Dalugama’s Demons

A dark underbelly of the religious spectacle

In the quaint village of Dalugama, where the sun painted the sky in hues of gold and the air smelled of incense and devotion, young maidens led lives as delicate as the petals of the frangipani flowers that adorned their hair. These girls were more than mere villagers; they were angels of God, their piety woven into the very fabric of their existence.

Every Sunday, they filed into the village church, the cornerstone of the community, their veils casting shadows on the worn wooden pews. Some attended mass daily, their footsteps echoing through the nave like whispered prayers. They were part of the Legion of Mary, their faith unwavering, their hearts pure.

But beneath the serenity of this God-fearing village, a peculiar fever brewed. It was an affliction that targeted only the young maidens, leaving the young men untouched. Unlike the customary rites of passage for the latter — where they could exchange hearty handshakes and knowing glances — the girls were bound by societal norms forbearing even a fleeting gaze at the opposite sex.

The first signs appeared in my friends’ and their cousins’ sisters. Whispers spread like wildfire: a shadowy entity, perhaps a devil, had taken hold of these innocent souls. The villagers, united by faith and fear, gathered around the afflicted homes. Hymns floated on the warm breeze, desperate pleas to the heavens. Meanwhile, the young women writhed and shrieked on the dusty ground, their eyes wide with terror. As rosaries were said and hymns sung, their antics became even more erratic.

The tale spun was that a rogue devil had possessed them, and the only cure lay in a pilgrimage to Kudagama. This faraway village whispered to be blessed with a powerful exorcist priest, became a beacon of hope — a shrine for the suffering. Their parents or guardians took them on a pilgrimage to Kudagama, a village rumoured to have a powerful exorcist priest.

And so, driven by a strange curiosity, I embarked on a bicycle journey with my friends. We pedalled nearly a hundred kilometres, our youthful vigour carrying us forward. Kudagama awaited us, its name echoing like a distant hymn.

But what we found there was unlike any congregation we had ever witnessed. The faithful writhed, their voices echoing with a terrifying frenzy. These young women, possessed or pretending? They revelled in the horrified attention. Their screams became a twisted form of liberation, a rebellion against the constraints that bound them. The devotees around them chanted fervently, their fear a twisted faith. They needed to witness the devil’s power to solidify their belief in God.

Yet, as I stood among the crowd, my unimpressed face hidden behind the folds of my shirt, doubt gnawed at me. Was this not a mockery of the Christianity I knew? Had science and reason been cast aside in this display of mass hysteria? And that errant priest, his eyes gleaming with something otherworldly, toying with faith like a child with a fragile toy — did he truly hold the answers? Was he a sorcerer like those found in the majority community?

Kudagama, once a place of reverence, now bore the stain of vulnerability. These young women, their supposed demonic possession the very lifeblood of this shrine, craved not an exorcism but something more profound. Perhaps it was counselling, a gentle hand to guide them through the labyrinth of their anxieties about not having enough interactions with the opposite sex. Or maybe it was the realisation that faith need not be a battleground where angels and devils fought for supremacy but a sanctuary where souls found solace in their shared humanity.

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