The Anabasis of Kilimanjaro: the mountains we all climb

At almost 72, having first entered a gym at 65, and certainly no mountaineer, a former Cyprus ambassador reached the summit of the highest free-standing mountain in the worldFive days into our climb of Mount Kilimanjaro, shortly after midnight on June 15, 2026, under a sky ablaze with stars and thinning air, Karim Tabet, my fellow climber from Lebanon, our Tanzanian guide Noah Sankale, and I began the final push towards Uhuru peak. Conversation had long since ceased. The mountain imposed its own discipline. There was only the crunch of boots on volcanic scree, the glow of headlamps piercing the darkness, and the slow, measured rhythm of the ascent. “Póle póle,” Noah would quietly remind us in Swahili. Slowly, slowly. One step at a time. One breath at a time. He also insisted, forcefully, that we drink plenty of water. Mount Kilamanjaro rising above the east African landscape. At 5,895 metres it is the world’s highest free-standing mountain We took very brief, designated breaks. When exhaustion struck at other times, he would not allow me to sit, afraid I might struggle to get up. He knew the mountain intimately. He had climbed it 281 times. At altitude, every breath becomes precious. The mountain rewarded neither haste nor bravado. Strength alone was never enough. Patience, discipline, focus, determination and respect mattered just as much. A few hours later, we stood on Uhuru Peak – the Roof of Africa – 5,895 metres above sea level. Kilimanjaro is the world’s highest free-standing mountain. Karim, much younger and in considerably better shape, had reached the summit well before I did and was waiting for me. Póle póle, I made it too. Utterly exhausted. Emotional. Not triumphant. Grateful. At almost 72, having first entered a gym at 65, and certainly no mountaineer, I had reached the summit. Or perhaps more accurately, the mountain had allowed me to reach it. One of the first lessons of Kilimanjaro is that we do not conquer the mountain. It conquers us. It cares nothing for our titles or achievements. Before it, we are simply human: often stronger than we think and smaller than we imagine. The mountain reveals two simultaneous truths: our insignificance in the universe and our capacity for growth. It strips away illusion and exposes our limitations, yet also shows how much we are capable of becoming. The summit and the Cyprus flag I stood with Karim and Noah at the summit, taking in the vastness around us. At that altitude, where oxygen is roughly half that at sea level, it quickly becomes clear that the journey is not over. The descent still lay ahead. And in that vastness, I could not escape the thought that no artist can rival nature. At Uhuru peak. For years I had carried that flag representing Cyprus, but at 5,895 metres it carried a different but very personal meaning Holding the Cyprus flag, I reflected on the journey that had brought me there. For 43 years I had carried that flag as a diplomat representing Cyprus, striving, however imperfectly, for peace, dialogue and a just future for my homeland. Now I was carrying it to the Roof of Africa. Decades in diplomacy and the ascent of Kilimanjaro seemed somehow part of the same journey. A flag embodies history, memory, sacrifice, identity and home. Thousands of kilometres from Cyprus, I felt not distance but connection. Anabasis and nostos The ancient Greeks had a word for such an ascent: Anabasis. Xenophon’s Anabasis recounts the march of the Ten Thousand after the death of Cyrus the Younger. At its heart, it is a story of endurance, leadership, resilience and transformation. “Θάλαττα! Θάλαττα!” (Thalatta! Thalatta! — “The Sea! The Sea!”), they shouted, for with the sea in sight came the promise of νόστος (nostos)—of return. After a life spent largely away from home, my own nostos was always Cyprus. Every meaningful journey changes us. Every life contains its own Anabasis. Some mountains are made of rock and ice; others of illness, grief, responsibility and loss. Some are climbed in public, most in private. The ascent is universal. A moment of sheer exhilaration high above the clouds on Kilamanjaro Porters and climbers move steadily upward. The summit is nearly six kilometres above sea level The final push towards Uhuru peak began shortly after midnight A Kilamanjaro night under a sky ablaze with stars and with no internet A view from the tent above the clouds I thought of Cavafy’s timeless Ithaca, a poem that has accompanied me throughout life. I have read it countless times. The poem does not change, but we do. Each reading reveals something different. Its enduring lesson: the destination matters, but the journey matters more. The summit was the goal. The ascent was the lesson. Some of what Kilimanjaro taught me felt familiar from diplomacy: patience, humility, discipline, respect, tolerance, understanding and knowing when not to force the pace. Diplomacy, too, rewards these qualities. Progress is rarely dramatic. It is póle póle: one conversation, one relationship, one compromise, one small step at a time. In diplomacy there is rarely a full stop; more often, a comma – or, at best, a semicolon. The mountain cannot be rushed. Neither can diplomacy. Neither can life. The gift of silence Perhaps the most unexpected gift of Kilimanjaro was silence. It offered something increasingly rare: space for reflection, gratitude and perspective. For days there was no internet, phone, social media or