Pope Francis, the 266th pontiff of the Catholic Church, died on Monday at age 88, the Vatican has announced. Cardinal Kevin Joseph Farrell, the Vatican’s Camerlengo of the Apostolic Chamber, made the following statement: “Dearest brothers and sisters, with deep sorrow I must announce the death of our Holy Father Francis. At 7:35 this morning, the Bishop of Rome, Francis, returned to the house of the Father. His entire life was dedicated to the service of the Lord and of His Church. He taught us to live the values of the Gospel with fidelity, courage, and universal love, especially in favor of the poorest and most marginalized. With immense gratitude for his example as a true disciple of the Lord Jesus, we commend the soul of Pope Francis to the infinite merciful love of the One and Triune God.” In Rome, mourning bells were ringing in all the churches.

Francis, the first Latin American pope, was elected in March 2013 at a historic moment for the Church, following the resignation of Benedict XVI. Joseph Ratzinger stepped down exhausted and defeated by the palace intrigues and corruption in the Curia, and for finding himself powerless to undertake the internal reforms required by the Vatican, from the Holy See’s financial institutions to the sexual abuse scandal. Jorge Mario Bergoglio, an Argentine Jesuit, was chosen to undertake a renewal of the Catholic Church, to modernize it and push through pending reforms. With a sometimes impulsive and energetic character, he certainly stirred up a gale in social matters, with his unprecedented criticism of the current capitalist system, and in internal reforms, albeit with mixed results, causing deep divisions along the way.

For the most conservative sector of the Church, he even went too far. A genuine front opened against him, among those who viewed him practically as a dangerous left-wing populist. But the enormous expectations he aroused also disappointed the most progressive sectors, who expected more profound changes in the reform of the Curia, the ordination of women, and sexual doctrine, as well as greater collegiality in decision-making. In one of the Church’s key issues, the fight against pedophilia, he was deeply involved with drastic regulations and decisions — he forced the entire Chilean bishops’ conference to resign — but the rest of the hierarchy, the bishops and the Vatican bureaucracy, did not always follow his lead and put up resistance.

Pope Francis’ 12 years at the head of the Catholic Church witnessed a revolution in many areas, starting with the fact that for nine years, two pontiffs cohabited together, until Ratzinger’s death on December 31, 2022. This situation generated plenty of debate at the time, but the passing of the years showed that it led to hardly any issues. And it set a precedent.

What is certain is that, in his election alone, Francis was a pioneer in many aspects: the first Latin American pope, the first non-European pontiff since the 5th century, the first Jesuit pope, and the first one to be called Francis, a choice of name that said it all. No pontiff before had dared to name himself after a radical saint who stood up to Vatican pomp and dedicated his life to the needy. He chose the name because of the words the Brazilian cardinal, Claudio Hummes, said to him as he embraced him after his election: “Don’t forget the poor.” Francis did not do so, and he also set himself aside from the traditional uses and customs of the office, seeking simplicity and directness.

Jorge Mario Bergoglio, a descendant of Piedmontese Italian immigrants, was born in Buenos Aires in 1936 to a humble family in the Flores neighborhood. He graduated in chemistry, then studied philosophy and joined the Jesuits in 1958. He was named provincial superior of the order in Argentina between 1973 and 1979, during the military dictatorship, and from his position he helped several politically persecuted people to flee. This experience marked his political vision, as did the fact that he was the son of immigrants, and his youthful enthusiasm for Peronism.

However, he was then relegated for a few years within the society, a period he himself defined as “dark,” until 1992 when he was appointed auxiliary bishop of Buenos Aires by John Paul II. From then on, his stature grew — he became a cardinal in 2001 — to the point that, in 2005, after the death of Karol Józef Wojtyla, he was a clear papal candidate and one of the most-voted in the conclave. However, Benedict XVI was elected, a recourse to continuity after the long pontificate of John Paul II, at a time when the course the Church should follow was uncertain.

