Dancing for a Divine Yes: The Obando Fertility Festival
A joyful ritual where faith, dance, and longing come together in a centuries-old plea for life and love.
It was the only time I saw people shimmy their prayers.
If there’s one thing Filipinos know how to do, it’s mix faith with festivity. We’ll turn a solemn novena into a karaoke session, and a quiet procession into a block party—with reverence, of course. And nowhere is this more beautifully embodied than in the town of Obando, Bulacan, where every May, people gather not just to pray, but to dance their petitions into the heavens.
Welcome to the Obando Fertility Festival—where hope has a beat, faith wears fiesta colors, and devotion might just come with a cha-cha step.
The Saints Who Hear the Hips
Held every May 17–19, the Obando Fertility Rites honor three patron saints:
● San Pascual Baylon – for fertility and happy marriages
● Santa Clara – for good weather and children (yes, the same Santa Clara you offer eggs to before weddings!)
● Nuestra Señora de Salambáo – for abundance and livelihood
People flock to Obando to dance through the streets and inside the church, asking for blessings—most famously, for children. But over the years, the intentions have widened. Some dance for love. Others dance for healing. Some just dance because their nanay told them to and they’re too scared not to. (Honestly? Relatable. Please don’t ask me further questions.)
It’s part pilgrimage, part parade, and 100% Filipino.
Prayers in Motion
Obando’s magic lies in its movement. This isn’t your usual standing-still type of devotion. Here, faith has rhythm. The “Sayaw sa Obando” is a traditional dance that blends ritual and joy, performed in colorful traditional dress with brass bands leading the way. You’ll see couples, single folks, and even entire families dancing with quiet (or not-so-quiet) hope.
There’s something deeply moving about watching people put their whole body into their prayer. It’s vulnerable. It’s joyful. And sometimes, it's hilariously awkward—like when Tito Boy tries to follow the steps but ends up inventing his own entirely.
But no one's judging. That’s the beauty of Obando. You don't have to be graceful—you just have to be grateful.
Meanwhile, Back in Parañaque…
I didn’t grow up dancing for blessings. I grew up kneeling for them.
In our little corner of Parañaque City, May was a month of solemnity. My mother — though a pureblooded Bulaceña, and more devout than all five of us siblings combined — believed in the quiet power of prayer. We didn’t join the big festivals or travel to dance for saints. Instead, we had our own rhythm at home—rosaries every night, Marian songs playing softly on loop, and the kind of reverent stillness that made even whispering feel like a disruption.
I used to imagine what it might be like to join something like Obando. To be part of the music, the movement, the communal joy. But there was also something beautiful about the hush in our home—the unspoken belief that faith didn’t have to be loud to be strong.
Is This... A Meet-Cute Waiting to Happen?
True story: Some people come to Obando not just to pray for love, but to find it. It’s lowkey the most spiritual matchmaking event in Luzon. Imagine: two strangers lock eyes mid-sway during the offertory procession, united by their shared desire for connection and their questionable footwork. Boom—divine rom-com.
Okay, maybe it’s not that cinematic. But there’s a softness here, an openness. When you're vulnerable enough to dance for something you long for, you start to see others differently too. You realize we’re all hoping for something. And that shared yearning? It’s oddly bonding.
Holy Hopes and Happy Feet
I’ve never personally danced at Obando, but I’ve seen people who have. And the stories are enough to give you goosebumps—miracle babies, long-awaited reunions, a bakery owner who danced for customers and got a line down the block the next week. Whether or not you believe in divine choreography, there’s something sacred about joy in motion.
In a world that often tells us to stay still, stay quiet, stay polite—Obando says: move. Move with faith. Move with hope. Move like heaven is watching and rooting for you.
The Faith We Move In
There’s a beautiful humility in dancing your prayers. It’s a way of saying, “I can’t make this happen on my own... but I’ll show up anyway.” And maybe that’s what the saints want to see—not perfection, but participation.
Obando reminds us that sometimes, our deepest desires need to be felt in our bodies before they can rise into the sky. Whether you’re swaying in a church aisle or whispering a novena in your living room, the offering is just as real.
So if you ever find yourself in Bulacan during May, don’t be shy. Step in. Sway a little. Shimmy if you must. Your prayer might be just a beat away.