Salah Receives a Shocking Letter From Pope Francis After His Death – What It Said Left Him in Tears

“The Bridge of Hope”: How a Letter from the Vatican Changed Mohamed Salah’s Life

ROME — Few would expect a letter from the Vatican to land on the doorstep of a global football icon. Fewer still would believe that it could change the course of his life. But for Mohamed Salah, that letter—delivered days after the world mourned the passing of Pope Francis—did just that.

It was a quiet, gray afternoon in Liverpool when the letter arrived. Cream-colored, thick, and sealed with the emblem of the Vatican. Inside, in elegant handwriting, was a personal message from Jorge Mario Bergoglio—Pope Francis—dated April 24, 2025. Three days after his death.

“Even if our prayers take different forms,” it read, “I believe the path is the same.”

The letter spoke of faith not in religion, but in humanity. It spoke of football as a language of kindness. The Pope wrote that he had quietly followed Salah’s journey—not as a fan, but as someone moved by his humility, consistency, and generosity. And then came the invitation: “There is a place in Rome… Ask for Elias.”

A Place with No Trophies — Only Shared Meals

Salah flew to Rome the next day. No headlines, no entourage—just a man following a mysterious thread of meaning. What he found was a modest building tucked between two worn apartment blocks: Casa di Luca.

It wasn’t an orphanage, Elias explained—it was a home. A sanctuary for children who had lost families, homes, or hope. The late Pope used to visit here often, never with cameras—just with books, biscuits, and footballs. On the walls were children’s drawings, not crucifixes. In the corner, a faded photo of the Pope laughing beside a boy named Luca—the home’s namesake, who had passed away two years earlier.

Elias handed Salah a worn notebook the Pope had left behind, marked with a simple instruction: “If I’m no longer here and Mohamed arrives, give him this. He’ll know what it means.”

In its final pages: a sketch of a football pitch, a crescent moon on one end, a cross on the other, children holding hands in the middle.

A Quiet Decision

Salah walked the halls, met the children, listened to their stories. One girl drew him with wings. Another offered him half an apple and whispered, “You look kind.” That night, Salah decided to stay. “It’s quiet here—but full,” Elias said over breakfast. “That’s how he liked it.”

Back in England, Salah couldn’t stop thinking about Casa di Luca. Within days, he mobilized his foundation—quietly. No press releases, no credit sought. He provided funding, books, sports equipment, and repairs. But he wanted to do more.

Three weeks later, he returned to Rome with a small team. Sitting with the children on the pitch, one boy from Sudan told him he used to play football with stones. A Ukrainian boy said his father used to coach him before the war. The stories were heartbreaking, but full of light.

That night, Salah stood on the rooftop beside Elias. “I’ve decided,” he said. “I want to build it. The pitch. The dream. Everything in that notebook.”

“What will you call it?” Elias asked.

Salah paused. “The Bridge.”

Different Faiths, One Hope

Construction began the following month. Volunteers arrived from across Europe. Local artists painted murals with the children—dreams in every color. One child drew a cat in a suit. Another, a library on the moon. At the center: two open hands holding a bridge made of books, footballs, and prayer beads. Above it, Salah added in quiet lettering: Different faiths, one hope.

He declined interviews, turned down headlines. When asked why, he simply said, “Some things speak louder when we don’t talk.”

A Legacy Beyond the Game

When Elias fell ill with leukemia, Salah was there. At the hospice, they spoke for hours. Elias handed him one final gift—a torn page from the Pope’s notebook. “Let the children build it,” the Pope had written. “Let them draw their dreams on the walls. Speak gently. Don’t let the world turn this into noise.”

After Elias’s peaceful passing, Salah returned to Casa di Luca. At the funeral, he read the Pope’s note aloud. His voice was steady, but his hands trembled.

That night, he stood alone on the pitch, hand resting on the painted mural. He whispered not a prayer, but a promise: “I’ll protect this. I’ll protect them.”

Now known affectionately as Il Ponte—The Bridge—the home has become more than just a space for children. It’s a quiet movement. Priests, imams, and rabbis now share tea at the edge of the pitch while children from all backgrounds play without knowing or caring what anyone believes.

And through it all, Salah remains in the background. No fame, no spotlight. Just quiet visits, handwritten notes, and the unwavering belief that kindness—not words—is the greatest bridge of all.