Pope Leo XIV says "Human dignity has no passport, nor does it lose value when it crosses a border." FULL TEXT on the Canary Islands

Pope Leo XIV meets migrants and reception centers in the port of Arguineguín, in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, on his trip to Spain, a symbol of dramatic arrivals and free welcome. He calls for "legal and safe routes, rescue, protection of victims, integration," in the name of "human dignity" that "has no passport." To women victims of trafficking he says: "Your body does not belong to those who took advantage of you, but to God." The Pope threw a wreath into the sea.
MEETING WITH MIGRANTS' RECEPTION ORGANIZATIONS
FULL TEXT ADDRESS OF THE HOLY FATHER

Port of Arguineguín (Las Palmas de Gran Canaria)
Thursday, June 11, 2026
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Dear brothers and sisters ,

We have just heard one of the most challenging passages in the Gospel. We know that this same chapter also contains a warning that no believer can take lightly ( Mt 25:41-45). Today, on the seashore, the Word becomes concrete: so many wounded lives arrive here, stripped of almost everything, but never, never of their dignity. Here the Gospel tears us from the comfortable seat of the spectator and places us before the brother who arrives. It asks us if we have been able to recognize Christ in those who disembark marked by fear, hunger, and violence, after the desert, the night, and the sea.

As you can see, I wear on my hand the ring called "Fisherman's Ring." Its very name takes us to the Sea of ​​Galilee, where Christ called Peter and said to him: "From now on you will be fishers of men" ( Lk 5:10). The Church has read that 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 but great in humanity, has seen the arrival of thousands of people torn from their homeland and entrusted to the fragility of a cayuco . There are people rescued at sea and lifeless bodies recovered from the waters. For this reason, the Successor of Peter cannot ignore these landings. The Church cannot ignore these waters, nor any place where hunger, thirst, violence, fear, or exile continue to wound human dignity. Jesus' disciples cannot consider the clamor of those crying out in the night as unfamiliar.

In biblical language, the sea can be an image of threat, darkness, and chaos. There appear Leviathan, a figure of devouring force, and Rahab, a name that evokes the arrogance of the powers that rise up against God and life (cf. Ps 74:13-14; 89:10-11; Is 27:1; 51:9; Job 26:12). Even today, monsters prowl these seas: mafias that traffic in desperation, traffickers who enslave women and children, and the indifference of many that allows the poor to be swallowed up by exploitation or oblivion.

But faith is not paralyzed by the power of the sea. We believe in a God who subdues chaos, sets limits to evil, and opens a way when death seems to prevail. This was what the people of Israel experienced when they crossed the Red Sea to escape slavery and walk toward freedom (cf. Ex 14:21-31). And so we contemplate him in Christ, who walks on the waters and, facing the storm, speaks a sovereign word: "Peace, be still!" ( Mk 4:39; cf. Mt 14:25-27). That voice continues to resonate 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 silent before those abandoned to its waters.

Thank you for your testimonies; for reminding us what saving lives means. To María, thank you for reminding us of what Caritas, parishes, and so many others do every day. Your words show us where the transformation of perspective begins: when the migrant stops being "one of many," stops being a category and a number. Only then do we understand that that little girl could be our daughter, those faces part of our family; and then, our conscience has no more excuses. Mercy begins with small gestures: sometimes with a few biscuits and a little milk; other times, with five loaves and two fish (see Mt 14:17-21). It's not about solving everything, but about placing everything in God's hands and being present wherever human beings suffer, where resources are insufficient and there is no common language, but where gestures can still speak. Heartfelt thanks to all those who join in the relief efforts, the welcome, and the accompaniment, testifying that concrete mercy can save and change many lives.

Dear Blessing, even if you are not here today, your voice is. Thank you for sharing your story with us. Your name means "blessing" and reminds us that every human life is a blessing from God. No one can buy, sell, use, or discard it, because in every person shines the image and likeness of the Creator (see Gen 1:27). You told us that you left your country, not because you wanted to, but because there was no other choice. In your words, we hear the plight of so many people forced to leave because poverty, war, threat, or exploitation have closed off every other option.

I would like this message to reach you and the many women victims of trafficking and exploitation: if others have put a price on your body, God has never stopped looking at you as a person of inestimable value. If they wanted to lock you away in a painful past, God continues to pronounce upon you a promise of a future. If they treated you like a thing, the Church wants to tell you today: you are a daughter, you are a sister, you are a blessing. Your life does not belong to those who hurt you; your body does not belong to those who took advantage of you; your days do not belong to those who wanted 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 returns to be felt, stronger than the pain.

Dear migrants: before I say anything else to you, I want to bow before your dignity. You are not numbers, nor files! You are people with a family and a home you 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 hand over your existence to those who bargain for it. Do not believe those who promise easy paradises in exchange for your body, your money, your silence, or your freedom. Those false promises are "siren songs," they are industries of death.

Your tragedy must become a soul-searching experience: for the nations of origin, which must create conditions for peace, justice, and development; for the nations of transit, called to protect and not abandon the vulnerable to criminal networks; for Europe, which cannot proclaim human dignity and accustom itself to the Mediterranean and the Atlantic being cemeteries without gravestones; for the international community, called to effective and persevering cooperation.

The Church, too, must allow itself to be challenged. Welcoming migrants cannot be a secondary concern, nor can it be delegated solely to a few volunteers. We kneel before the altar to adore Christ present in the Eucharist, from whom we receive the strength and motivation to practice charity. For this reason, we cannot "pass by" before cayucas and pateras , since every service flows from prayer, and every commitment returns to it (cf. Luke 10:31-32).

From this island, I would like the voices of those who spoke today to reach those who hold crucial 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's not enough to manage arrivals, distribute figures, strengthen borders, or lament deaths once they've already occurred. Every boat that arrives brings more than just migrants; it brings with it a question: what kind of world have we built if so many of our brothers and sisters must risk death in search of life?

Human dignity requires safe and legal avenues, relief and assistance, genuine cooperation against traffickers, effective protection for victims, serious reception and integration processes, and policies that allow every person to live with dignity in their own country. If there is the 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 home without hunger, without war, without persecution, without violence, without the land becoming uninhabitable, without corruption robbing the poor of their bread, without weapons destroying the future of children. We cannot get used to counting the dead. Human dignity has no passport, nor does it lose value when it crosses a border.

May the God who "at the twilight of life will judge us on love" (cf. St. John of the Cross, Advice and Sentences , 57) grant us to recognize him today in the poor and strangers, and free us from looking at the pain of others as if it were not our own. May Our Lady of Mount Carmel accompany those who have arrived, console those who have lost loved ones, support those who welcome them, and awaken in all of us the courage of mercy.

And may history not accuse us of having transformed the pain of those who suffer into a familiar sight on our coasts. Because today, here, on the seashore, every life that arrives asks us what remains of our humanity. Sooner or later, we will know whether we have been able to preserve this humanity or whether we have allowed indifference to speak for us. Thank you very much.