Ratzinger’s resignation placed the Vatican back in the same position, and on that occasion, Bergoglio was quickly elected. He was 76 years old and it was already intuited that his pontificate would be brief, but a period of reforming impetus was sought. Francis’ revolution was mainly in the social sphere and in his open criticism of the excesses of the current economic system, the most direct of any pontiff to date. He harbored a special concern for ecology and climate change, an issue to which he dedicated no less than his first encyclical, Laudato sì (Praise Be to You), in 2015 (the previous one, Lumen fidei (The Light of Faith), from 2013, was actually one that Benedict XVI had left half-finished and he completed). He further incised his critique in the next, Fratelli Tutti (All Brothers, 2020), which lambasted neoliberalism and populism. The fourth and last, Dilexit nos (He loved us, 2024), was the most theological and spiritual, a call to act with the heart, beyond the logic of money and the cold calculation of algorithms.

Francis navigated the Church into the 21st century, facing its current dilemmas (and, as of 2016, with an Instagram account). He forged still uncertain paths that it will be up to his successor to decide how best to travel: the fraternal acceptance of homosexuals and transsexuals, allowing the blessing of couples, and allowing them to be godparents; the entry of women into high positions in the Curia and a call to “de-masculinize the Church” — although he froze the most controversial issue, that of female ordination — and the outreach to divorcees who have remarried.

If there is one word that sums up the priority of his mandate, it is “periphery,” those who are on the margins of society, of the cities, of the frontiers, those who are far from power. It can be seen in his travels — 47 visits to 66 countries — in which he almost always avoided the great powers or countries with a strong Catholic tradition, such as Spain, where he never set foot. He only considered going to the Canary Islands because of the crisis of migrant arrivals from Africa. His first trip, in fact, defined his line from the outset: it was to the Italian island of Lampedusa, a point of arrival for migrants. To them and to all people, believers and non-believers, he wanted to leave a message in his autobiography, published in January 2025, reduced to a single word, the title of the book: hope.

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June 11, 1988, changed Tracy Chapman’s life. That day, a massive tribute concert was held at Wembley Stadium in London to celebrate the 70th birthday of South African activist Nelson Mandela, who spent 27 years in prison between 1963 and 1990 for his opposition to apartheid. More than 90,000 people packed the venue; 600 million watched the event on television. The lineup included a large cast of renowned musicians: Sting, Eurythmics, Al Green, Joe Cocker, Bryan Adams, Jackson Browne, George Michael, Simple Minds, Peter Gabriel, Whitney Houston, Dire Straits, Bee Gees… Film luminaries such as Whoopi Goldberg, Richard Gere, and Richard Attenborough roused the audience with fiery speeches. And among so many iconic names appeared Chapman, a 24-year-old newcomer with a guitar in her arms.

“I still have it,” she says in a telephone conversation with EL PAÍS from her home in San Francisco. It was a beautiful Martin D-18E, different from the one she used to record her only album at the time, but just as meaningful: “The director of my school and several professors gave it to me as a surprise gift because they knew I needed a new one. So I love that guitar.”

Chapman, now 61, studied anthropology at Tufts University, near Boston. She had recorded her first demos at the university’s radio station. Used to playing in intimate theaters after the release of her album, facing such a large audience made a strong impression on her. “It was absolutely new for me; I was tremendously overwhelmed by everything,” she says. “I watched some of my musical idols walk by backstage and felt very emotional. I also felt excited looking at the crowd, which was the largest I’d ever seen in my short career. I felt very proud to be there, at such an important event honoring Nelson Mandela. I experienced a mixture of emotions.”

As if there wasn’t enough pressure already, she didn’t perform just once at the festival — but twice. Hours after her first set, Stevie Wonder left the stadium due to technical problems, prompting the organizers to ask her to sing again. “The producers realized that, since I was performing solo and acoustically, it would be easy to place me anywhere. I was waiting backstage with my manager, and the organizers came over and said, ‘You’re here, we need you!’ So we ran from the dressing room to the stage. Basically, they pushed me out there. Only minutes passed between them saying, ‘This is it,’ and me starting to sing. It was a bit chaotic.”

