A Pilgrimage in the Wilderness of the Sinai Peninsula

At the St Catherine Monastery: a bell-tower and a minaret next to each other

The door to the main church of the St Catherine Monastery is not small, yet I subconsciously bowed my head to enter. With a final expressive gesture meant to underline the need for absolute silence, our guide nudged us inside the 6^th-century basilica, pointing mutely but vividly to the famous mosaic of Transfiguration on the sanctuary apse, the six columns of solid granite on either side of the aisle, and various precious icons on the walls. The other holy sections of the temple, including St Catherine’s relics or the Chapel of the Burning Bush, are accessible only by Orthodox Christians and, thus, remain invisible to the public eye.

Several chandeliers of various sizes and shapes hang from the ceiling reaching as low as almost the pilgrims’ heads. Placed in dense proximity, they look as if cramped in the limited space. The long chains force the gaze upwards towards the adorned roof where the absence of the familiar embrace of a dome is indicative of the early Christian era that gave birth to this monastery.

The chamber appears to be virtually self-luminous: the scarce rays of sun that make it through the door reflect amply on the shining surfaces, the iconostasis, and the golden chips of the mosaic, creating a radiance that is as transformational as it is peaceful. Frankincense has left a distinct sillage, having permeated wood, stones, and plaster after fifteen centuries of continuous masses and prayers. A couple of monks crossed the aisles quietly, the soft rustling of their cassocks lingering long after the wake of their black pleats has disappeared behind a column. Within this transparent silence, reverence is so intense that even the shadows appear to be divine, compelling the soul to honest introspection. Still, when the moisture in my eyes – initially considered a mere reaction to the adjustment required after the blinding desert sun – turned into tears that unashamedly dampened my clothes, I felt bewildered, for those were not tears of religious piety but of a surrender the magnitude of which took me by surprise.

The starting point of the Sinai trail at Beer Sweir

The pilgrimage to the St Catherine Monastery had started twelve days earlier from Beer Sweir, somewhere close to the top of the Gulf of Aqaba, almost next to the Israeli borders. Our diurnal steps had taken us through flat deserts, rocky mountains, fertile gardens, and modest Bedouin settlements. We had crossed wadis whose width bears witness to the impressive size of the rivers that, once upon a time, flowed through them, and had squeezed ourselves through colourful canyons, their air- and water-eroded walls smoothened to perfection. Our small caravan had frequently found refuge under the shadow of the acacia trees, and, in the nights, our camps had been consistently protected by the sturdy presence of the hills. We had befriended the camels that had carried our tents; we had shared food and stories with the Tarabin, the Muzeina, and the Jebeleya tribes that had successively guided us through their territories; we had mulled over the energy of the land and the power of the djins, and we had slept feeling humbled and eternal under the glare of the celestial sphere. Over time, our skin hardened, our blisters – inevitable mementoes from hiking on the sandy ground – healed, our knowledge on the local flora and fauna improved, and our personal habits faded out as we followed the rhythm of the Bedouin routine, dictated by nature and life itself. Hence, we learnt to wash our hair pulling water from a well; we slept, like our guides, during the sacred, mid-day siesta that is enforced by the scorching sun; we paid our respects to humble cemeteries and mihrabs marked with stones; we listened attentively to a native shaman, and, in the evenings, we lulled at the joyful sizzling of the food and the humming of our cameleers, tucked under camel blankets, sipping sweet, Bedouin tea.

On the Sinai trail

Cooking in the camp. There was lentil soup on the menu that day

Our first nights had been illuminated by the full moon that bestowed its silver abundance on the expanse of the desert. That moonlight, though, had felt uncannily relentless, almost harsh, leaving us sleepless in our tents and stripping naked those parts of the soul which had, for years, found a comfortable hideout in the shadows. Two weeks and 200 kilometres later, the nights had turned tender despite the lower temperatures or the strong winds we had to face on the summit of Mt. Catherine. The waxing crescent moon, now dawning behind the ridges, was the promise of a new beginning – and new beginnings always enclose an unparalleled sweetness.

Our tent in the darkness

Maybe the wilderness of the desert had scrubbed the rough edges of the psyche away, leaving polished surfaces on which a much-desired clarity could be found. It was with this purity that, on a tranquil afternoon towards the end of our journey, I was destined to climb from our camp at Farsh Eliyas the last 750 stairs leading to the top of Mt Moses. Although the term “stairs” is a rather exaggerated way to describe the man-placed rocks of uncomfortable sizes that are often more treacherous than helpful, their presence is the embodiment of the Ladder of Divine Ascent (*), leading subtly but surely to the awakening of the soul.

Stairs to Mt Moses

The hike to the peak where, according to the Christian, Islamic, and Judaic tradition, Moses received the Ten Commandments, was not meant to be of any religious significance to me. I enjoyed more the interaction with the Bedouin vendors in the itinerant stalls who, detecting my discernible Greek accent, were keen to exchange with me a few words in my native language – a language that is familiar to most members of the Jebeleya tribe given their centuries-long symbiosis with the Greek Orthodox monastery. This chit-chat gave rise to an unanticipated feeling of friendliness and intimacy, a sense of being “at home” despite the unfamiliar terrain, a certitude that I was connecting with something I had known from time immemorial but had forgotten.

