Pope Francis, the 266th Pope of the Roman Catholic Church and the first Jesuit and Latin American Pontiff, passed away on Monday, April 21, 2025, at the age of 88. The Vatican announced his death in an official statement early this morning, stating that he died peacefully at the Vatican’s Mater Ecclesiae Monastery, where he had been living due to ongoing health issues.

The cause of death has been attributed to complications arising from his chronic respiratory illness and age-related health deterioration. Pope Francis, born Jorge Mario Bergoglio in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1936, had been battling a range of health concerns over recent years, including knee problems and colon surgery in 2021, which had limited his mobility and public appearances.

“With profound sorrow, we announce the passing of His Holiness Pope Francis, a shepherd of compassion, humility, and unyielding commitment to the poor and the marginalized. His legacy will continue to inspire millions across the globe.” Elected in March 2013 following the historic resignation of Pope Benedict XVI, Pope Francis brought a new tone to the papacy. Known for his humility and informal style, he eschewed many traditional papal luxuries, choosing to live in a guesthouse rather than the Apostolic Palace and often traveling in a modest Fiat rather than a luxury vehicle.

His papacy was marked by efforts to modernize the Church’s image and make it more inclusive. He took unprecedented steps toward addressing sexual abuse scandals, although critics argue more structural reform was needed. He also spoke out strongly on climate change, social justice, economic inequality, and migration issues.

Perhaps his most enduring legacy will be his attempts to open the Church’s doors to previously marginalized groups, famously saying, “Who am I to judge?” in reference to gay Catholics. He also sought interfaith dialogue, visiting Muslim-majority countries and fostering relations with Judaism, Islam, and other faiths.

World leaders, religious figures, and millions of Catholics across the world have expressed deep sadness at his passing. U.S. President Kamala Harris issued a statement saying, “Pope Francis was a beacon of hope and humanity. He brought moral clarity to complex issues and reminded us all of the power of compassion.”

German Chancellor Annalena Baerbock, Brazilian President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, and UN Secretary-General António Guterres all offered tributes, highlighting his diplomatic efforts and moral leadership. The bells of St. Peter’s Basilica tolled mournfully today as thousands gathered in Vatican City, laying flowers, lighting candles, and offering prayers. Cardinal Jean-Louis Tagle of the Philippines, seen as one of Francis’s closest allies, said in a press conference, *l“He showed us what it means to be Christ-like in the modern world—humble, courageous, and full of love.”

With the Pope’s death, the papal seat—known as the “Holy See”—is now officially vacant, a state referred to as sede vacante (Latin for “the seat being vacant”). The Vatican has lowered all its flags to half-mast and will observe a traditional nine-day mourning period known as the Novemdiales, during which daily masses will be held in his honor.

The Dean of the College of Cardinals, currently Cardinal Giovanni Battista Re, will soon call for a conclave—a secretive gathering of cardinals under the age of 80—who will convene in the Sistine Chapel to elect a new Pope. This process, shrouded in centuries-old ritual and secrecy, could take days or even weeks depending on consensus.

Until a new Pope is elected, the Camerlengo, currently Cardinal Kevin Farrell, will administer the Vatican’s day-to-day affairs. Observers are already speculating on who might succeed Pope Francis. Potential candidates include Cardinal Tagle of the Philippines, Cardinal Péter Erdő of Hungary, and Cardinal Matteo Zuppi of Italy. The next Pope will inherit not only a deeply spiritual office but also a Church wrestling with issues of relevance, reform, and unity in an increasingly secular and polarized world.

Pope Francis leaves behind a complex yet compelling legacy. He was a man of paradoxes—traditional in doctrine yet progressive in tone, humble in demeanor yet commanding global attention. Under his leadership, the Catholic Church became more visibly engaged in global discourse on climate, migration, and poverty, even as it grappled with internal crises.