WiFi. Noah even insisted I remove my Apple Watch. Initially, this felt like deprivation. Soon it became liberation. It also reminded me how little we really need and how easily we confuse comfort with necessity. A warm meal, water, companionship, rest, nature – and Bach – suddenly seemed enough. Modern life bombards us with information, disinformation, opinions, notifications and noise. Never have we had access to so much information, yet one wonders whether we are wiser. Never have we been so connected, yet we converse too little; we hear but rarely listen; we see but seldom observe. Increasingly, we mistake information for truth, knowledge for wisdom, connection for community and choice for freedom. Far above the clouds, beyond daily demands and uncertainties, my thoughts turned to the course my life had already taken. At that altitude, many things become smaller – especially one’s ego. I contemplated the Golden Rule of life: do unto others as you would have them do unto you; the pursuit of a life of virtue – αρετή (arete) – and how imperfectly I have pursued it; the privilege and responsibility of public service; φιλία (philia), friendship; and αγάπη (agape), selfless love. The mountain deepened my conviction that a meaningful life is measured less by what we accumulate than by what we leave behind in others. The people who climbed with me In the silence of the mountain, memories climbed with me. I thought with gratitude about those who had shaped me: my parents, Anastasia (Tasoula) and Leonidas, of blessed memory; my brothers, Andreas and Marios; my teachers and professors; and the many colleagues and friends from across the world who enriched my life. My mind wandered back to another anabasis, more than half a century earlier, when at 15 I left Cyprus for the United States, eager to learn, encounter a wider world and challenge my mind. I could never have imagined where that journey would lead. Nasia came immediately to mind. For almost four decades, she did not merely support my service to Cyprus; she shared in it, at considerable personal cost. She sacrificed a promising legal career, adapted to the nomadic life of diplomacy and made possible much of what I accomplished. I am not sure I would have shown the same generosity had our roles been reversed. Then there was Argos, our beloved dog, whose recent loss at the age of six left a void far greater than I could have imagined. There was something almost metaphysical in our bond. In his own way, he made us better human beings. No meaningful ascent is entirely solitary. The final steps may be ours alone, but the strength to take them often comes from others. I thought of the messages, prayers and encouragement from friends in Cyprus and beyond, and of Stella, my trainer – fittingly, given that Stella Point is the final landmark before Uhuru Peak. The human ascent The mountain sharpened the paradox of the human condition. Throughout the climb, I witnessed kindness, fellowship and quiet support among strangers from different countries and cultures. Yet history reminds us of our capacity for extraordinary cruelty. The same species that built the Parthenon built Auschwitz. The same human capacity that creates beauty can also create horror. The true ascent, therefore, is not merely physical but moral and spiritual: a lifelong effort to know ourselves and grow in wisdom, virtue and character. We may reach summits, but none is final. There is no final victory. Only continued striving. Perhaps that is what it means to be fully human. It may also explain why reaching Uhuru Peak felt strangely anticlimactic. By then, I had come to understand that the summit itself was not the mountain’s greatest gift. What does freedom mean? It struck me that the summit bears the name Uhuru – freedom, one of the oldest aspirations of humanity. Yet life comes with restraints, obligations and “chains”. We are often remotely controlled without realising it. Sometimes it feels as though Big Brother has simply changed form. Increasingly, our choices are shaped – often invisibly – by algorithms, AI-driven platforms and systems that influence how we think and interact, yet remain beyond our understanding, let alone our control. Freedom is not absolute. Few things in life, if any, are. It is not only political but also inner: freedom from fear, vanity, ego, unnecessary wants and the incessant noise that fills our lives. A moment of sheer exhilaration high above the clouds on Kilamanjaro The mountain strips away much of what we imagine to be essential. It leaves only what truly matters. It did not change who I was. It reminded me who I was still trying to become. I did not leave Kilimanjaro feeling younger. I left grateful – for health, friendship, curiosity and possibilities still worth pursuing. I recalled a dictum by Nelson Mandela: “It always seems impossible until it is done.” Yet Kilimanjaro taught me something deeper: perseverance, humility, discipline, focus and patience often matter more than physical strength. Age may limit our speed. It need not limit our horizons. Perhaps that is the real lesson of the Anabasis. We remain unfinished for as long as we live: still learning, growing and ascending. For in the end, Kilimanjaro is about the mountains we all climb and the journeys we undertake within ourselves, discovering both how small we are in the universe and how much we may yet become. Every life is an unfinished ascent. The Anabasis is complete. The journey continues.