I Kissed Pope John Paul II
THE shrill sound of a siren cuts through the still air. The previously calm and serene crowd of over half a million people, from all over the world is thrown into a state of intense excitement, and I am one of them.
By Oscar Bamuhigire
THE shrill sound of a siren cuts through the still air. The previously calm and serene crowd of over half a million people, from all over the world is thrown into a state of intense excitement, and I am one of them.
The siren signals the arrival of Pope John Paul II, the man we have all been waiting for. People from all over the world travel to Rome, every week, just to have a glimpse of the Pope on Wednesday mornings and that is all most of them ever get – a glimpse.
I, a non-clergy, and the only African in the crowd, I am destined to shake the Pope’s hand, kiss it, and stare him in the eye. That is what I am thinking about as I sit a few meters away from one of the greatest men in the world.
“Papa, Papa, Papa!†everyone screams in unison, the majority breaking down into tears out of excitement as the Pope arrives. An Italian couple seated in front of me, in their late sixties, and obviously wealthy, break down as well. The Pope is approaching us, in an open Jeep.
He takes his seat trembling from illness. He is very frail. He reads out a speech in many language and I am left confused. Only twenty of us are destined are destined to meet the people. The entire of St Peter’s Square is dotted with tough security men, clergymen and powerful cameras.
As people walk over, tremblingly, to greet the Pope, I shiver as my turn nears. How am I supposed to feel? I ask myself in confusion. Will this occasion transform me?
Before I can come to any logical conclusion right there, in front me is the Pope! I listen to him mumbling words in Latin, as he blesses me. I kneel down, smile and kiss his hand, after shaking it. Then I feel like embracing him, but I cannot.
The others had trembled so violently in his presence, that no one had dared stare him in the eye.
I have to stare him in the eye, to establish some kind of spiritual contact. So I do. One eye of his seems to be non- functional. He stares at me through the other, and then quickly looks away. I keep staring at him, transfixed. He appears to be afraid.
He’s eye darts back and forth, six times, in a space of several micro-seconds. Finally, his gaze, calm and controlled, settles curiously, on me. I feel relieved.
The burly clergyman next to me, rests his hands on my elbow, and prods me to move on. My time is up.
I leave exhilarated. Since that great experience to now, I have been extremely calm, except for the occasional strange dreams.
So, how did I come to meet the Pope? Why, of all the doctors psychiatrists, and professors, at the international conference I had gone to attend in Rome, was I selected to greet the Pope? I, with no degree. I, who hardly ever darkens the doors of a church. I, who once dwelled in police cells, during my alcoholic days. Why me?
I have not been able to answer that question yet. But it all began with a phone call from Fr. Jim Egan, who informed me that I had been selected to represent Africa at an international symposium on addiction, organised by the Pontifical Council and the Italian Federation Of Therapeutic Communities.
I was called to the office of Pierre Christophe, the Apostolic Nuncio and Pope’s representative in Uganda. Then, I wound up in Rome, where I attended the conference. I sat down to dinner one night with the rest.
There was a casual looking man at the table, who was introduced to me as Fr. Don Franco. I assumed he was an ordinary, kind-hearted priest. We spoke a lot about addiction as a group and then, for no apparent reason, Fr. Don Franco asked me the question: would you like to greet the Pope?
I thought he was joking, but I replied in the affirmative. He thought about it for a while, and then asked, “Are you a Catholic?†I replied in the affirmative and quickly threw in my mother’s position as treasurer of the Nsambya Parish Church, onto the table, for good measure.
Satisfied, he agreed to take me to the Pope. That is how I got to meet him.
When I returned to Uganda, I wrote to Rome inquiring about Fr. Don Franco. The reply almost choked me: The president of the Italian Federation Of Therapeutic Communities. I had rubbed shoulders with yet another important man, without even knowing it.
I have always had this kind of luck.
In New York, by accident, I bumped into the Chief of Police of Pleasantville, who gave me a guided tour of the Police headquarters and armoury. In New York, still, I met the Governor of the Rotary Club. Of all the dignitaries I have met in my life however, the Pope tops my list.
