Sister Genevieve remembers Pope Francis as a friend of victims of Argentina’s dictatorship

The French nun who forged a bond with Pope Francis over shared grief broke protocol to pay tribute at his vigil.

French nun Genevieve Jeanningros (center) pays her respects as Pope Francis lies in state inside St. Peter's Basilica during a ceremony following the procession of the late Pope’s coffin from the chapel of Santa Marta, at the Vatican on April 23, 2025. Photo by Alessandro Di Meo/AFP

By Anna Fadiah and Hayu Andini

Images of Sister Genevieve, fragile and deeply moved, standing in prayer just steps away from the body of Pope Francis in St Peter’s Basilica, captivated people around the globe. For the 82-year-old French nun, the moment was more than a personal farewell—it was a tribute to the extraordinary connection she forged with the pope through their joint quest for truth and justice in the shadow of Argentina’s military dictatorship.

Though the basilica had yet to open its doors to the public, and official protocol did not grant her access at that early hour, Sister Genevieve slipped in quietly. She stood for several minutes, tears streaking her cheeks, a solitary figure amid the quiet reverence. Her presence was not simply symbolic; it spoke to a long history between the two—one born not in the grandeur of Vatican halls, but in the anguish of a shared past.

From a reluctant meeting to a powerful friendship

The story of Sister Genevieve and Pope Francis—born Jorge Mario Bergoglio—began two decades ago. She had traveled to Buenos Aires to bury her aunt, Leonie Duquet, a fellow French nun who had been among the countless victims of Argentina’s 1976-1983 dictatorship. Initially, Genevieve admitted she was not impressed by the then-archbishop of Buenos Aires. Her first encounter with Bergoglio left her cold.

However, time would lead to a deeper understanding between the two, shaped by their mutual commitment to defending the marginalized and honoring victims of the regime. In 2005, Francis authorized the reburial of Duquet’s remains at Santa Cruz Church in Buenos Aires, the very place where she and other activists had been detained before being thrown to their deaths in what became known as the death flights.

"I cried almost from the start to the end of the mass... I couldn't accept that a part of the church was on the dictatorship's side," Genevieve once reflected in a YouTube video chronicling her memories of Francis. Her raw honesty revealed how deeply the wounds of that era remained and how her faith was shaken—not by God, but by the silence of the powerful.

A painful history binds two unlikely allies

Leonie Duquet’s murder is one of the most infamous chapters of the dictatorship’s brutality. Along with fellow French nun Alice Domon and 10 human rights activists, Duquet was abducted, tortured, and thrown into the Atlantic Ocean in December 1977. Their bodies washed ashore days later, buried anonymously in mass graves until forensic breakthroughs in the early 2000s confirmed their identities.

These crimes have long haunted survivors and their families. French and Argentine activists alike, including Eric Domergue—whose brother Yves was disappeared—remember the tireless efforts of people like Sister Genevieve. Domergue, who knew Genevieve during her campaign to ensure Duquet received a proper Catholic burial, recalls her vividly.

"She had a piercing stare and a permanent smile," he told AFP. "Genevieve is always attentive, always asking about the families of the disappeared—French and Argentine alike."

Genevieve later wrote a letter to Bergoglio, then still a cardinal, to express her disappointment that no senior church figure had attended her aunt’s funeral. To her surprise, he called her immediately. Yet even then, she remained skeptical. Years later, standing in the Vatican’s central square, she watched in stunned disbelief as that same man stepped out onto the balcony as Pope Francis.

A cautious beginning turns to trust

Her initial reaction was not joy, but fear. "I put my hands to my head and thought, my God, what will happen? I was afraid, that's the truth," she admitted in her recollections.

But something changed. Francis’s message of humility and service to the poor gradually won her over. Soon after his election, he invited her to a private mass at the Vatican guesthouse, Casa Santa Marta, where he lived. The invitation marked the beginning of a more personal connection, forged over shared concern for society’s forgotten—those left behind by politics, privilege, and power.

That connection deepened during the Covid-19 pandemic. Genevieve reached out to Francis, pleading for help on behalf of the Luna Park fairground workers, whose livelihoods had been devastated by lockdowns. She also asked him to meet with a group of trans sex workers from Latin America. Francis responded, sending aid and welcoming the community into the Vatican.

Each week following the pandemic’s worst days, Genevieve continued to bring marginalized individuals to meet the pope. "I always wrote him a little note, telling him who was coming," she said. That personal, informal bond became a regular part of Vatican life, a quiet ministry that defied stereotypes.

An enduring legacy of compassion

Genevieve lives modestly in a caravan on Italy’s Tyrrhenian coast. Yet her life—one marked by resilience, advocacy, and an unshakable moral compass—has intersected with global history in unexpected ways. Through her unwavering dedication to the memory of Argentina’s disappeared and her unorthodox friendship with Pope Francis, she has offered a living witness to the power of faith joined with justice.

When French President Emmanuel Macron visited Argentina in 2024, Genevieve co-signed a letter urging him to acknowledge France's victims of the dictatorship. Her advocacy has never wavered. She continues to press for recognition, not for herself, but for those whose voices were silenced by violence.

Now, with Francis gone, her quiet vigil inside St Peter’s Basilica serves as a bookend to a chapter of history that spanned continents, tragedies, and moments of grace. Standing there amid the marble columns and flickering candles, Sister Genevieve was not just mourning a friend. She was paying tribute to a life entwined with hers in the pursuit of truth.

In her presence at his side, even for a few silent minutes, the legacy of Pope Francis’s concern for the forgotten found a poignant echo in the woman who had once doubted him, then come to call him friend.