Suzi Sabaner
I had no idea why I loved Athens so much until I walked among the ancient stones of the Acropolis.
During my two brief visits, I assumed it was because the city reminded me of old Istanbul, Greek felt familiar, and the people were so warm.
As it turned out, the reason was something entirely different.
On my most recent visit, under the midday sun, our guide told us the story of Athena and Poseidon as we walked through the Acropolis.
According to Greek mythology, the two gods competed to become the patron of Athens. Poseidon offered a gift that symbolized power and military strength. Athena offered an olive tree. The people of Athens chose Athena’s gift—a symbol of wisdom, peace, and prosperity.
More than the myth itself, it was what that choice represented that stayed with me.
As I walked among the ancient temples of the Acropolis, I felt surrounded by history and by a tradition of thought.
I couldn’t help thinking of Socrates.
Perhaps that was because, through Viktor Frankl’s Logotherapy, I had become familiar with Socratic questioning. Frankl was deeply influenced by the Socratic method and applied it to Logotherapy.
In Logotherapy, through Socratic questioning, the therapist helps people enter into a dialogue with life and discover their own answers and meaning.
As I recently began reading more about Socrates, I realized that what moved me most was not simply his wisdom, but the questions he asked. He never claimed to have all the answers. Instead, he kept learning. Rather than telling people what to think, he asked questions that invited them to reflect on their own lives, their values, and the truth they were seeking.
Perhaps that was also why some people found him unsettling. Those who seek truth often challenge ideas that have long gone unquestioned. Eventually, Socrates was brought to trial, accused of corrupting the youth and of failing to honor the city’s gods.
Although he had the opportunity to escape, he chose to remain faithful to the values he had lived by.
His daimonion—the inner voice he spoke of—was another reason some people found him difficult to understand. It reminded me of Viktor Frankl’s understanding of conscience. They are not exactly the same concept, but both invite us to listen carefully to what is true within ourselves.
Walking through the Acropolis, I found myself reflecting on my own life.
Once again, Frankl’s question echoed in my mind:
“What is life asking of me today?”
Once again, I found myself asking whether I was still being faithful to my values.
That very morning, I had started reading Frédéric Gros’s A Philosophy of Walking. He writes about how walking can open space for reflection. Perhaps it wasn’t only the walk itself, but also the atmosphere of the Acropolis—and simply being in Athens—that led one thought to another.
I left the Acropolis with the questions I had dared to ask myself once again.
And finally, I understood why Athens had always felt so close to me.It was the city’s ancient memory that had been calling me all along.