II

THE STAR OF THE MAGI

     Luck, they say. But luck is like us.

     Real humility is first and foremost decency.

—Georges Bernanos, Sous le soleil de Satan

NICOLAS DIAT: After your ordination as a priest, did you leave immediately for Rome to finish your studies?

ROBERT CARDINAL SARAH: Inasmuch as Archbishop Tchidimbo approved of my desire to study Scripture, first I had to get a degree in dogmatic theology. So I arrived in Rome in September 1969 to enroll in the Gregorian University.

Instruction was in Latin. At the same time I took courses in Hebrew, biblical Greek, and Aramaic at the Pontificium Institutum Biblicum. These courses were marvelous because they gave me the opportunity to have more direct access to the Word of God and to the Church Fathers who wrote commentaries on it.

I stayed in Rome until 1974, with a side trip of one year in Jerusalem.

Archbishop Tchidimbo had sent two other seminarians to Rome at the same time as me, André Mamadouba Camara and Jérôme Téa, as well as two Guinean novices, Marie-Renée Boiro and Eugénie Kadouna. He was anxious for us to get a solid human, intellectual, and spiritual formation there. This is the last letter he wrote to us on December 14, 1970, ten days before his arrest and imprisonment: “I have so little free time that I will not be able to send Christmas greetings to you individually this year; be so kind as to excuse me. But I am sure you will be able to discover in these lines the deepest of my sentiments for each of you, with regard to your formation for effective ministry in this dear country of Guinea. My concern for the formation of each one of you personally is a problem that haunts me every day; I know you are helping me to resolve this problem by the generous efforts that you make daily to acquire all you are capable of assimilating, both intellectually and spiritually; and for that I am infinitely grateful to you. May 1971 be a year of still greater effort for the sake of the Church of Guinea; these are my most ardent wishes for each of you. May the Child in the Manger receive these wishes and grant them in the near future. I know that I can count on your prayers; mine are with you daily, along with the affection that I have for each of you.”

This letter-testament accompanied me throughout my studies in Rome. However, while I was preparing to write my doctoral thesis in biblical exegesis on the subject of “Isaiah, Chapters 9-11, in Light of Northwestern Semitic Linguistics: Ugaritic, Phoenecian, and Punic” under the direction of my professor, Father Mitchell Dahood, Father Louis Barry, who had become the apostolic administrator of the Archdiocese of Conakry, asked me to return to Guinea because of the shortage of priests.

The objective of my research was to propose a new critical examination of certain textual difficulties in the Masoretic text of the Book of Isaiah, in terms of Ugaritic literature and Phoenecian and Punic inscriptions. In order to elucidate difficult texts, the methodology of modern exegesis insists on syntactic, lexicographic, and stylistic considerations offered by comparative studies of Northwestern Semitic literature. I want to emphasize how valuable Father Dahood’s method was. He succeeded in convincing a large part of the scholarly community that the copyists of the Hebrew text of the Old Testament were scrupulously faithful to the original text, at least in its consonantal form.

Today, certainly it is important for us to show that same respect and fidelity to the Word of God, so as not to manipulate it to fit historical, political, or ideological circumstances, for the purpose of pleasing men and acquiring a reputation as a scholar or avant-garde theologian. . . . As Saint Paul says, “We are not like so many [who] practice cunning or. . . tamper with God’s word” (cf. 2 Cor 2:17; 4:2). This scrupulous concern about respecting the Word of God and its application in our lives reminds me of an exhortation by Johannes Albrecht Bengel (1687-1752), a Protestant theologian who tried to summarize the care that we must give to the Sacred Scriptures: “Te totum applica ad textum, rem totam applica ad te” (Apply yourself entirely to the text, and apply everything it says to yourself).

The true servant of the Bible, the true theologian, is the one who exemplifies each day, by his life and by his actions, the words of the Psalmist: “Oh, how I love your law! It is my meditation all the day. . . . I have more understanding than all my teachers, for your testimonies are my meditation. I understand more than the aged, for I keep your precepts. I hold back my feet from every evil way, in order to keep your word. I do not turn aside from your ordinances, for you have taught me” (Ps 119:97, 99-102).

Did this study of the Scriptures seem difficult for you?

Those years of biblical studies can seem long and demanding. Indeed, they require the knowledge of numerous languages and complex work to place the Sacred Scriptures back into the context of the major cultures that influenced the people of Israel, particularly the Sumerian, Egyptian, Babylonian, Canaanite, Greek, and Roman cultures, without neglecting the geopolitical setting of Israel’s history. But those years are necessary in order to let the Word of God penetrate us like a two-edged sword. It takes time for our stony hearts to receive the Word of God so that it might really become the Word of the Covenant. We can then experience, as Baudouin de Fort says in one of his homilies, that “the Word of God, which is also the wisdom of God, truly becomes more penetrating when it is received with faith and love. Indeed, what could be impossible for someone who believes? And what could be difficult for those who love? When the voice of the Word speaks up, it sinks into the heart like arrows in battle that tear, like nails driven deeply, and it penetrates so far that it reaches the most secret recesses. Yes, this Word goes much farther than a two-edged sword, because there is no power or force that can deal such considerable blows, and the human mind cannot conceive of a point so subtle and so penetrating. All human wisdom, all the subtlety of natural knowledge, falls short of its keenness.”

One must humbly acknowledge that a whole lifetime is necessary to study the Word of God and to acquire the wisdom that leads to love.

Was living in Rome an extraordinary experience for you?

When I was in Africa I imagined that Rome was something like paradise. . . To me, the city of the pope seemed far off and inaccessible.

My arrival in the urbs aeterna (eternal city) is engraved into my memory. Each step was a marvel. I was staying on the viale delle Mura Aurelie, at the Collegio San Pietro, not far from the Vatican. When I entered the majestic Saint Peter’s Basilica for the first time, how could I have imagined that one day I would celebrate Mass in that sacred place as a cardinal? I remember perfectly my first prayer at the tomb of the Prince of the Apostles. I had a very intense feeling of deep faith, of love for God, and of the heavenly inspiration that I could see in all those works of art. During that time, I discovered ancient Rome, the Coliseum, the Forum, the catacombs, and all the memories of the first Christian martyrs. Often, I told myself that I was walking in the footsteps of the saints, of whom I was supposed to be a humble pupil.

But our studies took up the main part of our days. . . . We had great professors, who were often the best specialists in their fields. At that time, Carlo Maria Martini was rector of the Biblicum. I remember in particular the courses given by Ignace de La Potterie, Stanislas Lyonnet, Etienne Vogt, and Albert Vanhoye, who was also created a cardinal later on. These competent academics were imbued with a radiant interior life. They communicated to us their knowledge and their faith in God.

Upon arriving in Rome in 1969, you witnessed the beginning of the liturgical reform in the pope’s own city. . . .

Yes, but I was ordained in the old rite in July 1969 because the new one was not yet in force. From the time of my arrival in Rome, however, I celebrated with the new Missal of Paul VI. In those days, at the Collegio of San Pietro, each of us still had his own altar. The practice of concele-bration was rare.

Personally, I really tried to celebrate my daily Mass with great care. I could not help noticing around me that some priests were having difficulty finding a balance between their use of their free time, their personal life with the Lord, and their obligation to attend to their communal life as priests. For others, the important thing was their studies, while slackening somewhat in their spiritual life. I recall very well that the African priest who drove me to my apartment told me: “This is your room: you come and go as you please!” It was very edifying for a young priest to hear such an exhortation. . . .

In the morning, I chose to get up early so as to be able to celebrate without hurrying. I was aware that Mass was the most important moment of my day, because without the Eucharist, my relationship with Christ could not achieve the great intimacy that every Christian desires. I was no longer at the seminary; it was up to me, therefore, to structure my days quite freely and to arrange my moments of meeting the Lord in order to deepen my union with God. The priest who neglects his Mass can no longer see how much God loves us, to the point of giving us his life.

During that time, I realized that the liturgy was the most precious sacred moment in which the Church allows us to encounter God in a unique way. We must never forget to unite the liturgy with the tragic event of the death of Jesus on the Cross.

Where do you get the lively and precocious liturgical sensitivity that you seem to have?

