What Remains of us

Interview with Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa, who entered Gaza on 19 December 2024.

Originally published in Italian on Il Gazzettino Vesuviano .

I met Cardinal Pizzaballa at Fiumicino Airport on 9 January 2026.
I was heading to Amman, Jordan. So was he.

Since May 2024 I have been living in Amman, for family and work reasons. It is not my first time in this part of the world: here I feel a natural familiarity that rarely makes me feel like a foreigner. Back in 2012, I wrote and directed a documentary on Syrian refugees in Lebanon, in the months immediately following the first clashes in Syria.

The Cardinal and I were standing in line, very close to each other. At first glance I did not recognize him immediately: he was dressed as a priest, yes, but not as a cardinal. Then the images of him walking through Gaza came back to my mind.

A natural impulse helped me overcome my embarrassment and I called out to him, right there, before entering the airport. In a normal voice I said:

“Cardinal.”

I held out my hand, and we shook firmly.

“Thank you. Thank you very much for going to Gaza. The images of you there, walking among the rubble, within the most violent expression of human hatred — the one that today represents all the wars of the world — for me, and I believe for many of us, were very important. Thank you again.”

While waiting for the boarding gates to open, we spoke about the difficulty of those days, about what it truly meant to be there.

Before saying goodbye, we exchanged email addresses.
From that encounter this interview was born.

Interview

When you walked among the rubble of Gaza, did you feel more like a “shepherd,” more like a “diplomat,” or simply a man among other wounded men?
Which role did you recognize yourself in the most at that moment?

A shepherd. And also a man among wounded men, but precisely in the most evangelical sense of the term: being there with, not above. In the statement after the visit I explicitly said: “Not as politicians or diplomats, but as shepherds.” And the word “shepherd” there is not a label: it is the concrete way of standing before people who “have lost everything,” of not leaving them alone, of not turning suffering into a conference topic.

Is there an image, a face, or a silence from those days that has stayed with you and struggles to let go?

More than one emerges, and they are often “defenseless” details that follow you: children playing as if the sound of bombings had become normal; then the lines, the humiliation, the waiting under the sun for a meal. And then the faces: the face of a father beside the hospital bed of the only child left of his family, severely maimed. Alongside this, however, another frame remains with me: mothers cooking for others, nurses caring with kindness — astonishing humanity amid devastation.

You chose to “go,” while much of the world chose to “watch.” Do you believe that today physical absence from places of suffering has become a new form of moral irresponsibility?

If absence becomes habit (and therefore removal), yes: it risks becoming a form of irresponsibility. Because distance makes it easy to speak, to take sides, to judge; but it makes it harder to see humiliation and call it by its name. I have always insisted on the value of “being here,” “being present,” as a sign of unity and real solidarity, not merely declared. And it is important for anyone who holds any responsibility to assume it fully: to be present for those for whom you are responsible, to put not only your heart but also your face into it. Being present, remaining, are deliberate choices — a way of responding to those who want to close doors.

What would you say today to Europe, which seems paralyzed between fear, interests, and denial, while war has returned to being a normal language?

I would say: do not turn peace into a slogan while war remains the daily bread of the poor.

And then: call things by their name, without double standards; because when war becomes “normal,” the first victim is conscience. And when conscience is anesthetized, only interests and fear remain.

Is it still possible to speak of reconciliation when trauma is so deep and revenge so structured?
Where does one truly begin again, in your view?

Yes, if by “reconciliation” we do not mean an emotional shortcut, but a journey that passes through truth, justice, and mercy. Only those who recognize their own fragility and need for mercy can become instruments of reconciliation. Reconciliation — or at least the desire for it — is the moral resource that allows horizons to open, that prevents us from closing ourselves off in defense of our identity fortresses. It seems like utopia right now, I know, but it is nevertheless necessary to keep speaking about it. Precisely when everyone speaks of war, it is time to respond by speaking of peace, of reconciliation. It is the only way we have, however fragile, to give voice, face, and light to the civic conscience of people and communities who do not want to surrender to this drift.

Starting again “for real” means at least three very concrete things: first of all, safeguarding and protecting the life and dignity of every person. Breaking the logic of a future built on social and cultural perspectives — even before political ones — that include and justify forced displacement and revenge. Finally, we must cultivate an inner “method” not dominated by fear or calculation, but by welcome and trust.

If you had to leave just one sentence to Arab and European young people growing up in this time of war, what would it be?

One sentence only:

“Do not let hatred steal your heart: become light, build gestures of mercy, and do not turn peace into an empty word.”

If a child asked you: “What is hatred? How does all this stop?” what would you answer?

I would say simply:

Hatred is when pain becomes a stone you want to throw at someone. It stops when someone is the first to put it down.

And then, concretely: it stops with people who do not abandon those who suffer, who light a candle in the darkness, who perform acts of mercy, even very small ones. And with a heart that learns not to live only on fear and calculation, but on trust and gift.