The Light in the Darkness of Prisons

Claudio Bottan

Ex detainee, deputy director of “Voci di dentro”

I was beside Pope Francis on 6 November 2016, the Holy Year of Mercy, and I will never be able to forget it. Fr Silvano, chaplain of Busto Arsizio prison, with whom I had a fraternal friendship, had told us ahead of time that some of us would be escorted to Rome to assist in the celebration of the Jubilee of Prisoners. Fr Silvano had promised us that we would be very close to the Pope. None of the 11 “chosen ones” however, could ever have expected to be face to face with Francis, and what’s more, beside him as altar servers. We helped him put on his vestments and then entered in procession. We took our places at the foot of the altar, trying to contain our emotions, and heard Pope Francis say, “Every time I visit a prison I ask myself: ‘Why them and not me?’”. His words opened wide our hearts, but also added to the emotions of us “detainee” altar servers. I still remember that as I moved closer to the Pontiff to pour the water, I tripped as the world watched, but I found a hand ready to support me and a reassuring smile.

Today, those whose paths had the privilege of encountering the gaze of that man who had come from the “ends of the earth” cannot but cling to hope in order to defeat melancholy, loneliness and the emptiness left by the passing of someone who was a point of reference. The emptiness is even greater for those who had the opportunity, as I did, to be close to Francis a second time, a few years later when I had finished serving out my sentence. In a letter addressed to the Pope, written during the pandemic, I asked if I could meet him again with Simona, the woman who had changed my life.

The door opened. The Pope entered the small living room in Santa Marta where they had seated us. On his own, without too many pleasantries, smiling and with his oscillating gait due to arthrosis that made him more human, a brother and closer, he said, “How are you?”. Pope Francis embraced me and then held out his hand to Simona and immediately understood that her arms would not be able to move because of multiple sclerosis. He sat in front of us and listened. Half an hour of tears and smiles followed, life stories that interweave and plough on looking beyond daily difficulties. “I am not a believer”, Simona said, “but during my travels in a wheelchair, I have met people from around the world that ensured me of their prayers”. Francis’ last words as he accompanied us to the exit, were indeed, “Pray for me”.

For several years now, Simona and I have been meeting with students throughout Italy to speak about disability, prison, rights, prejudices and hope for the future. In some way, it is like a lay prayer, aimed at not breaking the chain of goodness and at giving meaning to suffering.