Thank you for that fine compliment. I am sure the example of the Holy Ghost Fathers was decisive. When I was an altar boy, I observed very attentively the sensitivity and fervor with which the priests in my village celebrated their daily Masses. In this sense, it is not wrong to say that from a young age I was able to understand the need to offer spiritual worship that was holy and pleasing to God. At Mass we are present first and foremost to God. If we do not turn our attention radically toward God, our faith becomes lukewarm, distracted, and uncertain. At Ourous, as an altar boy, I gradually learned to enter into the eucharistic mystery and to understand that the Mass was a unique moment in the life of the priests and of the faithful. Divine worship lifted us out of the ordinary. Seeing things with the eyes of a child, I had the feeling that the priest was literally absorbed by Christ at the moment when, facing East, he lifted the consecrated Host toward heaven.

I was also able to understand the importance of moments of silence during the liturgy. A priest ought to make a great deal of room for silence in his life, because that is fundamental if he is to remain attentive to God and to the souls that are entrusted to him. For a priest it is terribly important to learn, from the example of the monks, never to speak without reason. Because preaching involves silence. In noise, the priest wastes his time; chatter is an acid rain that can ruin our meditation. The silence of God should teach us when to speak and when to remain silent. This silence that ushers us into the real liturgy is a moment in which to praise God, to confess him before others, and to proclaim his glory. I remember that on Sundays all the villagers were very fond of spending a long time in personal prayer. We were in the presence of the Presence.

Finally, my sense of liturgy acquired a maturity and a depth as I matured, particularly during my years at seminary. As an African, I certainly inherited our joyful fear of everything sacred. In pagan religious celebrations, after the dances and the sounds of rejoicing came the sacred moments of sacrificial libations, which required absolute silence.

During my years as a seminarian, and then after my ordination, my certainty was strengthened. I understood that the greatest way to be with the Son of God made man was still the liturgy. At Mass the priest is face to face with God. The Mass is the most important thing in our lives. And the Divine Office, the breviary, prepares us for it.

During my youth I did not have the chance to become acquainted with the rich liturgy that can be found in monasteries. It may be that many Christians in Europe do not appreciate the fact that abbeys are a unique treasure. However, the Holy Ghost Fathers’ slow liturgical pace and their sense of the sacred did enable me during my childhood to anticipate the incomparable beauty of the Benedictine celebrations.

In the Old Testament the Hebrews always approached God with fear and veneration. Ultimately, I sought to imitate them. The best way to do this is through the liturgy.

Sometimes there is the sense that there was a sort of miracle in your journey.

I was fortunate to be mentored by spiritual fathers of great quality. In Nancy or in Senegal, the priests who accompanied me insisted a great deal on the importance of the interior life. Archbishop Tchidimbo, who was confined and tortured in a prison for many years, was always in my heart. A seminarian is first and foremost the work of the priests who have accompanied him. God gave me the gift of being mentored by pastors who were truly connected to Christ.

On July 20, 1969, the day of my ordination by Archbishop Tchi-dimbo at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Conakry, I was the only ordinand. Over the years, all my fellow seminarians from Guinea who were with me in Bingerville, Nancy, and Sébikhotane gradually left the seminary.

On that summer day in 1969, after so many accidents and tribulations, political upheavals in my country, travels, sorrows, and joys, I was the sole “survivor” of this adventure. Why did God pay so much attention to me? Why had God pampered me by giving me the supernatural strength to stay the course? Why did God want me to be the last priest ordained before the arrest of Archbishop Tchidimbo in December 1970? It is very difficult for me to answer these questions. One after the other, my companions left, and I found myself alone before the altar of the cathedral.

In fact, I have never doubted my vocation. Although there were events that made me sad, they were never anything but small wounds that never shook my love for God. I remained faithful because I truly loved God as much as a poor sinner can love him, given his own limitations. In my heart I always had the assurance that God loved me. In our lives, everything is the gift of his Love. How then could I remain indifferent to such a great mystery? How could I not respond to the Love of the heavenly Father by dedicating my whole life to him?

On July 21, 1969, I said my first Mass in the Cathedral of Conakry. Not until the following Sunday, July 27, was I able to celebrate my first Eucharist in the parish of Saint Rose of Ourous. You can easily imagine my emotion and that of my parents and of all the residents of my village. The joy was extraordinary. I had the feeling that this was a just reward for all the Holy Ghost Fathers who had suffered so much for us. However, it was the will of Providence that they could not participate that day because of the persecutions by Sékou Touré.

The Holy Ghost Fathers who gave their lives in Guinea, under such difficult conditions, did not die in vain. On that July morning, we began the day with a procession from the cemetery to the church, after a long time of prayer before the graves of the first missionaries.

During the weeks afterward, following a program established by Archbishop Tchidimbo, I had the joy of celebrating several Masses in various parishes in the Archdiocese of Conakry, and then I left for Rome.

In 1971, during your courses in Rome, you left for Jerusalem to study the Bible in greater depth. . . .

Yes, I stayed a whole year in the Holy City. At the Biblical Institute in Jerusalem, I had the sense that my devotion to Christ was becoming even stronger. It was not only an emotion. My prayer became palpable, because the places that had witnessed the presence of the Son of God were still so eloquent. In the Holy Land, the memory of Jesus is indelible.

The privilege of walking in the Holy Land, God’s land, the land where Jesus was born, created an indescribable emotion in me and the sense of living in God’s house on earth. Like Jacob, anyone who treads the Holy Land can say: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know: [. . .] This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven” (Gen 28:16-17). Jerusalem is truly the place of his rest but also the place of Golgotha and of tears.

Why is the life of this city so complicated? In Jerusalem there is never an instant when someone is not praying, because here all monotheistic religions are represented. And yet the violence remains continuous.

On the morning of December 25, 1971, I participated in the Mass in the basilica in Bethlehem. The ceremonies of the various Christian traditions overlapped, and some celebrated simultaneously according to their own rite, language, and style of chant. This could produce tremendous chaos, which was not very conducive to prayer. The Christians are not able to pray together; on the contrary, they interfere with each other. The liturgies become obstacles that seem insurmountable. Why is it so hard for people to understand that in God’s eyes these obstacles cause his Fatherly Heart to bleed painfully?

During that year I stayed as a guest with the Jesuits in a large house where Fathers Ludovicus Semkowski, R. M. Mackwoski, James Kelly, and some excellent professors of exegesis were also living. This human and intellectual experience was very rich, lively, and especially stimulating.

At that time, I wondered whether my vocation might not be to join a contemplative order. For a long time I thought about entering a Benedictine monastery. But I did not want to abandon my country, which so desperately lacked priests.

After spending time in Jerusalem and Rome, you returned to Guinea to become a parish priest. . . .

After earning my degrees in theology and exegesis, I was appointed curate of Boké, which is located on the seacoast of Guinea. This ministry was the most beautiful priestly experience of my life. The parish was immense; the most distant parishioners lived on the Senegalese border. My vicar, Jean-David Soumah, and I had no car. . . .

I remembered the missionaries of my childhood who set out almost every day on foot to evangelize the most remote populations. From now on, I could imitate them in every way. I walked long hours, always accompanied by two or three catechists, with a traveling Mass kit on my head, under a blazing sun; sometimes I would run into a cargo truck, and the driver would offer me a ride. When I went to marshy areas in the middle of lagoons, I would take a canoe. Often we had to cross very dangerous torrents, like that of Kakoulkoul. We held our breath for fear of being engulfed by a whirlpool. . .

Often I chose to travel to the most remote villages because I knew those inhabitants had not had a visit from a priest since the expulsion of the missionaries in 1967. After almost a decade without a priest, the villagers continued to teach the catechism to their children themselves, to recite daily prayers, to pray the rosary with great filial devotion to the Virgin Mary, and to listen to the Word of God on Sundays. I had the grace of fortifying those people who had kept the faith without any sacramental support because of the lack of priests. I will never forget their unimaginable joy when I celebrated Mass, which they had not experienced for so long. How could I not feel tremendous gratitude as I observed the catechists who kept this flickering flame alive by walking long hours from village to village? Their sacrifice has always remained in my heart.

Very quickly I determined that most of my missionary work should focus on strengthening the formation of the catechists. They were the real builders of our parishes.

Very soon I understood, too, that I had been put under close surveillance by the men of Sékou Touré’s regime. For example, my homilies and those of other priests were systematically listened to by spies who reported all of our public statements to the regional cadres of the revolutionary party. I had to be careful not to question the doctrine of the State Party openly. At that time, Archbishop Tchidimbo had been in prison for four years, and the dictatorship was becoming increasingly harsh.

Thousands of Guineans tried every day to leave the country. All religious properties had been confiscated and nationalized; we lived in great poverty. In the name of national independence, following drastic orders from Sékou Touré, the Church in Guinea was totally cut off from the Catholic world, thus preventing the Holy See from providing any aid at all. This situation made our daily life difficult, but I considered that these sufferings allowed us, as priests, to live in the same destitution as the faithful. My meals were very frugal, as I had to count almost exclusively on the aid of the parishioners, who themselves lacked everything.