A little shop on the way to the top of Mt Moses. On the wall, one of the Ten Commandments (Thou Shall Not Commit Adultery) is written in Greek

We reached the top by sunset. The recent recession in Egypt’s tourist industry gave us the unique opportunity to have the summit of Mt Moses entirely to ourselves. Admittedly, the mountain’s almost perfect pyramidal shape that makes it easily distinguishable from every angle, the inevitable allegory of its role on the land of the Pharaonic Pyramids, and the thousands of pilgrims who have climbed its slopes chanting prayers on the top, can leave no soul unimpressed. I sat resting my back against the wall of the mosque that rises next to the Christian chapel and, although the sun did not set in any remarkable glory, I remained mesmerized watching the elongating triangular shadow of the mountain on the ground as it gradually crossed the Gulf of Aqaba stretching over the land of Saudi Arabia. And I shivered in veneration and awe, for, I saw a message of eternal unity in the moment, similar to the symbolism inherent in this mountain for over 3000 years.

The triangular shadow of Mt. Moses. In the background, the sea and the land of Saudi Arabia where the shadow will reach as the sun is setting

It was already dusk on our way down when we met with a large group of elderly Indonesians (most probably Muslims) who had vowed to hike the holy mountain despite their physical fragility and imminent darkness. We shook hands with each one of them exchanging “hallelujahs” and taking several photos, and, as I descended the last steps, I found myself in a state of unexpected bliss and serenity.

Interacting with the Indonesian pilgrims on Mt Moses

On the other hand, Mt Catherine – the tallest summit of Egypt and the end of our long trail before finally descending to the Monastery – proved to be harsher, welcoming us with gusts so ferocious that turned the pitching of our tents to a challenge and our nocturnal repose to an exercise in futility. Still, as I was heading to our final dinner, I saw Mt Moses shining like a beacon, its peak bathed in the last rays of sunlight, almost calling to me. I stood for a few minutes by the edge of the cliff, my eyes half-closed against the wind, my gaze resting on the expanse of the bare Sinai mountains that surrounded us in shades of blue and lavender, and I felt a sense of protection – an inner harmony that echoes in my heart to this day.

At sunset time on top of Mt. Catherine. The top of Mt Moses (mid-left in the photo) is illuminated by the last rays of the sun

This rugged land that had been vibrating under my feet for the past twelve days was breathing in the rhythm of bygone times, radiating an authenticity almost untouched, leaving an impression unexpectedly deep for such a minimalistic landscape. What was it that had affected me so much? Maybe it was the Bedouins who were greeting us with their beloved “life is good” mantra, cooked “from their soul,” and taught us respect, humility, dignity, and gratitude with their behaviour. Or it may have been the echo of the footprints of the thousands of pilgrims who, for centuries, have been traversing the peninsula leaving tangible signs of their passage carved on stones and indelible marks in the energy of the region. Or, perhaps, I felt inspired by the mere participation in the Sinai Trail project: an initiative which, for the first time after 100 years, connects the Bedouin tribes in a venture that transcends personal or ephemeral benefits and focuses on the greater good of the local population, reviving the deserted pilgrimage path and safeguarding the oral knowledge and traditions.

Old footprints of pilgrims on the stones

Nasser, our Bedouin guide who had accompanied us throughout the trip, approached me. It was time to say goodbye.

“You seem concerned,” he noticed. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I replied. “I am just contemplating our journey of the past two weeks. So much has changed, though I cannot put my finger on what touched me the most.”

Nasser looked at me in his typical half-serious, half-smiling demeanour. When he spoke, though, his voice was warm and heavy, echoing the wisdom of his tribe.

Nasser on the trail

“These long trips change you, and, because of that, your decisions become clearer. While on the trail, you may sometimes feel sad; other times, happy; you might even cry. You do not know why, but there are emotions from within that get released. Through this process, you get healed, and the real journey of self-discovery begins. On these trips, we walk together sharing the same conditions and the same food: we are all equals. No one is treated or perceived differently, so people are given the space to look deep inside and explore which part of themselves they would like to change.”

He stopped for a minute and let his gaze rest on the mountain range that extended in the horizon.

“You see,” he continued, “change starts from within and only afterwards can it overflow to the world. In the desert, we are reminded of our true place within the universe: we are not the ones setting the rules; but we are participating in them, as we are creating them together with the rest of the cosmos. We are small and yet important. We are frail and vulnerable, but we can be formidable. Understanding these two opposites often comes as a shock.”

He breathed slowly and then turned and looked me deeply in the eyes.

“This whole trail is full of contrasts: the heat of the day and the chilliness of the night; the gifts of the desert and the threats hidden in every turn; the myriads of grains on the ground and the millions of stars on the sky; the Christians and the Muslims; the soldiers and the pilgrims; war and peace. You think that you entered the church at the end of the trail, but, in truth, you had been walking, living, and sleeping in a temple for the past two weeks.”

He stretched his arm, not just in a broad movement meant to embrace the wilderness but almost as if reaching out to touch a vision.

“This is the real temple: the ultimate sanctuary, the space that unites us, forging who we are and who we want to be. And this is where God truly speaks. When you keep your heart open, you can hear the language of the Divine. You were privileged to experience this, and now you feel overwhelmed by emotions. You already know what you have been told, so allow space for the messages to settle. You have been blessed, my friend.”

I watched his tall figure walk away, his jellabiya waving at the rhythm of his brisk pace.

He was right.

I did feel blessed.

The sanctuary of the Sinai Trail

(*) The famous book by Saint John Climacus (aka Saint John Sinaites) who not only lived in the area as a hermit and for a period acted as the abbot to the monastery of St Catherine but was also the originator behind the construction of the Stairs of Penitence to the holy summit of Jabal Moussa (Mt Moses). This book is one of the precious literary outputs hosted in the library of the Monastery of St. Catherine.

Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou

Complement this article with more details from my hike on the Sinai Trail including Bedouin culinary explorations, Storytelling around the campfire, Human portraits carved in sand, an Amateur’s botanical notebook, Ghost stories under the sun, and the Mysterious Nawamis of the Sinai desert.

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