The Absurdity of Forgiveness
December 1983 —“Signore Ali Ağca!” The Warden’s booming voice was intended to awaken the inmate. Mehmet turned over once more as he had done all night. “Today you meet the Holy Father!” The door of the cell rolled open as the Warden now directed his attention to his men, “Voglio questo posto immacolato per il papa. Assicurati di pulire anche lui.”
John Paul arrived with an entourage. Camillo Cibin overlooked as the pontiff’s security detail searched the cell. They searched Mehmet as well, but Cibin was not pleased, “Controlla la scarpa.” Mehmet dutifully removed his shoes to be checked for contraband. Cibin nodded as he apprised the cell and the would-be assassin once more. “Santo Padre a tuo piacimento,” as he motioned for the Pontiff to take a seat.
The Pope approached Mehmet and embraced him, “Brother, sit with me.” They seemed more like an oddly dressed father and son. John Paul moved deliberately in his white cassock as one does with age. Mehmet fidgeted nervously as a man in his early twenties does in the presence of an authority figure.
Noticing Mehmet’s nervousness, John Paul began “It’s fortunate you made an attempt on my life when you did.” Seeing Mehmet’s puzzled look, John Paul clarified, “May 13 is the anniversary of Our Lady of Fatima.”
Bewildered, Mehmet responded, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
John Paul smiled, “Our Lady has been watching over me for quite some time now. When I was near your age, I was hit by a tram and a trolley both in the same year. This was during the war when the Germans came to Poland. I fractured my skull, but I did not lose my life.”
Mehmet asked, “And did you forgive the Germans for what they did to Poland?”
“Yes. It took some time, but by God’s Grace I did.”
“But they killed so many,” Mehmet pushed back.
“In 1942, I decided I would join the priesthood. It was after my father, my last living relative, had died of a heart attack. I was 22 and I had already lost all the people I loved. So I wanted to dedicate my life to loving God’s children.”
“Were the Nazi’s God’s children?”
“We are all God’s children. The natural instinct is to pay back hatred with hatred. Evil with evil. But the Lord is rich in mercy, and I am a vessel for His mercy in this world.”
Mehmet caught John Paul’s piercing gaze and immediately shifted his eyes to the details of his sneakers.
John Paul continued, “And I have forgiven you.”
“But why,” Mehmet laughed nervously, “what I did is unforgivable. I premeditated your death. I shot you four times. If my partner had conducted the diversion as planned, I would have gotten away. Why would you forgive someone like me? I don’t deserve it!”
John Paul embraced Mehmet’s clasped hands, “The person who decides not to love forever will find it very difficult to really love even for one day. I love you.” Mehmet’s eyes watered, and he bit his lip to control himself. John Paul continued, “And, I forgive you.”
The two men embraced. The Holy Father. The prodigal son.
June 2000 —Salty-haired, Mehmet lay wide awake as the first hints of dawn stole their way through the iron bars of the prison cell window. “Signore Ali Ağca sei sveglio?” The Warden asked the question rhetorically as he flicked the envelope into Mehmet’s cell.
Mehmet opened the letter and read the first few lines: “At the request of His Excellency, John Paul II, Carlo Azeglio Ciampi hereby pardons Mehmet Ali Ağca for all wrongdoings on Italian soil including the attempted assassination of John Paul II.”
Mehmet inhaled deeply and whispered, “Grazie Papa.”