One day, while I was leaving for Zéroun, one of the most remote “Bassari” villages in the parish of Ourous not far from the border with Senegal, in order to celebrate Mass, I met a man who seemed to know the area. I asked him if he could give us directions. He offered to come with us. He turned out to be a militiaman disguised as a simple farmer who thought I was trying to leave Guinea. While letting me think he would help me find my destination, he made me walk for an entire afternoon, only to lead me to a military camp in Négaré. I had to spend a lot of time explaining myself, because the camp commander, too, thought that I intended to cross the border in secrecy! Little by little, I was able to appease his fears. But night fell, and I had no idea where I was. The commander finally ordered two soldiers to drive me into the village for which I was looking. Toward midnight, I arrived at the destination with my catechists.

The joy of the residents was indescribable. According to their customs, the sheep, goat, or any other animal that is going to be served is not killed until it has been presented alive to the foreigner. Only after the welcome and this rite of presentation did the women begin to make the meal. When the dinner and the dancing were done, I slept in the hut that was reserved for me, but the two soldiers who accompanied me stayed crouched in front of the door because they continued to have doubts. . . . The next day I was able to bless the small chapel that the Christian community had built as well as the hut in which I had spent the night, which they had named the “rectory”. From then on, this hut would be reserved for the priest who was visiting the village. After breakfast, the two soldiers went back to the military camp. With the catechists we walked for three days in the brush to meet those who were most isolated. When we returned, I insisted on returning to the military camp to prove that I was not trying to leave the country. The soldiers apologized and offered me a chicken as a sign of reconciliation!

How could anyone ever forget these men and women who had almost nothing, who dressed, ate, and lived according to local customs, but who showed, in the midst of their fellow citizens who were still animists, the radical witness of their faith in Jesus? They are still in my heart, as they are role models for the faithfulness and perseverance that Christ requires of us on this earth.

During those two years, I was able to observe how much Guinea was suffering under a dictatorial regime that offered it no hope. Lies and violence were the favorite weapons of a system that was based on a destructive Marxist ideology. The economy of the country had collapsed, and the inhabitants of the villages experienced extreme poverty. In the countryside, the mutual assistance between the villagers allowed them to provide for their most basic needs. Sékou Touré was obsessed with carrying out his messianic plan, but he increasingly fell into a paranoia that saw enemies of the revolution everywhere planning his demise. Guinea was battered, drained, and destroyed. Its very soul was being reduced little by little to a shell of its former self.

In 1976, you were named professor then rector of John XXIII minor seminary in Conakry.

Yes, and the seminarians were numerous, almost a hundred of them; but the formators and educators who had preceded me certainly lacked discipline. A sort of moral disintegration prevailed. Moreover, it was an institution where we could merely house the seminarians outside of classes, because Sékou Touré had required that all young people pursue their studies in public institutions.

I wanted to establish true discipline very quickly. Unfortunately, the students, who had been left to their own devices for months, did not accept the strict rules that I wished to introduce. At first I had to face a small rebellion. But the absence of spiritual formation was much deeper than I could have imagined.

One night a student or group of students set fire to the chapel. . . . Therefore I asked those who were guilty to confess publicly. No one wanted to admit responsibility. As a second step, I appealed to those who knew to accuse the ones who had committed this serious offense. I even went so far as to say that if this abominable act had targeted my own room I could have forgiven it. But the chapel was the house of the Lord. Despite my insistence that the guilty party courageously take responsibility, no one would say anything. Therefore, I said that if this silence about the origin of the fire continued, I would make the decision to close the seminary. I thought of the formation that I had received from Archbishop Tchidimbo, and I knew that he would have made the same decision.

The prefecture of Kindia summoned me, ordering me to reverse my decision, because only a counter-revolutionary act would have authorized me to close the seminary. But I did not give in because I considered that a desecration committed by a seminarian could not remain unpunished. The government officials insisted that I reopen the doors of the seminary with all possible speed. Once again I explained that I would not go back on my decision. How could we allow future priests, men of God, to indulge in acts of sacrilege? Given my determination and my explanations, the prefect of Kindia understood better that the reasons for my decision were nonnegotiable. He finally backed my decision. During the year that had just begun, the minor seminary therefore remained closed.

At the beginning of the next school year, I asked the priests to send me a certificate of good conduct for each student who entered the seminary. The number of students was cut in half, but I was certain that these young men were fit to begin a life of service to God.

Despite this incident, I have good memories of my life as rector of John XXIII seminary. I had the sense that I was passing on the knowledge that so many professors had imparted to me with discipline, courage, and selflessness.

Was the year 1978 a radical turning point in your life?

On the night of April 18, 1978, Monsignor Louis Barry, who was then serving as the apostolic administrator since the imprisonment of Archbishop Tchidimbo, arrived unexpectedly at the seminary in Kindia. During the meal he told us about the surprising adventure that he had had that same morning.

By a most unusual coincidence, he had met emissaries from the Holy See. In fact, Louis Barry was scheduled to travel to Kissidougou, and while going past the airport in Conakry, he had seen a small private airplane from which “purple belts” were getting off. Surprised, he stopped and made a U-turn to follow the car into which two bishops had climbed. Monsignor Barry had then seen the vehicle enter the palace of the president of the Republic. Increasingly astonished, he decided to stop by the Sisters of Saint Joseph of Cluny, whose house was a few dozen yards from the presidential palace. A little later, the emissaries left President Sékou Touré’s residence to call on the Sisters. Monsignor Barry welcomed the two bishops, telling them of his joy and surprise at seeing them in Conakry. The two bishops were Archbishop Simon D. Lourdusamy, secretary of the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples, and Archbishop Luigi Barbarito, apostolic nuncio of Dakar. They came to take Archbishop Tchidimbo with them. But some journalists who were too well informed had anticipated the news of his release. And so President Sékou Touré, furious with this indiscretion, decided to postpone the release indefinitely. This was a new failure in the negotiations between the Holy See and the Guinean government.

Even more serious, the president had vehemently opposed the Holy See’s choice of the new archbishop of Conakry. In spite of the Guinean government’s position, Archbishop Lourdusamy secretly gave Monsignor Barry a mission; he was supposed to ask Father Robert Sarah if he would agree to become the next archbishop of Conakry. . . .

When he told us his story at dinner, Louis Barry said nothing about the mission that had been given to him, because my two assistants from the seminary, Désiré Roland Bangoura and Apollinaire Cècé Kolié, were present. After dinner he asked to speak with me privately; we went to my room. Louis Barry then told me that Pope Paul VI had appointed me archbishop of Conakry and that I must give my response as quickly as possible. I was utterly frightened by this news. At first I protested by refusing the appointment, aware of my obvious inability to assume such a responsibility. The difficulties in the diocese were immense, and tensions between the Church of Guinea and the State were almost constant. My pastoral experience was truly inadequate, and most importantly I had not yet reached the age of thirty-three.

But Monsignor Barry immediately retorted, “I will be back for your written response in three days. In any case, if you refuse, Archbishop Raymond-Marie Tchidimbo will remain in prison, because Sékou Touré set as a condition for his release his immediate replacement in the Episcopal See of Conakry through the appointment of a new archbishop.” Archbishop Tchidimbo had already submitted his letter of his resignation from the office of archbishop of Conakry. Therefore, the archiepiscopal see of Conakry was now vacant.

Monsignor Barry’s second argument was as follows: “You cannot refuse to obey the pope, who trusts in you. He speaks in God’s name; you absolutely must obey him as a son obeys his father.” He then ended our conversation by saying to me: “The service and the mission that God is entrusting to you through this office necessarily involve the cross. But God will be with you to support you.” Needless to say, I was completely dejected.

I could not understand why Paul VI chose a simple, unknown young man like me. Why did the Holy See not nominate Monsignor Barry, who had all the requisite maturity? I felt as though I had been caught up in an unbelievable tempest, and I understood nothing about this decision. I was willing to suffer for my Church, but still I was petrified by this choice which seemed to me particularly grave.

Although I could understand that Monsignor Barry wanted to forward a rapid response to the nunciature, I was literally crushed by the short time that he gave me to reflect. I remained prostrate for three long days. Finally, I wrote a letter to the pope telling him that I was unworthy and incapable but that I accepted his decision. That same day I chose my episcopal motto: “Sufficit tibi gratia mea” (My grace is sufficient for you), from the Second Letter to the Corinthians (12:9). The apostolic administrator came to get my letter, and, for an entire year, negotiations were pursued between the Holy See and Sékou Touré.

