Mediterranean’s Devastating Storm Daniel May Be Harbinger of Storms to Come

People check an area damaged by flash floods in Derna, eastern Libya, on September 11, 2023. (AFP)
People check an area damaged by flash floods in Derna, eastern Libya, on September 11, 2023. (AFP)
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Mediterranean’s Devastating Storm Daniel May Be Harbinger of Storms to Come

People check an area damaged by flash floods in Derna, eastern Libya, on September 11, 2023. (AFP)
People check an area damaged by flash floods in Derna, eastern Libya, on September 11, 2023. (AFP)

Storm Daniel, which wrought devastation across the Mediterranean in the past week, killed 15 people in central Greece where it dumped more rain than previously recorded before sweeping across to Libya where over 2,500 died in a huge flood.

As the storm moved along the North African coast, Egypt's authorities sought to calm its worried citizens by telling them Daniel had finally lost its strength. "No need to panic!" Al Ahram newspaper wrote in its online English-language edition.

But global warming means the region may have to brace in future for increasingly powerful storms of this kind, the Mediterranean's equivalent of a hurricane known as a "medicane".

"There is consistent evidence that the frequency of medicanes decreases with climate warming, but the strongest medicanes become stronger," said Suzanne Gray from the meteorology department at Britain's University of Reading, citing a report by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change.

For Greece, the storm that formed on Sept. 4 followed a period of blazing heat and wildfires.

In Libya, the town of Derna was deluged by water that flooded down hills into a wadi, a usually dry riverbed, smashing through two catchment dams and sweeping away a quarter of the coastal town.

At least 10,000 people were feared missing, according to the International Federation of the Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies.

Climate expert Christos Zerefos, secretary general of the Academy of Athens, said storm data had not been fully compiled yet but he estimated the amount of rain to fall on Libya equaled the 1,000 mm (1 meter) that fell on Thessaly in central Greece in just two days.

He said it was an "unprecedented event" and more rain drenched the area than ever recorded since records began in the mid-19th century.

"We expect such phenomena to happen more often," he added.

But experts said the impact on countries around the Mediterranean would be uneven, proving most destructive to those with the least means to prepare.

Libya, which has endured more than a decade of chaos and conflict and which still does not have a central government that can reach across the country, is particularly at risk.

"The complex political situation and history of protracted conflict in Libya pose challenges for developing risk communication and hazard assessment strategies, coordinating rescue operations, and also potentially for maintenance of critical infrastructure such as dams," said Leslie Mabon, lecturer in environmental systems at The Open University in Britain.

Before Storm Daniel struck, hydrologist Abdelwanees A. R. Ashoor of Libya's Omar Al-Mukhtar University had warned that repeated flooding of the wadi posed a threat to Derna.

Yet even better-resourced Greece struggled to deal with the power of Storm Daniel. Homes were swept away, bridges collapsed, roads destroyed, power lines fell and crops in the fertile Thessaly plain were wiped out.

Greek authorities said on Monday that more than 4,250 people had been evacuated from villages and settlements in the region.



The Border Zone with Lebanon: A Refuge for Syrians Fearing ‘Change’

The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
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The Border Zone with Lebanon: A Refuge for Syrians Fearing ‘Change’

The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).

The road from Beirut to Damascus is now lined with unfamiliar scenes. In just a few days, everything has changed for those traveling to the Syrian capital by land from Lebanon. Once an economic lifeline for Damascus, the route bustled with visitors—Syrians and Lebanese alike—and large trucks carried goods from Beirut’s port to Syria, a necessity brought on by international sanctions that have forced the country to rely on this corridor.

The journey to Damascus via Lebanon begins at the Masnaa border crossing, which, during the early days of Syria’s upheaval, saw unprecedented traffic heading into Syria. While outbound traffic has returned to normal—or even declined—inbound activity has surged again. Hundreds of Syrian families line up at the border, hoping for “humanitarian exceptions” to enter Lebanon. However, the influx has clogged the route for everyone, even those eligible for entry. For days, the road was virtually impassable until Lebanese authorities intervened to reopen it. Still, complaints from Syrians about alleged abuses at the border prompted General Security chief Major General Elias al-Baysari to launch an investigation into these violations, followed by measures to reduce the number of entries to just a few hundred.

Some Syrians leave after being denied entry, only for others to arrive, clinging to the hope that Lebanon might eventually open its doors. Entry is now restricted to those with valid residency, travelers transiting through Beirut’s airport, or individuals with official documentation.

Families wait in cars, with children and women inside while men gather around fires outside. Ayman, a man in his fifties from rural Damascus, anxiously waits for permission to cross after being denied entry by the checkpoint. He mentions receiving a promise that his case will be reviewed. “We are in danger. I won’t take my children back to die,” he says, refusing to elaborate on the exact threat. Determined, he vows to remain in the deserted zone indefinitely if necessary.

Despite no reports of targeted violence against former regime supporters or religious minorities—especially Shiites—fear remains pervasive. Bilal, a Syrian from the predominantly Shiite town of Zahraa near Aleppo, recounts how a relative was killed and claims that his name is on a wanted list. “I’ll never go back,” he says firmly.

The scene repeats itself just past the first opposition-held checkpoint, opposite the abandoned Syrian passport office. Crossing is straightforward and no longer requires ID for Lebanese citizens, unlike in the past. A friendly greeting and a wave from the armed guards suffice, often accompanied by a smile and “Welcome!” This is a stark contrast to the past, when multiple military checkpoints, infamous for soliciting bribes in the form of bread, cigarettes, or cash, made travel cumbersome.

Now, entering and exiting Syria via land is remarkably easy—no paperwork, no questions, and no inspections.

Near a victory arch along the road, adorned with images of deposed Syrian President Bashar al-Assad and his late father Hafez, stands a young man. His old car is parked nearby, with his wife and three children—all under ten years old—waiting inside. Hesitantly, he approaches a Lebanese traveler, asking whether he can enter Lebanon without the “yellow card” once issued by Syrian authorities for outgoing vehicles. Syrian border guards had turned him away, warning that Lebanese authorities might confiscate his car.

The man, from the Shiite-majority village of Foua near Idlib, is determined to reach Lebanon. “I’ve arranged for work with someone there, and I need to leave as soon as possible,” he explains nervously. Though he insists no one has harmed him, his unease is evident as he prepares to leave.

The Assads’ towering portraits remain intact, likely due to their height, while those at ground level have been torn down or trampled. Military checkpoints have been vandalized or destroyed.

Abandoned vehicles litter the roadside, some still smoldering, while others have been stripped of all valuables—tires, parts, and accessories. Military vehicles, tanks, and armored carriers, some still loaded with ammunition, lie deserted along the route from the border to Damascus. These remnants tell the story of a collapsed regime and an uncertain future.

Scattered among the wreckage are vehicles destroyed by Israeli missile strikes targeting Syrian air defense systems, including anti-aircraft launchers mounted on military trucks.

The stretch of abandoned military hardware extends from the Syrian border to the outskirts of Damascus. These vehicles were once meant to defend the capital but now lie powerless, deserted by soldiers who left their uniforms discarded along the roadside as they fled. The old Syrian flag lies tattered and forgotten in multiple locations, untouched—neither reclaimed nor mourned.