Every Good Friday in Gasan, Marinduque, the streets fill with familiar images of sacrifice: barefoot devotees, candles flickering against the dusk, and prayers rising from the crowd. But hidden beneath black veils and crowns of fresh leaves are stories that often go untold.
They are the women of the pupuwa.
While men in Marinduque are often recognized for the dramatic antipo or Morionan rituals during Holy Week, the women’s act of devotion is quieter, more intimate, and perhaps even more powerful. Covered completely in black gowns and veils, with dome-shaped crowns made of fresh pupuwa leaves, these women surrender their identities as they walk barefoot through the streets of Gasan.
No one knows who is beneath the veil.
And that is precisely the point.
For the women who join the ritual, pupuwa is not about being seen. It is about letting go of pride, appearance, and even the self. Hidden from view, they become equal in suffering and prayer.
Long before the solemn procession begins, the penitents gather at St. Joseph Parish on Good Friday morning to register. By afternoon, they attend the sermons on the Seven Last Words, receive Holy Communion, kiss the Holy Cross, and take part in a recollection led by the Church.
The recollection reminds them that pupuwa is not simply a tradition to be performed. It is an offering.
Some join to ask for healing. Others pray for forgiveness, guidance, or the recovery of a loved one. Many women carry silent burdens beneath their veils—family problems, illness, grief, heartbreak, or years of unanswered prayers.
Some carry an actual wooden cross during the procession.
For them, the extra weight becomes a prayer in itself.
As the procession moves through the streets of Gasan around dusk, the women walk behind religious images owned by local families. They pray the fifteen mysteries of the rosary while holding candles, their bare feet touching the hot pavement and rough roads.
The black gown and veil symbolize death. For many participants, wearing them is a reminder that life is temporary and that suffering is part of being human. To wear the pupuwa is to confront one’s own mortality.
Yet hidden inside the ritual is another symbol of life.
The pupuwa leaves used for the crown are not ordinary leaves. In Marinduque, they are known as a healing plant. Locals boil the leaves for women who have recently given birth, believing that the herbal bath restores their strength.
That makes the pupuwa crown more than a disguise.
It becomes a symbol of both suffering and healing.
At the end of the procession, the women return to the church and approach the altar on their knees. Some move quickly down the aisle before lying face down in prayer. Others are overcome with emotion and cry silently before the altar.
Only after offering their final prayers do they remove their crowns.
Older devotees throw the leafy crowns into the nearby cemetery, saying this act symbolizes burying their pain. Younger participants may simply leave the crowns beside the church.
Either way, the meaning remains the same: they are leaving something behind.
For more than a century, pupuwa has remained part of Gasan’s identity. It is practiced not only by Catholics but also by members of the Philippine Independent Church or Aglipay Church, showing how deeply rooted it is in the culture of the town.
In a world where many traditions fade with time, pupuwa continues because it speaks to something universal.
Everyone carries pain.
Everyone hopes for healing.
And every Good Friday in Gasan, the women beneath the veils remind the community that even hidden sorrow deserves to be seen by God.
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