In September 1978, Monsignor Barry asked me to leave the seminary and become his private secretary. He intended to help prepare me in this way for my heavy responsibility and to allow me to experience the ambiance of the city of Conakry, with which I was not well acquainted.

For me the year 1978-1979 at the archbishop’s chancery was like a long retreat in the desert, a time of prayer, silent tears, and study. I wanted to place everything in God’s hands. At the same time that I served as Monsignor Barry’s private secretary, I also assumed the responsibilities of curate of the parish of Saint Joseph the Worker and chaplain of Saint Thérèse of the Child Jesus boarding school run by the Congregation of the Little Sisters of Our Lady of Guinea.

For a year and four months, I was alone with Monsignor Barry, carrying the weight of the papal secret and the terrible anguish it caused me. I could speak of it to no one, not even to my parents.

Then, as if by a miracle, Archbishop Tchidimbo was released and deported on August 7, 1979. . .

On August 18 and 19, 1979, a papal delegation came to meet once again with the president. Sékou Touré finally accepted my appointment, and time began to pass quickly. The Roman prelates asked me to organize within a few days a Mass of thanksgiving in the cathedral for Thursday, August 23, with no other explanation than the joy of having a ceremony on the occasion of the presence among us of a special envoy from the Holy See. . . .

I was living as if in a strange dream! God wanted me to become archbishop at the age of thirty-four, while the country was going through an unprecedented crisis and all the property of the Church had been confiscated. The Mass was celebrated at 10:00 A.M. in the cathedral, and the appointment of Bishop Philippe Kourouma, as bishop of N’Zérékoré, was made public at the same time as mine. On that occasion I was also named apostolic administrator of the Diocese of Kankan.

On that day in August, the few faithful who had gathered in haste wept with joy and emotion. Since that terrible day in December 1970, we no longer had a bishop in any of the dioceses in Guinea. I knew that the trials of Archbishop Tchidimbo were immense. During those long years in the camp where he lived, one of his cousins, Mother Louis Curtis, would come and bring to him, in total secrecy, some hosts that allowed him to consecrate clandestinely and consume the Body of Christ, before his cell companions had awakened. In his book-length testament, Noviciat d’un évêque (A bishop’s novitiate), he wrote with the modesty so characteristic of him that “these brief Masses, celebrated in the utmost silence, around five o’clock in the morning, would be among the most moving ones of my priestly life.”

On August 7, 1979, Archbishop Tchidimbo was released and immediately driven to the airport to leave for Rome. I heard the news on the radio, and no one had obtained permission to greet him before he left the country. It was an indescribable emotion.

When my appointment was made public on August 23, 1979, two Holy Ghost Fathers, Robert Haffmans and Michel Legrain, were in Ourous. They heard the news on the radio by chance and ran to announce my appointment to my parents. Instead of joy and enthusiasm, they found that my parents were anguished: “You should be so happy that your son is called to such a high position of responsibility in the Church! Why are you sad?” the two missionaries asked. And my father and mother replied: “Do you know where his predecessor was?” They feared I would very soon have the same fate as Archbishop Tchidimbo.

After the Mass of thanksgiving, we asked to have an audience with the president, who agreed to receive us. At that time it was important to give the impression that we respected the work of the revolution. Sékou Touré did want us to be able to invite bishops from Africa and Europe to the occasion of our episcopal consecration, which was major news for the regime. On December 8, 1979, the day of my ordination, some bishops, priests, and clergymen returned for the first time to Guinea; Giovanni Cardinal Benelli, assisted by Archbishop Luc Sangaré of Bamako and Bishop Jean Orchampt of Angers and accompanied by twenty-s even other bishops, ordained me in the gardens of the archbishop’s residence in the presence of seven Guinean ministers led by the prime minister, Lansana Béavogui, and Andrée Touré, the president’s wife.

Sékou Touré had done all that he could to oppose my nomination, but from then on he seemed to accept my episcopate; the mobilization of the Vatican, of Liberia, and of numerous international organizations on behalf of the release of Archbishop Tchidimbo had greatly offended the regime. Moreover, the leader of the revolution did not want to open a new breach by continuing to reject Rome’s decisions. For me, however, it was the calm before the storm.

Very quickly I came to understand that the big problem of my ministry would be the relationships with my priests. The priesthood, families, young people, and the evangelizing influence of the Church were the four priorities for the beginning of my episcopal ministry.

In the beginning, I asked to be able to share my meals with all the priests of the diocese who worked in the offices of the archdiocese. I wanted to create a family atmosphere. But some laymen came to see me to warn me: everything I said was being reported to Sékou Touré’s cabinet. With sadness I resigned myself to taking all my meals alone.

Your life as a bishop is in some ways parallel to that in Krakow of Karol Wojtyta, who fought against Communism, is it not?

I would not dare compare myself to Saint John Paul II, but it was in fact both an enriching and a trying time. Until his death on March 26, 1984, Sékou Touré never stopped watching my least actions and gestures. Several months before his death, he had even planned in minute detail my arrest and execution, according to secret intelligence that was revealed to me after his burial.

After the consecration, Monsignor Barry advised me to set out immediately on the roads of the archdiocese to meet the faithful. For two years, therefore, I crisscrossed my ecclesiastical territory so as not to be cut off from reality. I understood that the State Party revolution was literally destroying all the mainstays of the country. In particular, the educational system was in a chaotic state; the only thing that mattered was the dissemination of official propaganda, inspired by Soviet Marxism-Leninism. Clinics and hospitals had all but disappeared or were appalling in their lack of hygiene. The weakest, in particular the children and the elderly, were left to fend for themselves in terrible suffering.

Political opponents had no rights as citizens. The mere act of voicing a simple criticism about the poverty of the people could lead to imprisonment at the Boiro camp, where the soldiers committed indescribable tortures of which I would prefer not to speak.

In fact, the country was sinking into a hellish spiral, and nothing seemed to be able to stop the ideological frenzy of Sékou Touré. Despite the risks, I decided to speak. I could not remain silent faced with such a tragic situation. Repeatedly, I explained my point of view about the poverty of the people, the fear or the lies of the leaders, and the disastrous political and economic management of our country. In a public speech, I even launched the remark for which Sékou Touré never forgave me: “Power consumes those who do not have the wisdom to share it!”

Thinking to myself, I reasoned: “I am thirty-five years old. In Africa, that is much more than half a lifetime. There are many children who die at birth and a multitude of people who have finished their life at age fifty or even before reaching the age of twenty. I should consider myself blessed by the Lord to have reached my age. Now, it is important that I dedicate myself totally to God and to his people. What more could I hope for than a death for the glory of God and for the defense of truth, for the dignity of the human person and freedom of conscience! We must agree to leave this earth for the sake of the Gospel. Jesus died because he testified to the truth: ‘For this I was born, and for this I have come into the world, to bear witness to the truth. Every one who is of the truth hears my voice’ (Jn 18:37).”

After hundreds of hours of prayer, I came to the conclusion that the worst that could happen to me was death; my life was nothing compared to the blatant injustices, the horrible poverty, and the unspeakable horrors that I saw each day. Terror reigned even in families, where a father might fear that his children would side with the dictatorship for the sake of expediency. I had to speak, even if my life was at stake.

I therefore decided to use my homilies at the cathedral and the ceremonies on January 1, when the archbishop traditionally presented his greetings to the president, to make some remarks about the degradation of the country. Without any provocative comments and with great respect, I formulated several proposals so the people might benefit from less trying conditions. Similarly, I called on the regime to grant greater freedom to the Guineans. The Catholics and many Muslims no longer knew what to do to convince me to take fewer risks. I was not afraid, and if I had to be arrested, it would be for a worthwhile reason.

Of course, no one wants to be tortured in a concentration camp. Nor was I unaware of the fact that Sékou Touré was capable of the worst against an opponent. However, I continued to consider my battle more important than my own survival. If God preferred to have me in heaven, I felt ready to meet him after defending my people against oppression.

Moreover, I sought to organize programs for youth. Sékou Touré in fact refused to allow anyone to work with young people. The State Party alone was in charge of education. Back in 1959, Sékou Touré had created the “Youth for the African Democratic Revolution”, which was supposed to promote all artistic, cultural, and athletic activities for young people. Any other youth movement was forbidden.

