Descripción corta: Agca arrived with the unmistakable intention of inserting himself into the story. Speaking to Turkish media, he expressed hope for a brief conversation with the pontiff—a few minutes, nothing more—while insisting that the papal presence in Iznik was “extraordinary.”
(ZENIT News / Istambul, 12.03.2025).- The 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicea offered Pope Leo XIV an opportunity to retrace the roots of Christian unity in the very city where bishops gathered in the year 325. The journey was meant to be reflective, deliberately solemn, and tightly managed. Yet, on the eve of the Pope’s arrival, an unexpected figure appeared in the streets of Iznik: Mehmet Ali Agca, the man who shot John Paul II in St. Peter’s Square in 1981.
Agca arrived with the unmistakable intention of inserting himself into the story. Speaking to Turkish media, he expressed hope for a brief conversation with the pontiff—a few minutes, nothing more—while insisting that the papal presence in Iznik was “extraordinary.” His remarks mixed admiration with his usual grandiose claims, including the idea that he stands “at the center of a divine plan,” a narrative he has reshaped countless times over the years.
Local authorities had no intention of allowing him anywhere near the unfolding pilgrimage. As security forces intensified their preparations, police escorted Agca out of the city. Iznik, with its modest population and immense symbolic weight, was already bracing for one of the most sensitive papal visits in modern Turkey. The sudden appearance of the man responsible for one of the 20th century’s most infamous attacks against a pope only heightened the sense of tension.
Agca’s presence revived memories of a past that still carries unresolved shadows. His trajectory is well-known yet never fully understood: an ultranationalist operative linked to the Turkish far-right and organized crime; a convicted murderer of journalist Abdi Ipekçi; a prison escapee under circumstances that still prompt speculation; and the would-be assassin whose bullets nearly took the life of Karol Wojtyła. He later received an unexpected personal gesture from John Paul II, who visited him in his Italian prison cell to offer forgiveness—an encounter that became emblematic of the late pontiff’s approach to mercy.
After spending nearly two decades in Italy, Agca was returned to Turkey in 2000, completing another decade behind bars before regaining his freedom in 2010. Since then, he has remained a mercurial public figure, oscillating between contradictory explanations for his attack, sporadic declarations of conversion, and claims of mystical significance. His statements are as unpredictable as they are self-centered, often shifting with the audience he faces.
His trip to Iznik fits the same pattern: seeking proximity to high-profile events, offering soundbites that blend apology, self-importance and conspiracy, and attempting to place himself once more in the orbit of the Vatican. Yet this time, the story unfolded without him. Pope Leo XIV arrived by helicopter, prayed in the ancient setting of Nicea, and continued his visit without any trace of Agca’s intrusion.
The contrast was striking. On one side stood a pope focused on healing divisions and honoring the legacy of the first ecumenical council. On the other, a man whose past actions once shook the Church and whose current proclamations seem like echoes of a role he no longer plays.
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