My Unseen Miracle

As I neared the remaining five minutes, I sought shelter in the shadow of the central column. While her head swivelled above it, she looked around and down at the ocean of pilgrims surrounding us. To me, she gave nothing but her back. To the multitudes of gazes converging towards the sun, she sprinkled the level of respect that only cocktail sticks in a pineapple hedgehog would command. On closer look, what initially appeared as a stone-cold pillar was the tense muscle protruding from the side of her neck when she ran her inspections. That was her last review before handing over to higher authorities in the sky and joining the rest of us in fervent anticipation. I maintain that columns would have come in handy on this roasting tin of a square, where my faith would have been better nurtured if sheltered under some roof.

“Granny, watch this! I can stare right into the sun, and it doesn't even hurt my eyes!” said a little girl next to us, her arms stretched wide in early amazement.

"If we were back home, I'd be sweating buckets for sure!" grinned her elderly guardian as she ran a finger over her temple, showing off how dry it was.

"The Rolles visited last year and claimed they saw the sun set and rise again—not just once!" said an ostentatiously dressed man in a Caribbean accent to the woman beside him. She nodded enthusiastically, her overplucked eyebrows shooting up as high as they could.

I made a conscious effort to keep an open mind and appreciate the little things, which I heard was an early sign you'd been touched by grace. For one thing, being here at all had to be a divine reward after we'd braved the wilderness of a three-day trip outside the bounds of sanitary civilisation. The coach that picked us up at Charles de Gaulle airport only knew to stop at a certain kind of service areas; it found them by olfactory recognition, and Mother's face found them reminiscent of Dad. The pattern of soapless dispensers, non-mirrors, and puddles of piss had given us a sense of comforting familiarity while all else remained foreign and new. I silently thanked that first obstacle course for making this stay in post-war Bosnia feel almost comfortable. Besides, it started me on a journey towards manning up, which Mother kept hinting I needed.

What else? Even forcibly inhaling the mixture of body odour and cheap perfume wafting from the armpits around me, I survived. 

Despite the family of nine who shuffled their way onto Medjugorje's main square on their knees, and who'd been chanting the rosary behind me as if my head was their megaphone—my shade face was nowhere to be seen. 

The ultimate sign? The fabulous neckerchief of this boy scout around my age a few steps ahead gave me the perfect token of solidarity in my minutes of need. 

As the clock struck one-to-apparition, a wave rolled through the crowd as they shifted their weight with eager anticipation.

"It's time. It's 5.40," said Maddly, our group leader, turning her eyes from the sun to Apparition Hill. She spoke with a sense of gravity, directing our attention towards the Hill, and nudging us to follow her lead in shifting our focus. 

"Where should we look??" Foufouye inquired, always the last to catch on. Despite not needing any fixing, she fidgeted with her new dress, her eyes darting around in search of a camera to pose for.

"How many visionaries are there again?" asked the wife with near-extinct eyebrows. 

"The Rolles mentioned six," the husband replied cautiously, his tone implying that any information from those people should be taken with a grain of salt.

The wind settled down, leaving the square calm and still. A man stepped away from the group of shadows on top of the Hill, holding a microphone to his lips. “Please remain silent out of respect for Our Lady,” he announced, repeating the guidance in more languages than I could count, his fluency no less than papal. Then, modelling the behaviour expected from us, he fell silent, bowed his head and clasped his hands in reverence.  

As he stepped back, the silhouettes before him dropped to their knees in quasi-unison, and looked up. A giant screen appeared, showing close-up shots of their faces. On the left was a balding man in his forties with a face flushed with rosiness, his hands held together in prayer. On the right was a woman in her fifties with frizzy, grey hair framing her face, accentuating her high cheekbones and small teeth. She wore no makeup, giving off an aura of humble trustworthiness. The third and last visionary—never get your intel from the Rolles!— was an ageless woman glowing with beatitude. Her well-timed tears glistened on her powdered cheekbones while red lipstick highlighted her pearly white teeth. With her bouffant blonde hair and elegant Slavic features, she exuded a vintage sophistication. She stared intently at the invisible Virgin Mary, her eyes narrowed slightly to show that she was not acknowledging your stare. One hand rested on her heart while the other gripped a rosary tightly, creating a bulge under her flowing chest that could hide a whole deck of cards.

After roughly two minutes, their bodies relaxed from the praying positions with a whoosh like deflating balloons. Ready assistants burst onto the scene to catch them before they could collapse and spill their blessed souls onto the ground. Two strong men, one on either side, were assigned to each seer and managed to lift them back up onto their feet. Their expressions were a mix of awe and bewilderment, needing a moment to gather themselves after the otherworldly encounter.