I wanted young people to have available a different point of view from that of the forces of the revolution. Therefore, I started a survey, asking the priests to approach young people and to ask them to write to me and tell me their grievances. In the overwhelming majority of the letters that I received, there was a thirst for spiritual and human formation. From then on, each year, in late August, I decided to gather young people who wished to participate for two-week courses on the Bible and human formation. I took care of the religious questions, and some experts came to answer their questions, which were often very specific, about work, management, marriage, and family. The human and financial investment was burdensome, because my diocese was not rich. Quickly I saw that the desires of these young people were profound. Needless to say, Sékou Touré took a very dim view of my initiative.

I also tried to help families; I saw how harmful Communism could be to them. Often inside the same home was a fear of what one of the spouses might do. The children literally escaped from education by their parents.

Generally speaking, the most important measures taken by revolutionary governments always affect the family. In addition, during the first five years of my episcopate, my pastoral letters were all dedicated to the defense of the Christian family.

Did you know what Sékou Touré thought of you?

At first he was very surprised by my freedom of speech. He also knew that I respected the protocol of the regime. For example, I never missed the long ceremonies on the national holiday or any other public manifestation organized by the State Party, and if Sékou Touré invited me to the presidential palace, I did not decline.

On several occasions, he had me sit beside him, among his ministers, presenting me as an example of faithfulness to the policies of the State Party. He proclaimed that he placed all his trust in me. . . . Several people came to see me to warn me about the trap that the president would not fail to set for me.

During our one-on-one meetings, he listened attentively to my observations, and the tone of our conversations was cordial. However, he must have known my opinions, because I knew that secret service agents listened to a great number of my conversations.

In fact, I was very worried by the depression that was poisoning the entire country. The moral conscience of the Guineans in particular had changed. Terror reigned everywhere, and a small minority of Guineans were drunk on deceptive revolutionary slogans and commitments. Sékou Touré instilled in the hearts of men such a deep fear that it took years before the people found the courage to stand up again. Unfortunately, it is easier to destroy a country than to rebuild it.

In January 1984, when Omar Bongo, president of the Republic of Gabon, was visiting our country, Sékou Touré wanted to honor me by introducing me to his guest. He once again warmly congratulated me on my adherence to the principles of the revolution. . . . The dictator’s strategy became obvious. By encouraging me and publicly manifesting his high esteem for me, Sékou Touré could more easily accuse me later of betraying his confidence along with the ideals of the regime.

A few weeks later, several European ambassadors, as well as my vicar general, Father André Mamadouba Camara, came to warn me about confidential remarks by ministers close to the president. These dignitaries of the regime claimed that the Church no longer had the same ideology as the State Party. In fact, Sékou Touré intended to prepare their minds for my arrest. But God placed his hand on me to protect me and keep me.

In December 1983, an earthquake struck Guinea; the damage was very extensive.

Those in charge of international aid in response to this natural disaster were welcomed by Commander Siake Touré, the leader of the Boiro camp. While he was at the airport in Conakry waiting for the arrival of a plane, he slipped, fell, and broke his leg. He was immediately evacuated to Morocco. According to the plans of Sékou Touré, that man was supposed to have arrested me a few weeks later. . . .

Then, in March 1984, on the occasion of the first World Youth Day organized in Rome, I asked the government for permission to go to Italy in response to the pope’s invitation. Usually, only a notification from the minister of the interior and national security was required. This visa was almost a mere formality. For this trip, the minister also asked for the president’s approval. He telephoned Sékou Touré, who asked about the date of my return, and upon hearing that I would be returning in April, gave his authorization for the trip. Joseph Hyzazi, who takes care of the finances of the diocese and my trips, reported to me the president’s discussion with the minister. These arrangements seemed strange and ominous!

But a few days later, Sékou Touré had a stroke. Saudi Arabia quickly dispatched an air ambulance. When it arrived in Conakry, the control tower, following procedures, tried to contact the president to obtain his authorization. Unable to reach Sékou Touré, since his critical condition was being kept secret, the tower refused to let the plane land, and it then headed for Dakar. Not until the next day, when the prime minister—a physician by profession—inquired about the arrival of the air ambulance, did the plane finally return to Conakry. Sékou Touré was evacuated to Morocco, then to the United States.

Thus the president, who had planned to have me arrested, and Siaka Touré, who was to carry out the plan, were both rendered incapable of doing any harm!

Despite the intensive care that he received, the dictator died on March 26, 1984, in Cleveland, in the United States, during heart surgery.

Prime Minister Lansana Beavogui became interim president, as the country waited for the elections that were supposed to be held within forty-five days. But on April 3, the armed forces seized power, denouncing the last years of the regime as a “bloody and merciless” oligarchy. The constitution was suspended, and the national assembly was dissolved, along with the one party. The leader of the coup, Colonel Lansana Conté, assumed the presidency on April 5, as the head of the Military Committee of National Recovery, the CMRN. As a pledge of goodwill, more than two thousand political prisoners were released from the sinister Boiro camp. The people were overjoyed.

Several days after Lansana Conté came into power, the ambassador from the Federal Republic of Germany, Bernard Zimmermann, informed me that documents containing a list of public figures who were to be executed had been found on Sékou Touré’s desk. I was at the top of the list. . . . This document planned my secret arrest and assassination for the month of April. God had been quicker than Sékou Touré! The Savior wanted me to stay a little longer on earth.

How did your country react to the death of Sékou Touré?

In fact, I think that the military forces were unprepared to assume the highest responsibilities of the State, which is not their job anyway. They were unable to reform the country so as to restart the economy and fight poverty. Public freedoms improved, but the political opposition was unfairly persecuted. We went from a Marxist regime to a military junta. Certainly, the country was less cut off from the world than it could ever have been under Sékou Touré. But, in fact, the framework of the country had not changed. The same rusty machine continued to run. How was it possible to put the new wine of truth and freedom into the old wineskins of the revolution?

As for me, even though I got along cordially at first with the new president, our relations quickly became strained because I continued to speak very freely. One day, I publicly protested against the fact that Guinea was the water reservoir of Africa, while its capital, Conakry, had practically no access to electricity and drinkable water was scarce.

Were you involved in the political life of Guinea?

No, but I felt that it was important to raise my voice to defend the dignity of the human person and respect for the life of the people of this country. I was the only one capable of protesting against the downward spiral of a military regime that could be guilty of actual murders. I was certainly never afraid to defend the rights and political positions of the main opposition figure of that period, Dr. Alpha Condé, the current president of the Republic. When he was in exile in Paris, I came to visit him in his apartment on the Place d’Italie, which the CMRN did not like at all.

The Catholic Church was a minority, but she was the only truly free institution. I knew that Christians as well as Muslims were waiting impatiently for me to speak out on the everyday concerns of the life of the people. After the failed coup by Colonel Diarra Traoré, violence, arrests, and murders were once again unleashed.

The Italian ambassador, Mr. Roberto Rosellini, informed by one of his compatriots that Colonel Diarra Traoré and three other persons were hiding in the house of an Italian national, was obliged to intervene to avoid implicating Italy in any way. He went and found Diarra Traoré in his hiding place. Traoré asked him for gas and a 4x4 in order to escape to Mali. The ambassador refused his request, because such an act would run the risk of implicating Italy in the attempted coup. The ambassador therefore decided to entrust Diarra Traoré and the three other wanted men to the minister of foreign affairs, Monsieur Facinet Touré. He wanted international law to be applied so as to avoid bloodshed.

Mr. Rosellini then came to see me, not in his official capacity as ambassador, but as a Catholic, so that we could combine our efforts and save human lives. Diarra Traoré himself wrote me a hasty, misspelled letter dated July 7, 1985: “Archbishop, it is with a broken heart that I write this letter to you today to ask you to be so kind as to intervene in the name of the Catholic Church on my behalf to the Head of State to ask him for an exceptional pardon. I have committed the worst mistake of my life, but I know that it had to be inscribed in my life, because as a believer, all destiny is inevitable. I ask you to do this for me, and you are quite capable of doing it; for I know of your legendary humanitarianism. Do not let me die, because as a human I think that I can still be redeemed. I am not telling you anything that you do not already know, but spare my brother from making the final decision. I am the father of a very large family made up of fourteen children who are still very young. I have complete confidence in you, and I count on your goodness of heart. May God provide you with vigorous health and long life. Amen. Diarra.”

