Amid the scorched, silent expanse of the Sinai desert, a stone sanctuary stands defiant. For over 1,400 years, the Monastery of Saint Catherine has withstood not just time and nature, but the slow siege of history, conflict, and isolation. It is a fortress of faith, nestled between granite peaks where the Bible itself once set its stage—and a beacon of spiritual endurance that continues to shine.

Few modern Greek writers have captured the soul of this place as vividly as Nikos Kazantzakis, author of Zorba the Greek and one of Greece’s most influential literary figures. In the winter of 1927, Kazantzakis journeyed through Egypt and the Sinai Peninsula on assignment for the newspaper Eleftheros Logos (Free speech), his mind already brimming with the spiritual and philosophical weight that would one day shape his epic poem The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel. His reflections, now republished in the travelogue series Travelling by Dioptra Publications, offer a rare pre-war window into the monastery’s mythic solitude.

A Fortress of Hospitality in a Land of Fire

Kazantzakis’ arrival at the Monastery was no mere visit—it was a pilgrimage.

“Rarely do Greeks come to this wilderness,” he writes. He was welcomed by Archbishop Theodosios, a tall, noble, and passionate Greek from the once-thriving Greek community of Çeşme in Asia Minor. The reception, Kazantzakis notes, was not just warm—it was sacred.

“The divine, beloved ritual of holy hospitality,” he recalls: spoon sweets, cold water, strong coffee, a table laid with a crisp white cloth, and faces beaming with joy at the sight of a visitor from Greece.

From the monastery’s windows, the Red Sea shimmered in the distance, while the mountains of ancient Thebaid loomed like ghosts on the horizon.

And then—there it was.

Tucked between two towering mountains, the Monastery of Saint Catherine appeared, “surrounded by walls like a castle,” the end point of Kazantzakis’ long desert journey. “I had longed for this moment all my life,” he confides. “And now, holding in my hands the fruit of great labor, I rejoiced silently, without haste.”

He briefly hesitated, struck by a harsh joy—the thought of turning back, of denying himself the reward after the struggle. But then a breeze, scented with almond blossoms, stirred the air. He surrendered. “The man inside me who accepts joy and sweetness won,” he admits.

A Garden of Miracles in a Sea of Stone

Accompanied by his friend, the painter Takis Kalmouchos, Kazantzakis approached the monastery’s orchards, stunned. “My heart leapt,” he wrote. “There, in the middle of the desert, olive trees, orange trees, walnut and fig trees—and towering almond trees in full bloom. A gentle warmth, the scent of blossoms, the hum of tiny working insects…”

After three days of trudging through barren, silent rock, the monastery’s garden seemed like an earthly paradise—a smile of God made from soil, water, and human sweat.

For days, he had believed in the God of fire and stone—the harsh, unyielding divine. But standing in the orchard, he felt another revelation: “God is also a quiver of joy, a gentle tear.” He quoted Buddha: “There are two kinds of miracles—the physical and the spiritual. I do not believe in the first. I believe in the second.”

To Kazantzakis, this monastery was just that: a spiritual miracle.

The Monastery That Endures

For 14 centuries, Saint Catherine’s Monastery has stood its ground—surrounded by harsh desert, hemmed in by nomadic tribes of different tongues and faiths, surviving siege not by sword but by steadfastness. It is a citadel of devotion in the wilderness.

As Kazantzakis climbed its ramparts and looked out over the biblical mountainscape, he felt transported into the Old Testament. There, three monks sat warming themselves in the sun. One spoke of the wonders he had seen in America—ships, bridges, factories, cities. Another described how they roast lamb in his mountain village of Lidoriki. The third recounted the legend of Saint Catherine: how angels carried her from Alexandria to the mountain peak that now bears her name, where the imprint of her body still lies upon the stone.

Below, the monastery garden glowed in the snow and sunlight. Olive trees whispered. Orange trees gleamed among dark leaves. Cypress trees stood like black-robed monks. And always, always, the scent of almond blossoms—”slow, rhythmic, like breathing”—filling the air with both memory and mystery.

A Hidden Chamber of Greek History

More than 30 years later, another voice—Yiorgos Theotokas, a leading Greek intellectual—visited the monastery and echoed Kazantzakis’ reverence. In his 1961 travel memoir Journey to the Middle East and Mount Athos, Theotokas wrote: “Hellenism sometimes feels like a vast, ancient mansion—filled with hidden compartments, secret cellars, and chests sealed for centuries… One of the most exceptional of these hidden chambers is the Monastery of Saint Catherine.”

He described its monks as true akrites—border guardians of Greek Orthodoxy, devoted to preserving the monastery’s treasures and spirit. He lingered in the Church of the Transfiguration, marveling at its shadowed, spiritual beauty.

A Place of Resistance and Revelation

To this day, Saint Catherine’s Monastery remains one of the oldest working Christian monasteries in the world—a living link to Byzantium, a keeper of ancient manuscripts and icons, and a symbol of spiritual resilience. For both Kazantzakis and Theotokas, it represented something more than history: it was a testament to human endurance, faith, and the fight to hold onto beauty in a barren land.

As Kazantzakis wrote, “Here, I felt, a higher human consciousness prevails… Here, man’s virtue triumphs over the desert.”

And so the monastery still stands—besieged, yet unbroken.