Though some conservatives within the Church viewed his reforms as too progressive, others saw them as essential steps toward making the Church more relevant in the 21st century. His writings, including Laudato Si’ l on the environment and Fratelli Tutti on human fraternity, are expected to shape Catholic thought and moral philosophy for decades to come. As millions mourn his passing, Pope Francis’s memory is sure to live on—in his words, his deeds, and the profound human touch he brought to the papacy. The world now turns its eyes toward the Vatican once more, as the Church prepares to elect a new spiritual leader to carry forward the torch of faith, compassion, and reform that Pope Francis so bravely reignited.

Pope Francis, who passed away on April 21, 2025, at the age of 88, leaves behind a legacy defined by humility, courage, and a relentless devotion to peace. For many of us observing the ongoing crises in the Middle East, his presence felt like a rare moral compass—one willing to speak hard truths while remaining deeply grounded in compassion. His daily calls to Gaza, his condemnation of violence in all its forms, and his unwavering stance against antisemitism shaped a papacy that will be remembered not only for reform within the Catholic Church, but for moral clarity during one of the most polarising times in modern history.

In the early days of the Israel-Gaza conflict that erupted on October 7, 2023, Pope Francis chose not to sit in silence. Instead, he began calling the Holy Family Church in Gaza—Gaza’s only Catholic parish—every single day. Sometimes via WhatsApp, sometimes through brief voice calls, he reached out directly to Father Gabriel Romanelli and the 600 people sheltering within the church walls. This continued even as his own health deteriorated. Whether from his room at Casa Santa Marta or hospital recovery, his voice remained consistent: protect the children, help the civilians, seek peace.

I found it remarkable that while global leaders offered platitudes or picked sides, Pope Francis stuck to a simple but radical message—“End the violence. Let humanitarian aid reach the people. Release the hostages. And most of all, stop the killing.” He referred to the killing of two Palestinian Christian women in Gaza by an Israeli sniper as an act of “terrorism,” refusing to dilute the truth behind politically correct language.

His commitment to the people of Gaza was not a departure from Catholic teaching but a continuation of the same inclusive philosophy that defined his entire papacy. Critics often tried to frame his positions as controversial, but he never wavered. During his final Easter message, he again implored for a ceasefire in Gaza and the delivery of aid to the starving population, treating both Israelis and Palestinians with equal human dignity. That clarity—recognising the suffering on both sides while calling for justice—was Francis at his best.

And yet, this same Pope who stood by Gaza was equally vocal against antisemitism, a balance many today fail to navigate. He repeatedly denounced the resurgence of antisemitism in Europe and elsewhere, calling it a “sin against God.” He firmly upheld the reforms of Vatican II, embraced the Jewish people as “elder brothers” in faith, and made interfaith dialogue a central mission of his pontificate. During his visit to Auschwitz in 2016, Francis walked in silent prayer for over 15 minutes—speaking louder in that silence than many ever could with words.

Throughout his papacy, Pope Francis demonstrated that standing up for Palestinians didn’t require abandoning the fight against antisemitism. For him, moral consistency wasn’t optional; it was essential. He rejected extremism of all forms, condemned both Hamas’s attacks and Israel’s excessive use of force, and navigated these crises with empathy, not ideology.

In today’s climate, where statements are instantly politicised and leaders are quick to equivocate, Pope Francis chose the narrow road. He called out suffering when he saw it, whether in Gaza, Ukraine, or the camps of Myanmar’s Rohingya. His friendship with Jewish leaders and commitment to remembering the horrors of the Holocaust never conflicted with his urgent calls to help the oppressed in Gaza. That rare ability to hold empathy for both sides—without becoming paralysed by it—is what made him such a unique figure.

Pope Francis died as he lived: in service to the margins. His last recorded words to Father Romanelli in Gaza echoed a theme that defined his life: “Do not lose hope. The Lord is with you.”

As a journalist and editor who has covered the politics and conflicts of the Middle East for many years, I rarely find myself moved by the words of any leader. But Francis was different. He didn’t just speak to the world; he listened to it. And for those trapped in the chaos of Gaza, hearing his voice each evening—quiet, unwavering—was enough to keep hope alive another day.

He wasn’t the pope of one people. He was the pope of the suffering. And in this fractured world, that may be the holiest legacy of all.