He entrusted the letter to Lieutenant Bangoura Panival Sama, who delivered it to me on July 11, 1985, at 10:30 P.M. Before we went our separate ways, Lieutenant Bangoura Panival said to me: “You know, Archbishop, that I am Catholic, and a Catholic never lies or cheats anyone. I promised Diarra Traore that I would deliver this letter to you. How can I prove to him that I kept my promise?” I gave him the souvenir photo of my episcopal ordination; and on the back of the photo I then wrote, above my signature: “I did receive your letter. I pray for you and give you my blessing. Have courage, I commend you to God.”

On July 28, 1985, another letter arrived bearing the signatures of twenty-one people, with those of Commanders Kabassan Abraham Keita and Abdourahamane Kaba heading the list, along with the signatures of Captains Karifa Traoré, Fodé Sangare, et Ahmadou Kouyaté. The letter read: “We, the undersigned, respectfully convey to you our sentiments of profound gratitude and our utmost appreciation for your noble task of national reconciliation, in which you were one of the undisputed heroes. As a Man of God, be assured that from the depths of our prison cell, we have been very moved by the results of your actions as a pilgrim of peace and humanitarianism to help keep this country from reliving the tragedy of recent memory.”

In order to try to save the soldiers who had been arrested at the time of the failed conspiracy, I requested a meeting with the president, General Lansana Conté, and also with Madame Henriette Conté, his wife, in order to remind them of God’s commandment: “Thou shalt not kill!” Since I was unable to obtain a meeting as requested, I decided to write them a letter so that Guinea would not experience again the hell of the Sékou Touré regime, which so often had resorted to bloodshed. Much later, some dignitaries of the regime replied, saying that military law demands that traitors be shot. And so the leaders or the assumed perpetrators of the July 1985 coup as well as some members of the former government of Sékou Touré were all put to death. I was dismayed but helpless.

Without getting involved in politics, the Church in Guinea has always been firmly committed to proclaiming the rights of God and of man, in defense of human and moral values. Without truth, a country walks in darkness and causes the worst of misfortunes to befall its people. The Church must be involved in the daily life of people. No Christian can be cut off from the human condition or from the history of his contemporaries.

Even after the coup, it seems your life was not calm and peaceful every day. . . .

Of course, there were some very difficult moments. I, too, had to carry what Saint Augustine called the sarcina episcopalis. This popular military term denotes the baggage of a solider, the barda, the cumbersome, heavy gear that he carried. Quite often, it is a particularly heavy barda that the bishop must carry each day on his shoulders, and it gradually becomes heavier and heavier as his ministry meets with obstacles—especially if they come from within the Church and from his closest collaborators.

I had moments of discouragement and even collapse. So it was that in February 1990, at the point of exhaustion, I drafted a letter to the pope, resigning from my position as archbishop of Conakry. I wanted to retire to a small parish to serve as a simple priest. Before sending it to the Holy Father, I wanted to inform Father Barry so that he could give me his advice and help me to think with discernment. I had also written this short cover letter that had a touch of bitterness about it: “Why have I written to you to tell you of my decision? It is not to flaunt my troubles or to complain. No! It is simply because eleven years ago, in April 1978, you were the one to whom I gave my affirmative response to Pope John Paul II, who asked me to assume the office of pastor of the Archdiocese of Conakry. It is also because I have always considered you a father, a guide, and an adviser. I can say, as St. Paul said, ‘What we are is known to God, and I hope it is known also to your conscience. . . [We have spoken to you frankly]; our heart is wide [open to you]’ (2 Cor 5:11; 6:11).”

He reacted negatively, retorting that the Cross is not the business of a day or a week but of a whole lifetime. He strongly dissuaded me from sending my letter to the pope. . . And he kept it. Not until 2010, after my Mass of thanksgiving for the cardinalate, did he give it back to me, in Ourous!

The almost constant underground struggle with the political authorities, from the dictatorship of Sékou Touré to the military regime of Lansana Conté, was undoubtedly trying. But these external difficulties were not what was gnawing away at my courage and determination to serve the Lord. Instead, it was the internal struggles that I had to face, that shattered me by showing me with increasing clarity that I was objectively incapable of leading the Church of Conakry.

In order to address the situation, I established a program of regular spiritual retreats. Every two months, I would leave, alone, for a completely isolated spot. I would subject myself to an absolute fast, with no food or water for three days. I wanted to be with God, to speak with him in private. When I left Conakry, I would take nothing with me except a Bible, a small traveling Mass kit, and a book of spiritual reading. The Eucharist was my only food and my sole companion. This life of solitude and prayer helped me to recharge and to return to battle.

I think that a bishop, in order to fulfill his role, must do penance, fast, listen to the Lord, and pray for long periods of time in silence and solitude. Christ withdrew for forty days in the desert; the successors to the apostles must imitate Christ as faithfully as possible.

My Christian experience and conviction were born through contact with the Holy Ghost Fathers of my village. When they encountered difficulties, the missionaries took refuge in prayer. The process of human birth takes a long time and is not a single act. It happens moment by moment. There were stages that gave my life a decisive orientation. But these turning points were the hours, the moments of the day when, one-on-one with the Lord, I became aware of his will for me. The most important moments in life are the hours of prayer and adoration. They give birth to a human being, fashion our true identity; they root our existence in mystery. My daily encounters with the Lord, in supplication and prayer, are the basis for my life. I began to be attentive to these moments even as a child, in my family, and through contact with the Holy Ghost Fathers in Ourous. When we must live the Passion, we have to retreat to the Garden of Gethsemane, in the solitude of the night.

Therefore I prayed once again, and I decided not to send my letter of resignation.

Two years later Pope John Paul II traveled to Guinea. Was this a historic visit for your country?

Originally John Paul II was supposed to visit Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Guinea. The war in Sierra Leone changed his itinerary. The Holy See therefore chose to organize an apostolic visit, this time selecting Senegal, Gambia, and Guinea. At that time the archbishop still did not have his own residence; therefore, the organizers of the papal visit did not know how to put up the Holy Father, especially since he was determined to visit Guinea. He knew that the country had gone through tremendous difficulties under the revolutionary Communist regime.

In fact, the residence had been confiscated by Sékou Touré after the arrest of Archbishop Tchidimbo. It had become the home of the governor of Conakry, then the residence of the prime minister, Colonel Diarra Traoré. It was from this house that Diarra Traoré had organized his failed coup.

The house was then ransacked, destroyed, and set ablaze by soldiers who were loyal to President Conté.

Given this situation, the pope’s collaborators could see only one solution: John Paul II would come from Dakar, in Senegal, would spend the day in Conakry, and would return to Dakar for the night.

Frustrated and disappointed, I requested an audience with President Conté to explain to him that Guinea would be seen in a poor light if it could not offer the pope a house because of a lack of goodwill on the part of the State, which was never willing to return property to the Church. The head of State then decided to return the house, after a complete renovation. Then we learned that the pope himself wanted to stay for three days in Guinea in order to console us for all the sufferings we had experienced under the dictatorship of Sékou Touré.

John Paul II arrived on February 24, 1992. I feared that the crowds would be sparse, since Guinea is a mostly Muslim country. Contrary to my fears, the Catholics and many Muslims came to express their joy in welcoming the successor of Peter. Muslim believers told me very seriously: “During the revolution, we were forced to welcome leaders of the USSR; there is no reason why we would not got out into the streets to see a great believer and a man of God!”

From the airport to the center of Conakry, there was not one empty street. During the first Mass at the cathedral, the joy of the faithful was immense. In the afternoon, at the college of Saint Mary of Dixinn, there was a meeting with the catechists and the parish councils that had kept the Christian communities alive for a long time when they were deprived of any priestly presence. The day culminated with the dedication of the hospital that today bears the name of the Supreme Pontiff. The next day, during a second Mass at the large “September 28” stadium, John Paul II ordained three priests. After lunch, he met some young Guineans at the People’s Palace. Several hours later, I wanted him to be able to speak also with the representatives of the Muslims. Finally, in the evening, we had planned some time for prayer at the grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes in the gardens of the archbishop’s residence. The recollection of the faithful was very impressive.

After crowning the Blessed Virgin, the pope knelt down and recollected himself for some time. The depth and length of his prayer, which seemed endless, greatly impressed the crowds gathered there. Then, after he got up, he slowly approached me and put the beautiful stole that he was wearing on my shoulders. I was quite shocked, because I did not understand the reason for his gesture, which was unplanned. While going back to the residence, he took me in his arms and said firmly: “This is a very beautiful ending.” The following day, on the last day of his visit, he celebrated a private Mass in the chapel of the Stella Maris residence.

Several days later, I knew he had been really very impressed by the simplicity of the welcome by the people. To thank us, he asked Francis Cardinal Arinze, president of the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue, to go to the countries he had visited to thank the Christian and Muslim people as well as the governments.

