“Beati pacifici, quoniam filii Dei vocabuntur.”

Some leaders change policies and a few change hearts. Rarely does one change both and leave behind a legacy that, even in death, challenges us to think: Have we done enough to carry the torch forward?

Pope Francis was such a man.

Throughout his life, he defied expectations: a Pope who refused palaces, who chose simplicity over grandeur, who brought the Church back, time and again, to its fundamental values — mercy, justice, humility. His papacy was not about the preservation of appearances but about engaging with a wounded, complicated, often broken world.

Perhaps no episode captures this better than his historic visit to Iraq in March 2021.

It was a visit that many advised against. It was risky, both physically and symbolically. Mosul — my city — was, at the time, still emerging from the devastation wrought by ISIS. Many of its churches were in ruins; its people were exhausted; hope itself felt fragile. It would have been easier, even understandable, for the world’s leaders to overlook Mosul — to categorize it as another tragedy too complicated to heal.

But Pope Francis did not overlook Mosul.

He walked through its shattered streets. He stood in the Hosh al-Bieaa, surrounded by the broken skeletons of churches once vibrant with life and prayer. And he prayed, not in grandiosity, but in sorrow and solidarity. He honored the memory of Christians, Muslims, Yazidis, and others who had perished, affirming — to a global audience — that Mosul was not a footnote in history. It was a beating heart in the story of human resilience.

His message was simple but radical: hope is stronger than hatred.

And then, there was an even more personal moment, one that revealed the true depth of his character.

In October 2021, months after his visit to Iraq, I was in Rome. Unexpectedly, I received a missed call from an unknown number. Moments later, the same number called again. I missed it again, not suspecting anything unusual. Then an email arrived—humble, direct, human. And then, incredibly, a voice message.

The Pope himself was reaching out to me.

Not through assistants. Not through formal channels. Directly. Persistently.

When I finally responded, he invited me to meet him at his residence, Casa Santa Marta—the modest guesthouse where he chose to live rather than move into the grand Apostolic Palace. There was no protocol, no lavish ceremony, no layers of formality—just a simple, profound encounter between two people who shared a love for a city wounded but not defeated.

What struck me most was not the fact that he was the Pope, the leader of 1.3 billion Catholics.

It was his humility.

He listened—truly listened—with attention and compassion rarely found among the powerful. He asked about Mosul not as a distant observer but as someone emotionally invested in its future. There was no sense of hierarchy between us. He was not showing empathy for the audience. He was living it.

In that meeting, I understood something essential about Pope Francis: for him, the marginalized, the forgotten, the wounded — they were not abstractions. They were the center of his mission.

When he visited Mosul, he brought with him not just global attention but a profound moral statement: that even the most devastated places deserve to be seen, heard, loved, and rebuilt. That faith must walk alongside suffering, not above it.

Skeptics will ask, and rightly so: Was one visit enough? Did it change realities on the ground? Did it rebuild homes, restore jobs, and end displacement?

The honest answer is no — not immediately.

Pope Francis was not naïve. He knew the deep wounds of Iraq could not be healed by a single prayer or a symbolic moment. But he understood something more profound: that healing begins when people believe they are not alone in their suffering. His visit, prayers, and presence planted seeds — seeds of hope and dignity — that continue to grow.

Today, after his passing, we are left with his example and a heavy responsibility.

He showed the path, but he did not complete the journey. That task remains ours.

In the ruins of Mosul, amidst the songs of rebuilding and the echoes of pain, the memory of Pope Francis stands as a quiet but unyielding reminder that humanity is not measured by how high we build walls or how loudly we proclaim victories, but by how deeply we accompany each other through suffering, and how courageously we rebuild trust after devastation.

For Mosul, Iraq, and a wounded world desperately in need of moral courage, Pope Francis was—and will remain—a light that reached even the darkest places.

May his memory be a blessing — and a challenge.

Papa Franciscus, servus servorum Dei, in pace Christi obdormivit.

Vatican City, Saint Peter’s Basilica
April 25, 2025

— Omar Mohammed

Mosul Eye