THE shrill sound of a siren cuts through the still air. The previously calm and serene crowd of over half a million people, from all over the world is thrown into a state of intense excitement, and I am one of them.
The siren signals the arrival of Pope John Paul II, the man we have all been waiting for. People from all over the world travel to Rome, every week, just to have a glimpse of the Pope on Wednesday mornings and that is all most of them ever get – a glimpse.
I, a non-clergy, and the only African in the crowd, I am destined to shake the Pope’s hand, kiss it, and stare him in the eye. That is what I am thinking about as I sit a few meters away from one of the greatest men in the world.
“Papa, Papa, Papa!†everyone screams in unison, the majority breaking down into tears out of excitement as the Pope arrives. An Italian couple seated in front of me, in their late sixties, and obviously wealthy, break down as well. The Pope is approaching us, in an open Jeep.
He takes his seat trembling from illness. He is very frail. He reads out a speech in many language and I am left confused. Only twenty of us are destined are destined to meet the people. The entire of St Peter’s Square is dotted with tough security men, clergymen and powerful cameras.
As people walk over, tremblingly, to greet the Pope, I shiver as my turn nears. How am I supposed to feel? I ask myself in confusion. Will this occasion transform me?
Before I can come to any logical conclusion right there, in front me is the Pope! I listen to him mumbling words in Latin, as he blesses me. I kneel down, smile and kiss his hand, after shaking it. Then I feel like embracing him, but I cannot.
The others had trembled so violently in his presence, that no one had dared stare him in the eye.
I have to stare him in the eye, to establish some kind of spiritual contact. So I do. One eye of his seems to be non- functional. He stares at me through the other, and then quickly looks away. I keep staring at him, transfixed. He appears to be afraid.
He’s eye darts back and forth, six times, in a space of several micro-seconds. Finally, his gaze, calm and controlled, settles curiously, on me. I feel relieved.
The burly clergyman next to me, rests his hands on my elbow, and prods me to move on. My time is up.
I leave exhilarated. Since that great experience to now, I have been extremely calm, except for the occasional strange dreams.
So, how did I come to meet the Pope? Why, of all the doctors psychiatrists, and professors, at the international conference I had gone to attend in Rome, was I selected to greet the Pope? I, with no degree. I, who hardly ever darkens the doors of a church. I, who once dwelled in police cells, during my alcoholic days. Why me?
I have not been able to answer that question yet. But it all began with a phone call from Fr. Jim Egan, who informed me that I had been selected to represent Africa at an international symposium on addiction, organised by the Pontifical Council and the Italian Federation Of Therapeutic Communities.
I was called to the office of Pierre Christophe, the Apostolic Nuncio and Pope’s representative in Uganda. Then, I wound up in Rome, where I attended the conference. I sat down to dinner one night with the rest.
There was a casual looking man at the table, who was introduced to me as Fr. Don Franco. I assumed he was an ordinary, kind-hearted priest. We spoke a lot about addiction as a group and then, for no apparent reason, Fr. Don Franco asked me the question: would you like to greet the Pope?
I thought he was joking, but I replied in the affirmative. He thought about it for a while, and then asked, “Are you a Catholic?†I replied in the affirmative and quickly threw in my mother’s position as treasurer of the Nsambya Parish Church, onto the table, for good measure.
Satisfied, he agreed to take me to the Pope. That is how I got to meet him.
When I returned to Uganda, I wrote to Rome inquiring about Fr. Don Franco. The reply almost choked me: The president of the Italian Federation Of Therapeutic Communities. I had rubbed shoulders with yet another important man, without even knowing it.
I have always had this kind of luck.
In New York, by accident, I bumped into the Chief of Police of Pleasantville, who gave me a guided tour of the Police headquarters and armoury. In New York, still, I met the Governor of the Rotary Club. Of all the dignitaries I have met in my life however, the Pope tops my list.