The mobilization of the laity was exceptional. Without them, I would have never been able to prepare so effectively for the pope’s journey.

Your farewell speech in Guinea, in November 2001, as you were about to leave for Rome, has remained a significant moment in the country’s history. The remarkable part of it was an especially harsh indictment of the regime of General Lansana Conté. . . . How did you decide to give such a speech?

The situation was paradoxical. The president was proud of my appointment to Rome, and he insisted on organizing a great banquet in my honor with all the State leaders. I did not want to fall into the trap of that worldly atmosphere. On November 17, 2001, I therefore decided to take advantage of this platform to communicate my concern.

My speech was not broadcast on national television, since the recording of it was seized by the minister of information. President Conté was represented at the ceremony by his prime minister, Lamine Sidimé, accompanied by many members of his government. But during my speech, several of them dashed out of the banquet hall. . . .

Inasmuch as the prime minister had just bestowed on me the highest honor of the State of Guinea, I could make a long speech. And so I was able to say: “I am worried about Guinean society, which is built on the oppression of the insignificant by the powerful, on contempt for the poor and the weak, on the cleverness of poor stewards of the public good, on the bribery and corruption of the administration and the institutions of the republic. . . I am speaking to you, Mister President of the Republic, even though you are not here. Endowed by the Lord with all sorts of natural and culture resources, Guinea, paradoxically, stagnates in poverty. . . I am concerned about the young people; they have no future because they are paralyzed by chronic unemployment. I am also concerned about national unity, cohesion, and harmony, which are greatly compromised by the lack of political dialogue and the refusal to accept differences. In Guinea, the law, justice, ethics, and human values no longer provide a frame of reference and a safeguard to regulate social, economic, and political life. Democratic freedoms are taken hostage by ideological trends that can lead to intolerance and dictatorship. In the past, giving your word was something sacred. It is true that a person’s merit is measured by his ability to be faithful to his word. Today, the media, demagoguery, mind conditioning, and all sorts of other methods are used to sway public opinion and manipulate minds, giving the impression of a collective rape of consciences and a serious confiscation of freedoms and of thought.”

The minister of information was furious. He decreed an embargo on my entire speech. The next day, during the farewell Mass in the gardens of the archbishop’s residence, one lone member of the government was present, the minister of energy, Mr. Niankoye Fassou Sagno, who is now the prime minister’s chief of staff. The wife of the president, Henriette Conté, and Elisabeth Sidimé, the wife of the prime minister, also attended. But I was very disappointed because not one Christian minister was present at this farewell Mass.

I again decided to speak loudly and forcefully. As I finished my homily, I could not hide the truth: “I know that the people of Guinea have great esteem and respect for me. But I leave Guinea with the impression that I am hated by my government because I speak the truth.”

At the end of the Mass, the prime minister arrived very hastily. . . . He assured me that the government paid great attention to my point of view. In fact, I knew perfectly well that the minister for national security was doing all that he could to discourage people from coming to say goodbye to me the next day when I departed at the airport.

Even so, the streets were lined with an indescribable crowd who were determined to meet me before my departure. The police tried to disperse the crowd, but it was wasted effort. . . . In the great hall of the airport, I made a final brief impromptu speech calling for calm, while many had tears in their eyes. With a heavy heart, I boarded the plane, and from the window I continued to look for a long time at this gigantic crowd of people who were waving to me. I remembered Archbishop Tchidimbo and that night in April 1978 when Monisgnor Barry came to tell me that the pope had thought of the most unknown priest in Guinea as the next archbishop.

What memories do you have of your first moments in Rome as secretary of the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples?

I arrived in Rome on November 19, 2001. When Bernardin Gantin, who like me had also been named secretary of the congregation, had first stepped onto Roman soil, he was hurt that no one came to welcome him at the airport. He wanted to make sure that I did not suffer the same fate. . . . With his usual tact with regard to me, the cardinal sent to Fiumicino Airport the nuns who kept house in his apartment, with his own car, to provide me with transportation to my new residence. But Crescenzio Cardinal Sepe, who then headed the dicastery to which I was called, had also sent his representative in the person of the undersecretary. Thus, I had a special entourage!

It is important to understand that the competencies of the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples are vast. This dicastery has the responsibility for nominating all the bishops of Africa, Asia, Oceania, a number of important apostolic vicariates in Latin America, and several dioceses in Northern Canada. It was an extraordinary experience, because I had the opportunity of being in contact with all those peoples, all those mission countries, all those cultures and had so many edifying pastoral experiences. Every day I could consult with missionary congregations and institutions throughout the world. The work of preparing episcopal nominations was absolutely immense. During those years, I was able to understand both the strengths and the weaknesses of most of the dioceses in the world.

In Europe, we still have the impression that Catholicism is now near its last gasp. It is enough to spend a week at the congregation to understand that, on the contrary, the Church has an extraordinary vitality. We are experiencing a “new springtime of Christianity”, as John Paul II liked to say. In 1900 there were two million African Catholics; today there are 185 million. In Asia, Catholicism, prompted and stimulated by the tradition of different forms of mysticism, is the embodiment of modernity. I would add that the beauty of the Church does not lie in the number of her faithful but in their holiness.

I have been able to follow the work of more than a thousand dioceses and of countless missionaries who give themselves generously to others in the most arid, remote regions of this earth; with ridiculous resources, they bring all of God’s goodness to mankind. Often the missionary institutions are the only ones to care for the poor and the sick, whom no one wants to look at. When irresponsible governments, cruel armies, or lobbies hungry for profits have sown terror or despair, there is nothing left but the open hands of God, who, through the courage of his messengers of the Gospel, comes to console the poorest of the poor. Among these missionaries there are saints. Many will remain unknown, and yet their sanctity is impressive.

Finally, I always took special care in following up the aid that we were able to provide for the formation of seminarians in disadvantaged countries. In this major dicastery, I had the sense that I understood the fundamental insights of John Paul II. In the West, where everything seems to be dying and Christianity appears to be evaporating inexorably, there are nevertheless extraordinary hidden flowers. For the true springtime of the Church consists of the saints! How could we forget John Paul II, Mother Teresa, and all the saints of the modern era?

Certainly, the job of secretary of a congregation is not easy, but it is a fine apprenticeship. I liked very much working with the two men who succeeded one another at the head of the congregation during my time there: Cardinal Sepe, who has an especially impressive gift for organization, and then with Ivan Cardinal Dias, who displayed such fine spiritual qualities. They were quite different, and I received much from those years.

From 2008 on, I gradually replaced Cardinal Dias in a number of meetings because he suffered from an illness that increasingly disabled him. In those circumstances, I had the chance to have many working meetings with Pope Benedict XVI, in particular concerning his appointment of bishops. His humility, his ability to listen, and his intelligence always struck me.

In 2010, after nine years at the Propaganda fide, you were appointed president of the Pontifical Council Cor unum. Was that the beginning of a new stage in your life?

Yes, indeed, on the morning of October 7, 2010, Tarcisio Cardinal Bertone telephoned me to tell me that Pope Benedict XVI was thinking of having me take the position of president of the Pontifical Council Cor unum. I was astonished because I had not asked for anything at all. Cardinal Dias was happy about my appointment, and at the same time I felt that he was sad to see me leave. The next day I left Rome for a trip to India that had been planned long before.

On October 20, when I finished my stay in India with a visit to Goa, Cardinal Bertone came to join me. We finally managed to speak to one another. So it was that the secretary of state told me that the Holy Father was planning a consistory to create new cardinals. Tarcisio Bertone then revealed to me that I would be raised to the cardinalatial dignity on that occasion.

I cannot say that I was proud. The confidence of Benedict XVI touched me because I had the feeling that this promotion was undeserved. Right away I thought of my parents, who would have been so happy about it! I prayed that God would help me to assume this responsibility, not as an honor, but as a weighty, difficult trial in defense of Christ. My parents would never have dreamed of such a surprising appointment. I thought also of Archbishop Tchidimbo, who would have deserved that dignity more than I.

I do not know why; God has always come to hold my hand and accompany me along more important paths. In my life, God has done everything; for my part, I just wanted to pray. I am sure that the red of my cardinalate is really the reflection of the blood of the suffering missionaries who came to the remotest parts of Africa to evangelize my village.

When I returned to Rome, Benedict XVI granted me a private audience. During that meeting, the pope made this remark, which I will never forget: “Your Excellency, I appointed you to Cor unum because I know that of all people you have the experience of suffering and of the face of poverty. You will be most capable of expressing tactfully the Church’s compassion and closeness to those who are poorest.”