That appearance had the unlikely effect of turning the then-young singer-songwriter into a late-1980s pop star. Sales of her self-titled debut album, which had reached 250,000 copies before the concert, soared to over a million just one week later. It shot to number one in the U.S., the U.K., and many other countries — an unimaginable feat at the time for a stripped-down, folk-style album in an era dominated by glitter, glamour, and dazzling productions.

“When the album came out, in 1988,” she explains, “it was unusual for the time. Especially because the production was austere. Maybe that was the difference from what radio stations were programming or labels were publishing. Maybe that’s what made it stand out.” It won Chapman three Grammy Awards: for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance (for the single Fast Car), Best New Artist, and Best Contemporary Folk Album. Chapman and other sharp-minded women of her generation, such as Suzanne Vega and Tanita Tikaram, restored the shine of singer-songwriter music from the previous decade.

Now, Tracy Chapman is being reissued on vinyl, after being out of print for years. That’s the reason Chapman — who’s stayed largely out of the public eye since her last album, Our Bright Future, in 2008 — is reconnecting with the media.

That album stood out not only for its stripped-down sound; its cover — featuring a simple sepia-toned portrait of Chapman, with her short dreadlocks and gaze turned downward — also broke away from the technicolor frenzy of the era. But even more significant than its visual or musical style was the subject matter of the songs. Instead of singing about parties, hookups, and excess, Chapman tackled social issues: revolution (Talkin’ ‘bout a Revolution), sexual assault (Across the Lines), domestic violence (Behind the Wall), war (Why?), and a world without hope for young people (She’s Got Her Ticket).

Chapman says her motivation for addressing those topics wasn’t so much about wanting to make people think, but rather to capture the unease of the environment she grew up in. “The inspiration for many of the songs on the album comes from my own experience and what I observed around me. I grew up in a working-class neighborhood in Cleveland, and I saw those kinds of concerns in older people, as well as the working class struggling to support their families. Just as my mother and the families of my friends also struggled, working in tough industries like the steel industry. That sparked my interest in these topics from an early age and encouraged me to write about them.”

The daughter of separated parents, Chapman began playing the ukulele — gifted to her by her mother— at the age of three. At eight, she began composing songs. “I did it because I loved music and poetry, and it was a natural way to unite those two loves. I composed to entertain myself and ask questions. I observed the world and tried to represent it in song. It was always something I did for my own pleasure. It wasn’t until later that I discovered that other people were interested in listening.”

Most of those lyrics — if not all — could still be applied to today’s turbulent world, 37 years later. “People have told me they feel those themes still resonate; that those songs, unfortunately in some cases, seem to speak to the current moment and the struggles we all face as people try to deal with race, violence against women… These are issues that unfortunately still have relevance. We’re still not getting the answers, so I guess, when you look at it that way, those songs are still important.”

In the United States, Donald Trump’s authoritarian drift continues to stoke fears among much of the population, who watch in alarm as hard-won progress is rolled back. “I’m worried about democracy right now,” the singer admits. “All Americans must be vigilant to ensure that our democracy is healthy, which includes people being able to exercise their right to vote. I’m not afraid of Trump, but I am worried.”

Although most young people’s musical tastes are moving in other directions, she is confident about their social awareness: “Absolutely. I think each generation asks the same questions and seeks the same answers as the one before. They may approach finding those answers in a different way, but I think there is still commitment.”

After the surprising success of her debut album — six million copies sold in the U.S. alone — Chapman found herself in the spotlight when she released her second album. Crossroads (1989) was less successful, although it went platinum in the U.S. (over one million copies sold). Unexpectedly, her career surged again in 1995 with the release of New Beginning. Thanks to songs like Give Me One Reason, that album reinvigorated her career, selling five million copies.

But her relationship with commercial success ended there. In the 2000s, Chapman released five more albums, all of which were poorly received; the last, Our Bright Future, came out in 2008, meaning that the singer-songwriter has not set foot in a recording studio in 17 years.

“I’m not disappointed at all with the reach my career has had,” she says. “The only measure for me is simply that I’ve had the opportunity to express myself however I wanted, and I must say that over the years I’ve felt connected to the fans who have been willing to follow me, beyond record sales or any kind of commercial success. I’ve had a considerable amount of success in terms of sales and awards, and I view my career as long and very satisfying. I never even expected to be on the charts, so I’m grateful for the success I’ve had.”

