Pope Francis: A beloved father figure to Gaza and Argentina’s forgotten corners

In the last 18 months of his life, Pope Francis had a frequent evening ritual: he would call the lone Catholic church in the Gaza Strip to see how people huddled inside were coping with a devastating war.

That small act of compassion made a big impression on Gaza's tiny Christian community and was why he was remembered at his death on Monday, 21 April, as a beloved father figure in the beleaguered territory.

Since the war began on 7 October 2023, Pope Francis had been calling the Holy Family Catholic Parish — the only Catholic church in Gaza — every evening. More than 600 people, including Christians and Muslims, were sheltering there. The calls were short but heartfelt. The children in the church called him “the grandfather.” For the church members, his calls offered spiritual comfort during the darkest hours.

“He always ended his calls by asking me to pray for him,” said Father Gabriel Romanelli, the parish priest. “Even amidst everything, he gave us his time. That gave us strength.” The Pope would often ask about the children, the elderly, and whether there was enough food and medicine. On several occasions, he sent aid, including medicine and food parcels, through the church in Jerusalem.

Despite his global role and the burdens of illness and age, Pope Francis showed consistent concern for Gaza’s Christians, who number fewer than 1,000. His care was not merely symbolic. When two Christian women were killed in the church compound in December, allegedly by Israeli snipers, the Pope condemned the act publicly, calling it “terrorism.”

His repeated appeals for a ceasefire, humanitarian access, and the protection of civilians often referenced Gaza’s suffering. Yet it was his daily acts—those evening phone calls—that truly connected him to the people. “We felt we were not alone,” said Mariam, a young woman sheltering in the church. “He made us feel seen.”

Far from Gaza, back in his homeland of Argentina, the faithful lit candles in the church where he found God as a teenager, packed the cathedral where he spoke as archbishop, and prayed in the neighbourhoods where he earned fame as the “slum bishop.”

For millions of Argentines, Francis — who died Monday at 88 — was both a source of controversy and a spiritual north star whose remarkable life traced their country’s turbulent history. While conservative critics viewed his commitment to social justice as too aligned with leftist figures, his followers embraced his message of inclusion and humility.

He maintained warm relations with former President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, a divisive populist figure, which critics contrasted sharply with his cool demeanour towards centre-right President Mauricio Macri, as seen in a famously stern photograph from 2016.

“Like every Argentine, I think he was a rebel,” said 23-year-old Catalina Favaro. “He may have been contradictory, but that was nice, too.”

At the regular 8:30 a.m. Mass, Buenos Aires Archbishop Jorge Ignacio García Cuerva remembered the pontiff as “the pope of the poor, of the marginalised, of those excluded.” He added, “He was also our Pope, of the Argentines, whom we didn’t always understand, but whom we loved.”

Francis never returned to Argentina after becoming pope in 2013—a decision widely viewed as a rejection of the country’s polarised politics.

Tensions spiked under libertarian President Javier Milei, who once derided Francis as a “filthy leftist” and “the representative of the evil one on earth.” Though the two appeared to reconcile during a meeting in Rome last year, Francis later broke protocol to criticise Milei’s austerity measures, remarking, “Instead of paying for social justice, they paid for pepper spray.”

In his tribute, Milei acknowledged their past friction but added, “Despite differences that seem minor today, having been able to know him in his kindness and wisdom was a true honour for me.”

In the Flores district where Jorge Mario Bergoglio was born to an Italian immigrant father and a mother of Italian descent, locals gathered in the Basilica of San Jose de Flores — the church where, at age 16, he first felt called to the priesthood.

“He was a father to us in Flores,” said Gabriela Lucero, 66. “His primary philosophy was that those church doors remain open to everyone—immigrants, the poor, the struggling.”

At the downtown cathedral where he served as archbishop from 1998, worshippers laid flowers and rosaries, some affixing stickers of his beloved San Lorenzo football club to marble columns. In the slums where he once walked barefoot through streets littered with garbage and choked by sewage, the grief was tangible.

In Villa 21-24, one of Buenos Aires' poorest districts, residents remembered how Bergoglio regularly visited to comfort addicts, lead religious processions, and help turn a makeshift chapel into a vibrant community hub with a garden.

“He was the most humble person in all of Buenos Aires,” said 57-year-old Sara Benitez Fernandez. “We'll never see a pope like him again. I have no words—it hurts so much.”

The neighbourhood’s priest, the Rev. Lorenzo “Padre Toto” de Vedia, said the loss was painful, but the mission remained: “We’re not losing the spirit,” he said. “We carry on and fulfil his legacy.”

From Gaza to the barrios of Buenos Aires, Pope Francis leaves behind more than just a papal legacy. He leaves memories of nightly phone calls, subway rides, barefoot processions, and open church doors—acts of empathy that defined his life, and now, his remembrance.

With PTI Inputs