As he returned to the microphone, the polyglot brought us together again as if breaking the old spell on the people of Babel. He announced that he would be translating messages from the "Gospa", a term of endearment for the Virgin Mary in these parts. The visionaries spoke, particularly their leader in the centre. He relayed their words to us—something about how she called her "Dear Children" to pray; and her family sent their best blessings; and she thanked the seers for responding to her call… 

This marked the start of the real festivities for the pilgrims. Gospa had thanked us, too, for coming from all corners of the Catholic world to not-see her, and she was offering a token of her appreciation. Yes, there was no reason for the Rolles to get the treat, and not us! The Holy Virgin invited us to pay attention to the sky.

After three more minutes of the entire congregation immersed in watching the swirling sun, the pilgrims' voices were aflame with passionate accounts of our experiences, our very own version of Pentecost.

'Oh, Granny, did you see how it bounced over the mountains on the horizon? I swear it disappeared behind that enormous one over there and came back out!" said the little magic seeker.

The old woman's arms moved gracefully through the air, scanning a silent poem called "Can-You-Be-Lieve-It?" as she spoke with enthusiasm. "I saw Guadeloupe, Martinique, and French Guiana joining together in harmony, represented by golden rings. And there will be no more dockworker strikes, and the cost of gas will remain low!"

Maddly opened up to those of us gathered around her; we weren't sure whether to focus on the tears or the words, both pouring out steadily. 

“As Mother Mary made the sun dance in the sky, I heard her voice speaking to me," she started. ”Don't be sad you couldn't have children of your own,” she told me, “because I'm giving you all the children in the world to love and cherish forever!” she went on, her words spilling out like a long-held secret finally released.

Mother's half-smile turned slightly to the right and downwards as she asked me, ”Did you see such things?”

“Oh yes, I saw the sun shake and split into three, then come back again as one. It was better than fireworks!!” I said, holding her gaze as if to challenge her to keep a straight face amidst all this. 

“Hum…,” she verbally nodded without breaking her façade and swivelled away. 

Whenever she gave me her back, I knew I had a solid 5 minutes of freedom from her scrutiny. Physical movement was restricted, but my mind was free to roam and seek out opportunities to overhear interesting conversations. My ears pricked up when I heard two distinctly intriguing individuals—skeptical husbands dragged here by their hopeful wives, desperately seeking a miracle for their marriage.

“I see no coincidence here. Less than two years after the Dayton Agreement, this place is yearning for not just peace but also any foreign currency it can get. Perfect timing for a residency by the Holy Virgin herself and the tourism boom that comes with it, don't you think?” said a man in French with a hint of pride to show off his knowledge and understanding.

“Yeah, obviously, there is some of that. But let's not forget that this Catholic Croat community is actually in the minority in Orthodox Bosnia-Herzegovina. They're using religion to assert their national identity, which will only balkanise the place further. Pun intended! Eheheh,” chuckled the other man with a well-informed demeanour, speaking French with a broad German accent. Clearly, he wasn't prepared to let someone who eats frogs lecture him on European geopolitics. 

My teenage self quickly grew tired of the clashes between middle-aged men trying to assert their egos. However, upon reflection, I realised that their argument shed light on the extravagance of this place. Gold and marble adorned every surface, and there were opportunities to purchase additional blessings on every street corner, often at discounted prices if you also bought a blessed candle alongside your chaplet bracelet. 

Despite all that was going on, a small part of me couldn't help but be in awe of the situations unfolding around me. It wasn't a feeling of being blessed or touched by a higher power. Instead, it was realising that Carmelita had finally found peace in the never-ending feud tearing her family apart over land division. For Marie-Lysiane, this special connection with another mother of a son gone too soon gave her a newfound sense of strength. As for Maddly, who always claimed to be selflessly organising these trips but I suspected to secretly enjoy the free flights and discounts, she had come to this place seeking solace from the trauma of her infertility. She found a new perspective on life – one that allowed her to find happiness in other people's children despite her struggles.

The churchbells chimed, signalling that it was 6 PM and time for dinner. I braced myself for the inevitable speeches about how the bell peppers in our dolmas were grown with holy water, or some other similar tale. As Mother's back came into view, I prepared to join her, our shepherd Maddly, and all her new children on an evening move to culinary pastures. Then, I locked eyes again with the scout whose scarf had been one of the small wonders of my day. He flashed me a timid grin, and his cheeks tinged with a soft pink hue, which I took as a confirmation that neither of us had experienced the miracle we had been brought here for. 

“Well, team, we've had quite the journey today, and there's still more ahead of us. I know that none of us will leave this experience unchanged,” Maddly said, not knowing just how right she was about that. I couldn't help but think about how much my perspective had shifted in fewer than twenty-five precious minutes, not only on my fellow pilgrims but also on my identity and future. With a smile, I replied, “Amen!”, thinking of all the possibilities those two syllables opened up for me.