Pope Leo XIV arrived in Gran Canaria this Thursday—after two days in Barcelona—to begin the third and final stage of his apostolic journey in Spain. After landing at the Gran Canaria-Gando air base and being welcomed by local authorities, the Pontiff proceeded directly to the port of Arguineguín to hold the first meeting of the day, dedicated to the organizations working on the reception and assistance of migrants arriving in the archipelago via the Atlantic route.
The event took place at the site that was at the center of the migration crisis in 2020 following the mass arrival of migrants during the pandemic; since then, it has become one of the symbols of the migration phenomenon in the islands.
During the meeting, Leo XIV listened to testimonies from Tito Villarmea, captain of the Salvamento Marítimo vessel Urania; María Reyes Alemán, a volunteer with Cáritas; Blessing, a victim of human trafficking whose account was read for security reasons; and the Hispanic-American businesswoman María Fernanda López Meza.
After the interventions, the Pope delivered a speech focused on the dignity of the human person, the reality of those forced to leave their countries, the actions of criminal networks operating on migration routes, and the responsibility of national and international institutions in addressing this phenomenon.
Below is the full text of the Holy Father’s address:
Dear brothers and sisters:
We have just heard one of the most demanding passages of the Gospel. We know that this same chapter also contains a warning that no believer can take lightly (Mt 25:41-45). Today, by the sea, the Word becomes concrete: here so many wounded lives arrive, stripped of almost everything, yet never of their dignity. Here the Gospel pulls us from the comfortable place of the spectator and places us before the brother or sister who arrives. It asks us whether we have recognized Christ in those who disembark marked by fear, hunger, and violence, after the desert, the night, and the sea.
As you can see, I am wearing the ring known as the “Fisherman’s Ring.” Its very name leads us to the Sea of Galilee, where Christ called Peter and said to him: “From now on you will be catching people” (Lk 5:10). The Church has read this verse as an image of her mission. But here and in places like El Hierro, that mandate takes on a literal and painful force. That island, small in size yet great in humanity, has seen thousands of people arrive, torn from their land and entrusted to the fragility of a cayuco. Here there are people rescued from the sea and lifeless bodies recovered from the waters. That is why the Successor of Peter cannot remain indifferent to these docks. The Church cannot remain indifferent to these waters or to any place where hunger, thirst, violence, fear, or exile continue to wound human dignity. The disciples of Jesus cannot consider foreign the cry of those who call out from the night.
In biblical language, the sea can be an image of threat, darkness, and chaos. There we find Leviathan, the figure of the devouring power, and Rahab, a name evoking the arrogance of the powers that rise against God and against life (cf. Ps 74:13-14; 89:10-11; Is 27:1; 51:9; Jb 26:12). Today, too, monsters lurk in these seas: mafias trafficking in despair, traffickers enslaving women and children, and the indifference of many who allow the poor to be swallowed by exploitation or oblivion.
Yet faith does not remain paralyzed before the power of the sea. We believe in a God who subdues chaos, sets limits to evil, and opens a path when death seems to prevail. This is what the people of Israel experienced when they crossed the Red Sea to leave slavery and walk toward freedom (cf. Ex 14:21-31). And this is what we contemplate in Christ, who walks on the waters and, in the face of the storm, utters a sovereign word: “Be still! Be silent!” (Mk 4:39; cf. Mt 14:25-27). That voice continues to resound against the forces that devour, enslave, and discard so many of our brothers and sisters. Where Christ commands the sea to be silent, the Church cannot remain mute before those abandoned to its waters.
Thank you for the testimonies, for reminding us what it means to save lives. To María, thank you for reminding us of what Cáritas, the parishes, and so many people do every day. Your words show us where the conversion of our gaze begins: when the migrant ceases to be “just another one,” ceases to be a category or a number. Only then do we understand that that girl could be our daughter, those faces part of our family; and then conscience is left without excuses. Mercy begins with small gestures: sometimes with a few cookies and a little milk; at other times, with five loaves and two fish (cf. Mt 14:17-21). It is not about solving everything, but about placing everything in God’s hands and being present where human beings suffer, where resources are insufficient and there is no common language, but where gestures can still speak. Heartfelt thanks to all who join in rescues, reception, and accompaniment, bearing witness that concrete mercy can save and change lives.
