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EUROPE | GUARDIA SANFRAMONDI JOURNAL

Religious
Rite
Takes
Hamlet
Back
in
Time
Every
Seven
 Years
Photographs by DMITRY KOSTYUKOV Text by GAIA PIANIGIANI SEPT. 10, 2017

GUARDIA SANFRAMONDI, Italy Centuries ago, legend has it, a farmer

discovered a wooden Madonna statue in a field in the emerald hills northeast of
Naples. After locals fought to keep the statue, they honored it with rituals. Some
500 years later, those rituals continue.

The rites in the hamlet of Guardia Sanframondi were originally designed to

seek the pardon of the Madonna dellAssunta or her divine intervention against
famine and scarce harvest.

They are now held every seven years, in a week of atonement and costumed
parades that re-enact biblical parables. Even residents who have emigrated abroad
return for the ceremonies and strut through the cobblestone streets.

The tradition has been handed down through the generations, and is a
moment that publicly marks the ticking of time in the village of 5,000. Refusing to
take part is a dishonor for some.

The seven days culminate with a Sunday procession, which includes hundreds
of self-flagellating, hooded penitents.

Six-month-old babies are carried in their parents arms, to whiten the soul, as a
7-year-old put it. Villagers who now play the older characters in some of the 120
different scenes were the youngest actors decades ago, as was this bearded
Abraham offering his son Isaac in sacrifice..

Four local districts prepare for almost a year in advance. They make elaborate
costumes or rent them from Romes Cinecitt movie studios, and select the
residents who will act in each of the live scenes.

Little girls are likely to be angels with feathered wings, while their older, curly-
haired sisters are apt to impersonate ancient Roman beauties.

Villagers wake up at dawn to dress up, put on makeup and then gather in the
narrow streets around their church, awaiting an order to march, each in their
position.

Sunday is the most important, and longest day, in the rites. The day before, secular
and religious authorities open the golden, shell-shaped niche where the Madonna
normally rests, dominating the altar of the sanctuary in the towns main square.

This year, as the niche was opened, the faithful, crammed in the churchs nave,
released the tension in tears. Old women in black knelt down in prayer. Younger
faithful raised their hands over the crowd to applaud the Madonna.

On Sunday afternoon, the Madonna was returned to its niche inside the
church, watched by residents and curious tourists. At the windows overlooking the
square, some older villagers wondered whether they would live long enough to see
her again in another seven years, and dried their eyes with white handkerchiefs.

Germana Falato, a 21-year-old aspiring athlete, dressed up like the Madonna. In a

garage adapted to serve as a dressing room, women helped her with the finishing
touches, fixing the veil and adjusting her crown. The intent is to fully embody the
character, not only in form, but also in manner.

The seven-hour procession under a scorching August sun, through narrow

medieval streets built when only horses and people needed them, is itself an act of
sacrifice. It is also a matter of endurance.

This year, some walked backward for the entire day. Others shuttled sideways,
pretending to protect themselves from the devil.

Toward the end, many of the child angels were pushed in strollers or carried
by their parents. By the final uphill stretch, even a bearded Jesus was perched in a
doorway, while others sat to rest.

The battenti penitents who flagellate themselves with nails wear white
robes, disguising their identities, in what is said to be intimate repentance.

They traditionally get dressed in private homes purposely left empty so they
can keep their identities secret, though community members can easily divine who
is hiding under the hoods.
Some of the penitents flagellated themselves while walking for hours, beseeching
the Madonna to heal them or to cure their sick children.

Others held a wood cross in one hand and used the other hand to jab a
rounded cork with dozens of nails into their chests repeatedly, in a gesture of
physical atonement.

Some struck themselves so hard that blood squirted in the air, causing visitors
to cover their faces and lower their gaze.

Assistants strolled through the procession pouring white wine onto a cork that was
used to disinfect penitents wounds and numb their punctured skin. The air filled
with the acrid smell of blood and tart wine. By the end of the march, white robes
were stained with dry blood.

The procession attracts buses with thousands of visitors from neighboring

towns who line the streets as spectators.

Older residents or those who have not been chosen to play a character also
make themselves comfortable along the streets, with chairs and umbrellas to
tolerate the sun and the many hours of waiting.

Carrying the Madonna in her final stretch before she is returned to the church is a
coveted task. Often the penitents wash up and hastily change back into plain
clothes to be able to do it.

The Madonna is carried like a queen, specially adorned with jewels, watches
and pearl necklaces donated by the faithful and stored in a bank vault. Everyone
wants to touch her.

People lightly pulled her long brocade mantle. A father lifted his little daughter
so that she, too, could caress the Madonnas garment.

Such rituals were once common across Europe in the 15th century. They have
remained almost unchanged in Guardia Sanframondi. Every seven years, time
stops again, and the Madonna, though undoubtedly a religious icon, also becomes
a member of the community.
 Correction: September 13, 2017
The Guardia Sanframondi Journal article on Monday about a parade in which residents
of the Italian town re-enact Bible stories described one of the scenes incorrectly. A
villager portrayed the biblical patriarch Abraham as he offered his son Isaac in sacrifice;
he did not portray Samuel anointing David as king of Israel. The error was repeated in a
picture caption.
A version of this article appears in print on September 11, 2017, on Page A6 of the New York edition with the
headline: Time Stops in an Italian Village to Honor the Madonna.

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