Among the headhunters
At 15, the boy faced a ritual that could have led to murder. So he ran away
FATHER Alberto looked at me quizzically when he opened his door to my knock but was quick to invite me into his study. We were in a mountain village in Ifugao province on Luzon Island in the Philippines; his presbytery brushed shoulders with the mission church and hospital.
Small, grey-haired, bespectacled and in his 60s, he admitted to having problems communicating with his flock because he did not speak the language, but his curate did. He had a flock of about 10 000 Catholics in the his parish, just under half the total population.
Was it difficult to talk them out of their old customs and beliefs?
“Yes, very much so.” The people were primitive. They had many strange beliefs. He laughed. They were animist, they believed in spirits. “Of course, we should not condemn them for that.”
Were there customs he would like to stop?
At this point the curate, Father Francis, passed the open study door and Alberto beckoned him to come in and be seated.
“They have these sacrifices,” Alberto said, “they kill chickens and animals. It’s difficult to stop.”
Francis, who looked as if he was in his early 20s, pursed his lips, looked past me out the window and spoke. “You must realise these people are tied to the agricultural cycle.” Alberto nodded.
We spoke of various local customs, and then I asked: “Of course headhunting is a thing of the past?”
Alberto laughed. “Ask him, ask him,” he said, motioning to Francis. “He ran away you know, he ran away.” He laughed again.
I turned to Francis, who said enigmatically, “It was the uncle of my cousin.” “He was killed?” I asked. “They were making him sit in the circle,” giggled Alberto.
“He was killed,” Francis said. “So my family had to avenge him. That was the duty of the men.”
A slight hint of annoyance crossed his face as Alberto repeated, “They tried to make him sit in the circle.”
“What age were you?” I asked Francis.
“Fifteen.”
“He was so young it was wrong,” Alberto said. “They make all the men of the family sit in a circle, then they cut the head off a chicken, it jumps around and whoever it stops in front of has to carry out the revenge. He must take the head of the other man.”
Alberto was laughing quietly, apparently enjoying the story. “But he ran away.”
“My two brothers were in the circle,” Francis said quietly.
“Has the revenge been carried out on the man who killed your relation?” I asked.
“He is in jail,” replied Francis. But this did not matter — the family still had to take revenge.
“The revenge will happen,” he said. “There will be a head for a head.”
Francis nodded quietly and left the room to greet a visitor.
“He ran away to a convent that time,” Alberto said.
“Our hope is with the young people, they’re not the same as the old ones. They don’t obey their elders any longer, they go away to the lowlands — some of them come back but they don’t want the old ways.
“No, they don’t obey their elders now,” Alberto said, leaning forward on his book-strewn desk. I wasn’t sure if he took this disobedience as a good or a bad omen. — © Donal Conlon
They cut the head off a chicken, whoever it stops in front of has to carry out the revenge