Mount Everest is often portrayed as the ultimate test of human endurance, an iconic summit that has drawn explorers, dreamers, and adventurers for nearly a century. Yet beneath the glossy narratives of heroism lies a deeply uncomfortable ethical terrain. At the heart of this debate is the question of whether modern Everest climbing is merely another chapter in a long history of colonial conquest.
In the 1850s, British surveyors working for the Great Trigonometrical Survey of India first mapped and renamed the peak after the head of the survey, Sir George Everest, despite the local Nepali and Tibetan peoples, who had long revered the mountain as sacred and knew it as Sagarmatha or Chomolungma. The Survey itself, tasked with charting the entire Indian subcontinent, was never a neutral scientific endeavour but an instrument of empire-building, enabling the British to consolidate territory. And while the endeavour produced remarkable cartographic results, it did so at the expense of Indigenous knowledge, naming traditions, and the cultural context the Survey chose to overwrite.
Image from The Seattle Times, 2016, Despite back-to-back disasters, climbers return to EverestAfter the devastation of the First World War, the mountain became a proxy battleground for national pride and heroism. Everest expeditions were celebrated as proof of British resilience and superiority, while Sherpas were often relegated to the footnotes of history. While climbers today may not be imperial agents, the ethos of the modern climbing industry
remains steeped in the legacy of Western conquest, one that imposes meaning, extracts prestige, and leaves the consequences to those who inhabit the landscape. The idea of “conquering” Everest still circulates in global media, reinforcing a narrative of mastery over nature that is fundamentally at odds with the mountain’s sacred status.
The most acute ethical concern is the dangers that climbers face, which are disproportionately shouldered by Sherpas, whose labour makes every summit attempt possible. They fix ropes, carry heavy loads, establish high camps, and repeatedly traverse the deadly Khumbu Icefall so that foreign clients can ascend with relative ease year after year. Avalanches, crevasse falls, and altitude-related illnesses disproportionately claim the lives of Sherpas compared to their foreign counterparts. Yet they receive only a fraction of the profits generated by an industry they sustain. Foreign climbers often celebrate their “personal triumph” atop Everest, yet the true labour, both physical and emotional, belongs to Sherpas who guide, rescue, and sometimes die so that others may fulfill their personal ambitions.
This disparity extends to the use of national resources. Nepal’s rescue infrastructure, limited, costly, and often stretched thin, is disproportionately directed toward saving foreign climbers who willingly place themselves in danger. The state routinely prioritizes the safety of foreign climbers, whose expeditions are lucrative, over long-term investments in education, healthcare, or climate resilience for Nepal’s remote populations.
These inequalities unfold within a broader capitalist logic that has reshaped Everest into a site of entitlement and exploitation that prioritises profit over environmental stewardship and human dignity. Overcrowding, oxygen shortages, and discarded excrement on the summit ridge are not natural phenomena; they are symptoms of a profit-driven industry with little incentive to curb demand. The mountain’s fragile alpine ecology also suffers under the increasing pressure of commercial activity, which is further strained by human presence.
What was once an achievement of mountaineering skill has been transformed into a commercial pipeline catering primarily to affluent foreigners who can pay extraordinary fees for the chance to stand on the summit. Many clients possess little to no climbing experience, relying heavily on a labour force whose exposure to death is normalised as part of the job. While the motivations of individual climbers vary, Everest has undeniably become a form of social capital, a product sold by companies promising a trophy to decorate a LinkedIn biography or Instagram feed.
Everest has become a site where bodies from the Global South are systematically placed in harm’s way so that climbers from wealthier nations can fulfil an ego-driven pursuit to dominate and subdue nature. Their exposure to risk is not incidental but structural, a predictable outcome of an industry built on unequal exchange. Everest will no doubt remain a magnet for adventure seekers, yet until climbers, companies, and governments confront the inequalities embedded in its ascent, the world’s tallest mountain will continue to reflect not the nobility of human aspiration, but the moral failures we carry to its heights.
