Holy visitation

It was never going to be an easy experience. Getting to meet Pope Francis on his Holy Land trip, that is. The Amman International Stadium was packed to capacity, as I jostled with thousands of the gathered faithful, at one of the many entrances. 

The sunlight was bright and unrelenting and tempers were threatening to rise with the rising temperatures. But the many volunteers handing complimentary water bottles and peak caps helped to calm the nerves. Once inside the lavish grounds, a carnival type scenario awaited us all. 

A stage was erected at one end of the field with two huge screens on either side where live video recordings could be played. Young schoolchildren, in white costumes, walked in a line, with their teachers issuing smiling instructions at them. All around one could see families with infants in strollers, and the amazing thing was that the babies were not bawling, but sleeping peacefully in anonymous silence. 

The carols like songs emanating from the loudspeakers were in Arabic, welcoming the Pope to Amman. The lyrics were easy to follow and within moments I joined in with the clapping and singing crowd. It was high noon and though the breeze was cool in the shade, under the scorching sun, my face was turning a dark shade of tomato and my skin was baking to a chocolate brown colour. 

But these were small discomforts. Pope Francis was 77 years old and had only one full lung. He had battled a cold and fatigue that forced him to cancel some recent appointments, to make an appearance. There was no way sunburn could deter me. Besides, if rank newborns could handle the heat and dust, who was I to complain? 

Suddenly, a huge mass of gas balloons appeared at various spots in the large arena. Pink, blue and white, they trailed one after another as they were let off into the sky. A drone of helicopters, which signified aerial security surveillance, followed this. Everyone craned their necks to see what was happening. Before I could understand what was going on, an enthusiastic helper handed me a huge Jordanian flag and asked me to wave it. I was more than happy to pass off for a local. Balancing my parasol and the flag together was a bit of a challenge, but I managed it soon enough. 

White doves, as symbols of peace were released into the sky and then everybody turned away from the stage as a large vehicle made its appearance, from the opposite side. Standing upright in this roofless vehicle, the Pope embraced small children who were lifted and presented to him by their eager parents. The slow procession, lined by masses of humanity on all sides, made its way gradually to the raised platform. 

Subsequently, the open air mass started where he spoke of “putting aside our grievances and divisions” for the sake of unity. Peace was not something that could be bought, he emphasised. It was a gift to be crafted by our daily actions.

There must be some magic to his sermon. On the way back the same guards who were yelling at the teeming millions earlier, smilingly opened the exit gates for us. 

“Your face is so red!” one security policeman exclaimed. 

“Yes,” I agreed.

“You got sun burned?” he asked. 

“Yes,” I repeated. 

“Ah, tomorrow the skin will peel off,” he warned.

“But till then I will radiate a holy glow,” I smiled.