Dear Blessing, although you are not here today, your voice is. Thank you for sharing your story with us. Your name means blessing, and it reminds us that every human life is a blessing from God. No one can buy it, sell it, use it, or discard it, because in every person the image and likeness of the Creator shines forth (cf. Gn 1:27). You told us that you left your country not because you wanted to, but because there was no other option. In your words we hear the drama of so many people forced to leave because poverty, war, threat, or exploitation closed every path.
I would like this message to reach you and so many women who are victims of trafficking and exploitation: if others put a price on your body, God has never ceased to look upon you as someone of inestimable worth. If they tried to lock you in a past of pain, God continues to speak over you a promise of future. If they treated you as a thing, the Church wants to tell you today: you are a daughter, a sister, you are a blessing. Your life does not belong to those who harmed you; your body does not belong to those who took advantage of you; your days do not belong to those who tried to chain them to fear. Your life belongs to God and retains a dignity that no one can take from you. And we want to walk with you until that truth feels stronger than the pain.
Dear migrants: before saying anything else, I want to bow before your dignity. You are not numbers or files. You are persons with a family and a home left behind; with dreams that no one has the right to despise. But I also want to tell you that your life must be protected. Do not entrust your existence to those who trade in it. Do not believe those who promise easy paradises in exchange for your body or money, silence or your freedom. Those false promises are “sirens’ songs”; they are industries of death.
This drama must become an examination of conscience: for the countries of origin, which must create conditions of peace, justice, and development; for the countries of transit, called to protect and not to leave the weak in the hands of criminal networks; for Europe, which cannot proclaim human dignity and at the same time grow accustomed to the Mediterranean and the Atlantic becoming graveyards without headstones; for the international community, called to effective and persevering cooperation.
And the Church, too, must allow herself to be challenged. The welcome of the migrant cannot be something secondary or entrusted only to a few volunteers. We kneel before the altar to adore Christ present in the Eucharist, from whom we receive the strength and the reason to live charity; therefore, we cannot later “pass by” the cayucos and the pateras, for from prayer springs every service and to it returns every commitment (cf. Lc 10:31-32).
From this island, I would like the voice of those who have spoken today to reach those who hold decisive responsibilities—civil authorities, parliaments, governments, and international organizations—as well as Christian communities, other religious traditions, and all men and women of good will. It is not enough to manage arrivals, distribute numbers, strengthen borders, or lament deaths once they have already occurred. Every boat that arrives does not bring only migrants; it brings with it a question: what world have we built, if so many brothers and sisters must risk death to seek life?
Human dignity demands legal and safe pathways, rescue and assistance, real cooperation against traffickers, effective protection for victims, serious processes of reception and integration, and policies that allow every person to live with dignity in their own land. While there is a right to seek refuge when life is threatened, there is also the right not to have to migrate: the right to remain in one’s own home without hunger, without war, without persecution, without violence, without the land becoming uninhabitable, without corruption stealing the bread of the poor, without weapons destroying the future of children. We cannot grow accustomed to counting the dead. Human dignity has no passport and does not lose value when crossing a border.
May the God who “at the evening of life will judge us on love” (cf. St. John of the Cross, Avisos y sentencias, 57) grant us to recognize him today in the poor and in strangers, and free us from looking upon the suffering of others as if it did not belong to us. May Our Lady of Mount Carmel accompany those who have arrived, console those who have lost loved ones, sustain those who welcome them, and awaken in all of us the courage of mercy.
And may history not have to accuse us of having turned the pain of those who suffer into the ordinary landscape of our coasts. Because today, here, by the sea, every life that arrives asks us what remains of our humanity. Sooner or later, it will be known whether we knew how to guard it or whether we let indifference speak for us. Thank you very much.
At the end of the meeting, Leo XIV cast a floral offering into the sea, followed by a minute of silence in memory of the victims of maritime migration, and blessed a cross made from the wood of cayucos, the vessel used by migrants to reach the archipelago.
The Pontiff’s schedule in Gran Canaria will continue in the afternoon with a meeting at the Cathedral of Santa Ana with bishops, priests, deacons, religious men and women, seminarians, and pastoral agents. Later, he will preside over Holy Mass at the Gran Canaria Stadium, one of the largest events planned during his stay in the archipelago.