Pope Francis | The Pope of the subaltern

In an era when leadership often aligns itself with the powerful, Pope Francis (1936-2025) stood apart, rooted firmly among the powerless. Today, April 26, as his body is laid to rest, is a good time to look at how his papacy redefined the role of the pontiff, not as a monarch in mitre and gold, but as a servant of the marginalised. If history remembers him with a single phrase, it should be this: the first Pope of the Subaltern.

It was at the Kerala Literature Festival in January last, against the rhythmic murmur of Kozhikode’s sea breeze, that I first laid my hands on ‘Hope’, the Pope’s autobiography, co-authored with Italian journalist Fabio Marchese Ragona.

What drew me to the book wasn’t mere curiosity. I had long admired Pope Francis — not for theological brilliance, which belonged more to Pope Benedict XVI — but for the moral clarity of his heart. In a world fragmented by wealth, war, and worry, here was a Pope who preached the gospel with his feet, who chose public buses over papal limousines, and who wore humility like a second skin.

His life story is one of migration, resistance, and identity, elements central to any subaltern narrative. Born Jorge Mario Bergoglio to Italian immigrants in Argentina, his family narrowly escaped boarding a doomed ship to the New World, a tragedy that would come to be known as Italy’s own Titanic.

The accident they missed shaped his theological vision: fragile humanity, divine providence, and an affinity for the vulnerable. Argentina, with its mix of displaced Europeans and aspiring locals, became the crucible in which his compassion was forged.

Before he was Pope, he was simply ‘Padre Jorge’ to his parishioners. He was more at home among the poor than the powerful. As a Jesuit provincial at 38, he baptised the children of prostitutes, spoke to addicts and prisoners, and travelled by subway to stay close to his flock.

When he became Archbishop of Buenos Aires, he lived in a small apartment and cooked his own meals. That austerity followed him to the Vatican, where he declined the Papal Palace in favour of a modest guest room. He was not simply acting poor — he was choosing solidarity.

His autobiography reveals the ordinary boy beneath the zucchetto. He fell in love, wrestled with doubt, and was fond of football and fiction. He read voraciously, citing Tolstoy and Márquez with ease, and admitted to youthful mischiefs like peeking into the home of a woman involved in an illicit affair. But it was this very humanness that made him divine in the eyes of the poor. He did not stand above them, but with them.

Francis’ papacy was marked by an uncompromising commitment to peace. He saw war not as a political necessity but a moral failure. In ‘Hope’, he writes of the countless conflicts the world ignored — rape in the Congo, devastation in Sudan, and the tragedy of Gaza.

He did not hesitate to criticise both Hamas and Israel, reiterating that in war, there are no victors — only widows and orphans. He lamented the world’s addiction to arms and asserted that the funds spent on war could eradicate global poverty in a year. He believed that peace wasn’t an option — it was a vocation.

His concern for women was equally groundbreaking. “The Church is female,” he declared, underscoring that it is not the clergy but the community — men and women alike — that embody the church. While he did not advocate for the ordination of women, he insisted on their inclusion in leadership, naming more women to Vatican roles than any of his predecessors. His feminism was not about ideology — it was about justice.

Francis also gave hope to the least likely — those estranged from the church. He welcomed a defrocked priest back to the altar. He married a couple midair when he learned their church wedding had been cancelled by an earthquake. He gathered sex workers and comedians alike in Vatican halls. His papacy was not a performance of power but a celebration of grace.

While submitting his resignation upon taking the papal office, Francis acknowledged that age or infirmity could one day impair his service. His humility allowed him to envision his eventual exit, even as he bore the burdens of the church until his last breath. He carried them lightly — more like a shepherd than a CEO.

In ‘Hope’, he writes of hope not as an idea but as a companion. “She was my playmate as a child… my partner in suffering… my guide in despair.” That is the legacy of Francis — not doctrinal declarations or theological tomes, but the living witness of love in action.

He was the Pope of the subaltern because he never forgot where he came from — and whom he served. Whether in the favelas of Buenos Aires, the slums of Manila, or the refugee camps of Lesbos, Pope Francis stood with the forgotten. In his life, we saw the Gospel made flesh. In his death, we remember that goodness still walks this earth, sometimes in plain black shoes and a white cassock.

(A J Philip is a Delhi-based senior journalist.)

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.