By Scarlett Rawbone
If you visit Seville in April, you will likely run into one of its two main cultural events — Semana Santa and the Feria of Abril. Proven by the extortionately expensive Ryanair flight prices and the frequency of Italian voices heard on the streets, it is a very popular month. From overhearing the excited talk of the girls in my office, I am confident the people of Seville love April too. They told me that a Sevillano is either one of two things: a Semana Santa devotee or a Feria obsessed fanatic. Whilst I could be blinded by my year abroad bliss, the sun and my limitless access to churros and three-euro wine, one thing that is certain is that I am truly in awe of the Easter week I have just experienced.
After scorching sun and 30 degree heat, it is now raining here again in Seville. Quite frankly I think the city was fed up with the amount of people on the streets. Nonetheless, the normal sounds of tour groups, that one annoying street musician and clacking of horse-drawn carriages have returned. The city is alive again. Last week it was apparently not, it being a bizarre pause to normal life. My memory of Semana Santa seems to have washed away too with the rain. In this case, however, it is more likely from my lack of sleep after a week of cervezas and trasnochecer (the Spanish word for staying up late or, rather, into the early morning).
For those unfamiliar, Easter Holy Week is celebrated in Spain in a very unique and beautiful way. Whilst it is not distinct to Seville, the celebration held in Andalusia has a reputation for being the most, I would say, dramatic. Beginning on Palm Sunday, with the pinnacle on the evening of Holy Thursday, every day, long processions curve through the city winding through different streets. Both tiny alleyways and the main bridges are bombarded by crowds of well-dress Spaniards and their small portable camping seats.
The Nazarenos walking, followed by the Paso of the Virgin Mary.
Each procession is organised by a different, very traditional and historic Brotherhood of the city. It is important to note that they are not members of a certain terrorist organisation which the Americans on TikTok claim to have seen in Spain; the hooded figures are actually the ‘Nazarenos’. Impressive in number, they walk with candles which drop wax across the city, and many do so barefoot. Following this, the main event of the parade are the two floats (the pasos) of Christ and the Virgin Mary, for which the people of Seville patiently wait on the streets to see.
My first venture into the city was Tuesday morning, arguably late to the occasion. I was lucky enough to have my British friends visiting me for the week. We put on our suncream, grabbed the Semana Santa guidebook/timetable and bocadillo and headed out into the swarms of people. Activity of the day: stand waiting for the appearance of the mythical float my book said should be passing at exactly 14:32. As it passed us half an hour later, in very typically late Spanish style, we were delighted when it stopped right in front of us. It was a large silver structure, decorated with embroidered side hangings, lit candles, flowers and a radiant statue of the Virgin Mary. From underneath came 15 or so men, ‘the Costaleros’, sweating but in high spirits. Frankly, I had been expecting some kind of wheels situation. Instead, at special points during the parades, the band stops playing their soulful music (yes, there is a band), the float is lowered down, and the men rush out from under, and everyone applauds. Why anyone would choose this role over the ominous hooded candle holder I do not know. On many of the men you can even see large, red, bleeding marks along their upper shoulders from carrying the heavy float.
I closely avoided getting burnt by swinging wax three times, was gifted sweets by the Nazareno children, and accidently fell into an ice cream shop
By the end of the day, I was as equally exhausted as the Costaleros. Running around the city we had managed to see four floats and three very entangled processions. I closely avoided getting burnt by swinging wax three times, was gifted sweets by the Nazareno children, and accidently fell into an ice cream shop. As we were leaving for the day, we kept getting trapped by multiple dead ends, that being the barriered VIP areas which we were not allowed to enter. Turns out, even watching a parade can be commodified in 2026. My main take-away of the day: it is hard to blend in wearing a red summer dress in a week of mourning and black long sleeve formal wear (maybe this is why we were not let in.) If I return next year, I will be sure to avoid this same wardrobe embarrassment. Whilst writing this and looking back at my photos, I am still as confused as to how Spaniards can go into the 30 degrees of heat dressing in the same layers I did back in Durham?
A child in the parade handing out sweets.
On Wednesday, for our second attempt to witness the float of a different Brotherhood, I was determined to assimilate with the locals and rid myself of my touristic demeanour. I put on my all-black outfit and ditched the guidebook too. The best way to follow the pasos is on a downloadable app, something I am sure those attending in the 14th Century would have loved. After having so much time to observe people on Tuesday, I had also caught on to the city-wide memo that our time passing activity was to be deshelling sunflower seeds known as pipas and throwing, or spitting, the shell on the floor. Unfortunately, I was left very hungry by this unsustainable Spanish diet and went in search of the famous torrija, the traditional Spanish Easter dessert. Whilst it did not quite beat a Cadburys egg, I was pleasantly surprised by the alcoholic twist. Although Google will tell you it is simply French toast, my grandma would not be very impressed with me bringing this wine-soaked bread to our brunch.
Torrijas, a traditional Easter dessert, in a Spanish bakery.
Last week, Rosa G. Perea apologised on behalf of the Semana-Santa loving Sevillanos in the newspaper Andalucia Información: ‘Perdona si soy intensa’. Is the experience the way it is because the Sevillanos make it so? For Rosa, “before all else, there is emotion”. For the many costaleros responsible for carrying the floats of the Virgin and Christ it was definitely an emotionally and physically heavy week. The men were chosen for their strength and devotion and train all year to be able to hold the paso for such a sustained period of time. My heart equally went out to the girlfriends religiously following along to deliver sandwiches and water mid-route to their Nazareno boyfriends.
These little human nuances were what touched me. I witnessed many people crying when the float passed them, especially during the Madrugada, the night on Holy Thursday. I went by myself to the parade that night. A Sevillian couple stood next to me on this small doorstep ledge, good enough to be able to see over the crowd. The wife was eating pipas whilst the husband watched another paso on YouTube whilst we waited for the Christ to arrive. Whilst neither of us exchanged or talked much that night, I am certain we felt the same anticipation and spirit as the band came round the corner and people started shushing.
The best way to follow the pasos is on a downloadable app, something I am sure those attending in the 14th Century would have loved
At the start of the week, I was already hooked by the excuse for sweet Easter treats and, may I add, the very well-dressed Sevillanos in suits. (The viral TikTok of the ‘guapisimo’ Cofrade member tells me this wasn’t only me.) However, truth be told, I now find myself engrossed by the religious intensity of the South of Spain and the people’s devotion to their culture and city. Walk past any shop in Seville and there are pictures of the Virgin, pasos and some kind of Semana Santa paraphernalia. Visit any flat in Triana, my neighbourhood, and there will be a Virgin hanging in the living room.
A window of a restaurant in Cadiz decorated with pictures of the Virgin Mary.
After the first parade, my English friends and I were very quick to comment on the unlikeliness of this being carried out back home. Not because England is less religious, I just don’t think any Brit would even wait that long to see the King come past. Going to Church on Easter is one thing, being a part of Semana Santa in Seville is something else entirely. As I conclude, I remain unsure if this week has made me more religious. But, if an addiction to deshelling sunflower seeds and listening to the band marches on Spotify counts, I am definitely in camp Semana Santa.
Image credits: Scarlett Rawbone