Her most recent appearances have been few and far between. In 2015, her performance of Stand By Me, the Ben E. King classic, on The Late Show with David Letterman, prompted several U.S. media outlets to refresh readers’ memories of the singer, who was over 50 at the time. That live version was included on a greatest hits album released the same year. She was also involved in a high-profile legal dispute with rapper Nicki Minaj over the unauthorized sampling of Baby Can I Hold You in the song Sorry; in 2021, a judge ordered Minaj to pay Chapman $450,000 in damages. In 2023, country singer Luke Combs recorded a cover of Fast Car that topped the country charts, making Chapman the first Black woman to ever lead the ranking as a songwriter — and soon after, to win a Country Music Association award.

Chapman’s social activism didn’t end with the Mandela tribute concert. She participated in Amnesty International’s 50th anniversary event in 1998 in Paris, performed at benefit concerts for Cambodia and Tibet (in the latter singing a duet with Luciano Pavarotti in 2000), and took part in several events supporting the fight against AIDS. Still, she resists the “activist” label. “It’s a way to raise awareness and contribute, but I’m not one: I’m a musician. That’s my role in the world.”

Little is known about her private life, apart from what writer Alice Walker — 20 years her senior — revealed about a supposed romantic relationship between the two in the mid-1990s. It could be said that Chapman’s music is bigger than her; even at the height of her fame, she avoided capitalizing on her identity as a woman, a Black artist, and someone seen as sexually ambiguous to become a symbol for minorities.

“Making music is my job and also my passion,” she clarifies. “I’ve never had much interest in the spotlight. I’m an artist, and that’s the role I prefer to play publicly.”

An artist who, however, has been leaning toward taking a step back in recent years. By way of explanation, she refers to it simply as “a break.” She adds: “I continue to write songs, play, rehearse… I’m still involved in all the creative aspects of making music, but I just haven’t tried to go into the studio or tour in quite some time.” What she does do is garden, go for walks, spend the day with her family and her two dogs, read… “I read all the time, all kinds of books, mostly nonfiction,” she says.

Modest by nature, she’s never lived like a rock star. She didn’t splurge on luxury cars or mansions. “When I was starting out, I just hoped to make enough money to take care of myself and my family, and I did. So, for me, those are the rewards in a material or financial sense: having a certain amount of security. Coming from a working-class background, having needed government assistance at times, that was the most important thing. After my parents’ divorce, my mother raised me on her own, so you have a history; your desires are narrowed down to making ends meet, and I consider that an achievement in my case.”

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Jazmín Defrancesco often has her nails sculpted so she can better pluck mussels from the seabed. Neat and colorful, the painted sheets help protect her hands from the sharp edges of shells that refuse to be removed. At Larralde Beach, in Chubut province in the Atlantic Patagonia, she sets out daily, like other fishermen, at high tide, and returns when the day’s harvest is exhausted. Meters underwater, she will fill crates that her father Eduardo, on deck, tirelessly raises and rearranges. Like her cousin Anahí, Defrancesco, 30, is one of the few female divers among the shellfish collectors of the San Jorge Gulf. It’s not easy, the two cousins agree. But it’s a lifestyle they’re committed to.

“Women have always been there,” says Paula Ibarrola, a Patagonian researcher who has focused on them in a world where men have traditionally dominated. The sociologist explains that, in the past, it was common to see them caring for children or in other stages of production, such as preparing nets or cleaning the harvested product. But today, they also venture into the sea.

Although studies on the presence of female fishers emerged toward the end of the 20th century, this is a male-dominated world, and statistics are difficult to access, as these tend to unify fishing with agriculture and livestock. According to the FAO 2024 report, women represent 24% of the total global fishing workforce. Furthermore, the World Bank records that women represent approximately 50% of the workforce in the fishing sector, but in maritime activity, this figure drops to just 2%. In Argentina, the overall wage gap between men and women is 25%.

