October 28, 2024
The rst and only time I went to northern Brazil was for a eld trip to the city of Salvador, in the state
of Bahia, with other students from the Brazil Middlebury Schools Abroad program. It was around
noon, and the sun burned everyone and everything in its path. I was immensely grateful to be on this
trip but even more grateful for any breeze that provided momentary relief from the heat. As I looked
toward the horizon, I could see the warmth of the air. We reached our stop on top of a hill overlooking
the city. A grand basilica stood before us, and its gates adorned with thousands, if not millions, of
colorful ribbons swaying in the wind.
Immediately, I was overcome with curiosity, and to my luck, our local van driver handed each of us a
ribbon in our favorite color. He explained that the ribbons are called “Fitas do Senhor do Bonm” and
everyone who visits ties their ta around the gate and makes three knots. One representing one wish.
He continued telling us that these wishes will only come true once the ta naturally wears away and
falls o on its own. They are symbols of good luck and faith, and can be found all over Brazil, but this
is the place, the Igreja Nosso Senhor do Bonm, also known as the Church of our Lord of the Good
End, is where the tradition was born.
The tas embodied what Salvador meant to me. To understand this, one must recognize that Salvador
is not just another Brazilian city. It is commonly referred to as the alma do Brasil, or the soul of Brazil.
This is completely true, it is a spiritual center, and a place where everyone is welcoming and warm. A
place where the past never truly disappears because Salvador was the rst capital of colonial Brazil,
where Portuguese colonizers built an empire with millions of enslaved Africans. This made it the hub
of Afro-Brazilian culture, it built a city of dual faith, Catholicism and Candomblé.
Candomblé and its deities, called orixás, are felt all throughout the city. This religion that is African,
Brazilian, Catholic but distinctly its own is embodied at the Church of Senhor do Bonm. Even
though it is a Catholic shrine, the people of Salvador made it their own, merging its meaning with that
of Oxalá, the Candomblé orixá of wisdom and peace. Allowing people to leave their wishes in the
hands of this faith that is shaped by resistance, survival, and the forced meeting of two worlds.
We were able to enter the church, and even though we were a group of twelve, I entered the colorful
gates of the Basílica do Senhor do Bonm alone. I stepped past the entrance and I let the weight of
history settle over me. In Brazil, a majority Catholic country, I already had felt as though I had been
practicing this religion more than in the United States but in an unconventional way. I had visited
churches and genuinely prayed, but this time something was dierent. I really took my time to breathe
in the experience, noticing the people gathered, the meaning of this place for all of Brazil, and what it
represented. In a literal way, I felt as light as a feather when I exited.
When I went outside, I struck up a conversation with our van driver, a local of Salvador. I asked him if
any popes had ever visited this church due to the power I felt from this church as I could actually feel
its signicance. To my surprise, he spoke of Pope John Paul II. Not only the fact that he had visited but
that he had the honor to have been in his presence twice. Once as a child and again years later, as his
bodyguard. He described how, despite everyone’s warnings, the Pope insisted on visiting Salvador’s
favelas, leaving his car to interact with the real people of Brazil. Everyone had advised him not to go and
he went anyway.
This place and story completely revolutionized my feelings of spiritual belonging. I had grown up
hearing John Paul II’s name spoken with reverence in my own home. In Polish culture, since the Pope
is Polish, he is more than just a religious gure because he is a presence that shaped the country’s
history. My parents came of age beneath his inuence, looking to him as a guiding light. My father saw
him in his hometown, and even when my parents left Poland, they carried his spiritual presence with
them. When my parents were in Israel, they both saw him for the last time. They prayed for guidance,
for protection, for assurance that the path they had chosen was the right one. And that path led to me.
So, as I reentered this church, being the rst of my ancestors to ever step foot in South America, I felt at
peace as these thoughts settled over me. I felt as though I was oating along the correct path and as I
closed my eyes it was clear to me that I had never been in a place where faith felt so tangible. It was
almost like a movement, a rhythm, like unconditional love. It was peace, and ever since I visited that
sacred space, I have been trying to discover what is my own faith, and what is it that I believe.
Before leaving, I approached the gate. I went to the metal bars that are covered in thousands of ribbons
and I understood the weight of each wish that was tied to the gate before I tied my own. I know that
something of this place, this moment, will never truly leave me. I wrapped my red ta around the
entrance, and I took a few moments to make sure each knot held a wish that was greater than myself.
And when I left Salvador, I left with three wishes and a newfound sense of spirituality. Now, I only
await for my ta to slip away.