Just months ago, I found myself closely watching an unexpected and underreported political shift in the United States—Arab Americans, many of whom had traditionally leaned Democratic, were increasingly aligning with the Republican Party. For Donald Trump, this represented a surprising opportunity: a chance to reshape the GOP’s image and broaden its appeal by bringing in a community shaped by values like faith, entrepreneurship, and security consciousness.

But now, as President Trump is in the midst of his new term, that fragile alignment appears to be under strain. The very communities that helped him win crucial swing states in 2024—especially in places like Michigan and Florida—are questioning whether they were betrayed.

At the heart of this reckoning are two parallel developments. First, the surge in anti-Palestinian sentiment and the crackdown on activists across the United States. Second, the increasingly hardline language and proposals emerging from the administration in relation to Gaza and the broader Middle East.

Take the case of Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian graduate student from Columbia University. Khalil, who has no criminal record, was detained by ICE in March 2025, allegedly due to his vocal pro-Palestinian activism. He is a legal U.S. resident. No terrorism-related accusations were levied. No court proceedings followed immediately. Yet the signal was clear: expressing solidarity with Palestine may now come at a cost—even in the land of free speech.

Then came the case of Mohsen Mahdawi, another Palestinian student arrested during what should have been a routine naturalization interview. His only apparent “crime”? Being politically active and advocating for Palestinian rights on campus. These are not isolated incidents. They suggest a troubling new trend, where political expression about Palestine—especially among young Arab Americans—is increasingly treated as a national security issue rather than a civil liberty.

This is where the disillusionment begins to grow. In cities like Dearborn, Michigan—home to one of the largest Arab American populations in the country—people are voicing regret. During the 2024 election, they gave Trump a second look, drawn by his promises of religious liberty, his tough stance on inflation, and his appointment of figures like Massad Boulos and Dr. Janette Nesheiwat—Arab Americans who symbolized new representation within the GOP.

But today, many in that same community feel deceived. Trump’s recent rhetoric around Gaza, including the suggestion that Palestinians be “relocated” and that the U.S. might take “administrative control” of parts of the territory, has only deepened the wounds. These are not positions that reflect a desire for peace, dignity, or partnership—they suggest a colonial mindset and an erasure of national identity.

So I ask: Can Trump afford to lose this Arab American support?

Electorally, the answer may be yes in some places—but not without consequences. Arab Americans helped flip Michigan red in 2024. If they stay home in 2028—or swing back toward a reformed Democratic platform—it could cost the GOP dearly.

More profoundly, though, this moment risks shattering something bigger: the trust that Arab Americans, especially Christian conservatives and entrepreneurs, were beginning to place in the Republican Party. For many, that trust was hard-won. It took years of alienation from Democratic foreign policy to even consider a party that once backed the Iraq War, the Muslim Ban, and the post-9/11 surveillance state. But they gave the GOP a chance, because they believed things could be different.

And for a moment, it was different. Trump’s administration embraced visible Arab American advisers, pushed economic empowerment, and leaned into religious liberty messaging that resonated with traditional communities. But now, with detentions, surveillance, and anti-Palestinian crackdowns making headlines, it all feels eerily familiar—like a throwback to the very policies they had hoped to escape.

There is also the international dimension, it risks alienating not just Arab Americans but key Middle Eastern partners as well. The UAE, Qatar, Jordan, even Saudi Arabia—each of these nations watches American politics closely. They recognize the difference between criticism and disrespect, between diplomacy and imposition.

So, here’s the broader question I’m wrestling with: Is this a temporary miscalculation by the Trump administration, or a reversion to form?

If it’s the former, there may still be time to recalibrate—time to reaffirm constitutional rights, rein in ICE, and return to a values-based foreign policy. If it’s the latter, then the GOP’s flirtation with Arab American support may end as quickly as it began, leaving behind bitterness and broken alliances.

Either way, this moment matters. Because Arab Americans are no longer a passive demographic in American politics. They are voters, donors, doctors, entrepreneurs, and increasingly, political actors. They’ve tasted influence. And if denied respect, they’ll seek it elsewhere.

In politics, trust is currency. And today, the GOP’s Arab American account is dangerously close to overdraft.