There’s one sector in particular where women have been most active: shellfish harvesting. There, they “work side by side,” says Ibarrola. This is the case with Anahí Defrancesco. Diving for shellfish at Larralde Beach, on the Valdés Peninsula, might sound like something out of a movie: going out in a boat, dodging the waves, using the hookah that allows air to flow underwater, and, while harvesting mussels or scallops, coming across a dolphin or a whale. The harshness of the trade comes from the winters of southern Argentina.

“I always say I’m privileged to be where I am and to do what I do, but I say that when I dive for two hours and the day is crystal clear, gorgeous, and beautiful,” she says. “When I dive for six hours and the day is horrible, there’s a strong current, and I’m freezing to death. I tend to say: ‘This isn’t so much for the privileged.’”

From the age of 15, Defrancesco, now 36, turned her passion for the sea into a job. She particularly remembers the day her brothers, Gastón and Matías, were diving and teaching her the techniques for picking scallops and mussels, how to do it faster, and how to perform better. “It’s pretty epic that they passed on that wisdom to me, which also took up their time, instead of leaving me to tough it out on my own,” she says. Despite their good rapport, she acknowledges that there’s a lot of sexism at sea and that, sometimes, colleagues can feel overshadowed by the performance of women.

Paola Signorelli also learned how to catch octopus from her family: how to use the hook, how to look for the right light, and how to know where to find it. The 42-year-old lives in Puerto Madryn and gets up early to scour the coasts in search of large octopuses. Further north, in the San Matías Gulf, near the idyllic beaches of Las Grutas and San Antonio Oeste, other octopus collectors also perform the same task. Her mother came from there, spending her nights on the beach to enjoy the first rays of the sun in search of sustenance, and she taught her what she knows today. Signorelli’s story resonates in Vigo, Spain. In Galicia, they highlight the origins of this task, which became a southern tradition, and the strong role the activity played long before among the Indigenous communities of South America. This is how the migrant past and the Indigenous identity of the women of the fishing industry merge.

Further south, in the town of Camarones, another woman is making her mark: Carola Puracchio. Born and raised by the sea, where she collects seaweed, this chef recreates the spirit of marine cuisine. As a child, she accompanied her grandfather to collect what the current brought. Today, she has fused her passions into A-MAR, a culinary project that puts seaweed at the center of the menu. “They are a super-nutritious food, loaded with vitamins, proteins, and nutrients, with numerous benefits,” she explains. “There is a great variety in our sea, and many of them are suitable for human consumption.” Among her dishes, she mentions the pickled wakame, an invasive seaweed that displaced the native macrosistis. “The beauty of having the sea in front of us is that it allows us to use it in its natural, very fresh state,” she explains. She literally means it: her backyard overlooks the beach.

In fish processing plants, the female presence is also important. In Puerto Madryn, Rawson, and other towns, women are usually the ones who sort shrimp and place them in the two-kilo boxes that later ship worldwide. These places are full of workers like Mariana Fernández, 45. With her work clothes stained orange from hours of handling shrimp, she skillfully separates the large, whole ones on a table and arranges them. She only pauses for a second to tell her story, which is that of many others: women who came from other places, accompanying their husbands, and who later separated and found connections with their colleagues at work. Furthermore, they value the work in the fishing industry because it gives them financial independence. Despite the long, tiring days and little time to go out, Fernández says that there, during breaks, sisterhood is present.

However, women still bear the burden of caregiving and face the loneliness that comes when their partners head out to sea for days, sometimes weeks at a time. It’s a dynamic similar to that of oil families who also settle in Patagonia — men arriving from elsewhere in search of good wages, and families migrating with them, forced to navigate the dislocation.

Lorena Rossi is a psychologist married to a maritime agent who works in the fishing industry. She came to Rawson and to this world through him, and treats many women and men in the sector. She herself knows the challenges of families accustomed to the comings and goings of ships.

“There are no schedules. The ships come in with the tide, and it can be late at night,” she says. What she hears in her office has similar nuances: the pay is better, but the price is high: raising children alone, enduring the anguish, because the sea always has the last word. “They continue working without giving it a second thought, but their families’ fears remain on land.”

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