I was virtually jogging up there to get ahead of the crowd so I could get all the photos of this amazing procession to the crosses above me. I
didn’t realise I had the skill of walking backwards up a hill whilst taking photos!
This walk for the two who are tied to the yokes and Jesus carrying his cross, is exhausting and painful. There is no let up from the soldiers and the beating is real. I think that because they keep this so real, that is why the crowds get so caught up in it. One part of you is fully aware that this is a performance and yet there is something inside that makes you really feel for these three men.
As Jesus falls and drops the cross it made me physically jump and check that he was okay. The heavy breathing from the two at the front is real and painful; full of fear of what is to come just a short walk ahead of them. I cannot even begin to imagine how they must have felt all those years ago, but I certainly saw it in the eyes of these men.
It Always Ends with The Crucifixion… Doesn’t It?
Can you imagine what it must have been like to have been paraded through the streets, have nails
driven through your hands to hold you onto a cross and then be lifted in front of crowd; the fear, the shame, the absolute agony and yet all with the dignity of who you are until the very last second of life. That is what I saw as these three men were raised above my head and not once did I see the men I know, I only ever saw the men they were for that moment in time. Absolutely wonderful.
What I would like you to imagine is this small town in the Sicilian mountains, with ordinary people, but extraordinary talent and vision for a spectacle that reaches into the hearts of those who witness it. I would like you to close your eyes and feel the sun on your back, feel the stillness of the crowd around you, hear the laboured breath of the three men who have been nailed to crosses at the whim of powerful men, and the gentle weeping of those who loved them all. Feel the loss of a mother. Feel the utter disbelief of those who realise who they betrayed, and the dread inside them that what they did was a mistake. Feel how the soldiers felt, some sure that this was the right thing, some not so sure.
But, finally close your eyes and feel the strength of the man who without anger, and with acceptance and a sense of peace and love, went to his death with the cry “Eloi” giving his life, his spirit, to his father in heaven.
His body carefully lifted down and taken away. A mother, distraught, and in disbelief at what has been done, again brought tears to my eyes.
And this is where our particular story ends. Our work is complete and the long hours, hard work, determination and passion for the creation of this, this La Passione Del Figlio Dell’Uomo, has been a huge success and they have done the small and beautiful town of Cianciana proud. It is now time for others to take up their story with the seven stages of the cross and the resurrection, but for this year, our part of the journey is complete.
CLAIRE THOMPSON
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