The ceremony in which Benedict XVI created you a cardinal must have been a great moment.

On November 20, 2010, God crowned many trials and sacrifices. Indeed, I really cared about one thing: I wanted the Holy Ghost Fathers of my childhood to be present in Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome on the day of my elevation to the cardinalatial dignity. God caused many fine fruits to mature in my life, but the Holy Ghost Fathers witnessed the first breath of God on my heart. At a time when I had no merit, God always put his trust in me. Similarly, although I am far from having succeeded in everything that the Church might have expected of me, the different popes, from Paul VI on, have always given me important responsibilities. Although we are the product of a human heritage, more profoundly we are the work of God in the first place.

The honors that the Church may bestow on some of her sons are first of all a grace of God so that faith, hope, and charity might be more radiant. The temptation of worldliness is a plague. There is no human promotion in the Church, but merely an imitation of the Son of God. The good fortunes of ecclesiastical offices are just petty deceptive tinsel. Francis often correctly recalls the worldliness of Satan.

Even today, when I enjoy privileges due to my position, I strive to remain in union with God through profound mental prayer. If we refer everything back to God, there will be plenty of humility. The honor given to a cardinal can only be for the glory of God. Nothing will ever be too fine for Him.

What did your daily work consist of in the Cor unum council?

My mission was to be able to express as well as possible the compassion and the spiritual and material closeness of the Church for people who are suffering from all the most difficult trials in this world. As I traveled to the most afflicted countries in our time, I very quickly understood that the greatest misery is not necessarily material poverty. The most profound misery is the lack of God. He can be absent because people are too much imprisoned in their materialism and profoundly desperate; they have abandoned him or reject him. Often there is a hunger for bread, but also a hunger for God.

Cor unum, as a representative of the charity of the successor of Peter, was systematically present at all the sites of war, natural catastrophes, famines, and epidemics. Often, behind these immeasurable tragedies, there is an abandonment of God by men. And so Cor unum always tried to bring emergency material aid, without forgetting divine consolation. Charity is service to man, but it is not possible to serve mankind without telling people about God. In this respect, the Church will never be able to conduct work comparable to some humanitarian organizations that are often guided and dominated by ideologies.

In his encyclical Deus caritas est, Benedict XVI correctly recalls that “Christian charitable activity must be independent of parties and ideologies. It is not a means of changing the world ideologically, and it is not at the service of worldly stratagems, but it is a way of making present here and now the love which man always needs” (DCE 31). And the source of this love is God himself. We must reflect theologically on charity so as to prevent Catholic charitable agencies from falling into secularism.

The nature of the Church is in the love of God, and the charity of the Church is in the first place the charity of God.

True charity is neither almsgiving nor humanistic solidarity nor a form of philanthropy: charity is the expression of God and an extension of Christ’s presence in our world. Charity is not an ad hoc function but the inmost nature of the Church, intima Ecclesiae natura.

It urges us to evangelize; to put it simply, the Church reveals the Love of God. Often the absence of God is the deepest root of human suffering. And so the Church gives the Love of God to all. Consequently, a Christian cannot perform acts of charity only for his brethren in Christ, but must do so for all men without any distinction.

What are your most striking memories of those four years?

The trip to Japan was an extraordinary time. On March 11, 2011, a severe earthquake of magnitude 9, followed by a tsunami, struck the eastern part of Tohoku, around Sendai, causing the deaths of several thousand persons, very serious damage in the entire northeastern part of Honshu, and the nuclear accident in Fukushima.

I arrived in the country on May 13, 2011. Two months after the catastrophe, everything needed to be rebuilt. I was struck by the welcome that I received from the population, which was predominantly Buddhist, who were helpless but strong at the same time. During those days I understood that the people whom I was visiting expected from me not just material relief; despite the difference in our religious beliefs, they wanted me to give them the hope that comes from God. And so, after distributing the pope’s logistical and financial aid, the most important thing that I had to do was to pray at length in the midst of that whole populace which was so sorely tried. It became essential for me to turn to God for those orphaned children whose eyes were so sad, for those men and women who were trying to rebuild their houses, for those old people exhausted from fatigue. I was distressed when I left, because I knew that God alone could truly come to the aid of all the Japanese by entering into the depths of their hearts. Money is a necessity, but there is a tenderness that can come from God alone.

A letter from a young Buddhist woman, who wrote to me two months after my return from Japan, moved me profoundly. She told me: “After the terrible tsunami in which we lost many members of our family, and almost all our belongings, I wanted to commit suicide. But after hearing you on television, with the peace and serenity that I rediscovered while watching you pray for the survivors and for the dead, after the effect in me of your recollection and your silent prayer on the seacoast, and, finally, after the moving gesture that you made by throwing flowers into the ocean in memory of all who were engulfed by the waves, I gave up the idea of killing myself. Thanks to you, I understood, and now I know that, despite this disaster, someone loves us, lives beside me, and shares my sufferings, because we must certainly be of great price in his sight. This someone is God. I felt his Presence and his compassion through the Holy Father the Pope and through you. I am not Catholic, but I write you these lines to thank you and to thank the Holy Father Pope Benedict XVI for this immense comfort that you have given me. I know that other persons have received, as I did, this precious spiritual aid that we all need, especially at a time of great, terrible trials.”

I had never seen the person who wrote me that letter. She did not receive any concrete material relief from me. Nevertheless, this Buddhist woman helped me to understand better that charity has a value in itself, as a testimony to God, above and beyond its technological, economic, political, or sociological effectiveness. It is part of the Church’s mission, which consists of revealing God’s love and tenderness and helping people to rediscover the presence, the compassion, and the merciful love of our Father in the midst of our sufferings. That Japanese woman helped me profoundly to grasp my mission as president of the Pontifical Council Cor unum.

The real relief that we must bring to the poor and to afflicted people is not just material but spiritual. It is necessary to reveal to them the love, the compassion, and the closeness of God. God is with us in the trial. He walks with us along the road to Emmaus, the road of disappointment, suffering, and discouragement.

Some Catholic organizations are ashamed and refuse to manifest their faith. They no longer want to talk about God in their charitable activities; their excuse is that they do not want to proselytize. Nevertheless, Pope Francis writes even more strongly in Evangelii gaudium: “Since this Exhortation is addressed to members of the Catholic Church, I want to say, with regret, that the worst discrimination which the poor suffer is the lack of spiritual care. The great majority of the poor have a special openness to the faith; they need God, and we must not fail to offer them his friendship, his blessing, his word, the celebration of the sacraments, and a journey of growth and maturity in the faith. Our preferential option for the poor must mainly translate into a privileged and preferential religious care” (EG 200).

Several months ago, in Jordan, in the Syrian refugee camps, a little seven-year-old Muslim boy shouted at me: “Does Allah exist? Does Allah exist? Why did he allow my father to be killed?” Indeed, his father had had his throat cut by the Islamist rebels, in his presence, and he was profoundly shocked. We attempted to talk to him about the good Lord, God the Father and Creator of all wonderful things, who detests evil, to try to help the boy get over his traumatic experience. How could anyone ever forget such suffering, which is a direct result of the barbarity of men who have perverted religion? This child had all the necessary material aid, he lacked nothing, neither clothing nor food nor sanitary facilities nor housing. That was not enough to console him. Only the closeness of God and the experience that he loves us and suffers with us, in us, reveal the mystery of suffering and bring consolation, comfort, and interior peace.

In Haiti, in 2010, after the earthquakes, the population had to face very violent hurricanes. Over the course of my life, I have witnessed many situations of great poverty. In Africa, I remember so many tragedies that followed one after the other with terrible regularity. But I can say that I never saw such sufferings as in Haiti. I had the feeling that an entire population was overwhelmed by the natural catastrophes that pummeled it. The sadness seemed to pervade the soul of a whole nation. I worked a great deal to make our aid as effective as possible. I also discovered a people with immense faith and absolute confidence in God in the midst of its numerous sufferings.

If we know how to practice charity, we will know how to revere God and we will be able to journey toward eternity. Through charity, we allow God to accomplish his work in us. Through charity, we abandon ourselves entirely to God. And he is the one who acts in us, and we act in him and through him and with him.

There is never any more authentic relation with God than in an encounter with the poor. For this is the source of life in God: poverty.

Our Father is poor. This is perhaps an image of God that eludes us and repels us, because we have not really met “the Son of man [who] has nowhere to lay his head” (Mt 8:20).