Syrian Beekeepers Battle Both War and Climate Change 

Syrian beekeeper Ibrahim Damiriya struggles to produce honey from his hives on parched land in Rankus village near the capital Damascus on September 11, 2023 after years of war, economic collapse and worsening climate change. (AFP)
Syrian beekeeper Ibrahim Damiriya struggles to produce honey from his hives on parched land in Rankus village near the capital Damascus on September 11, 2023 after years of war, economic collapse and worsening climate change. (AFP)
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Syrian Beekeepers Battle Both War and Climate Change 

Syrian beekeeper Ibrahim Damiriya struggles to produce honey from his hives on parched land in Rankus village near the capital Damascus on September 11, 2023 after years of war, economic collapse and worsening climate change. (AFP)
Syrian beekeeper Ibrahim Damiriya struggles to produce honey from his hives on parched land in Rankus village near the capital Damascus on September 11, 2023 after years of war, economic collapse and worsening climate change. (AFP)

Syrian beekeeper Ibrahim Damiriya struggles to produce honey from his hives on parched land near the capital Damascus after years of war, economic collapse and worsening climate change impacts.

"The war bled us dry. We could barely keep our beekeeping business afloat, and then the insane weather made things worse," the 62-year-old in a beekeeping suit told AFP as he examined meagre honey stocks inside the hives.

Before Syria's conflict erupted in 2011, Damiriya owned 110 hives in Rankus, a village near Damascus that was once filled with apple orchards.

But now a combination of fighting, severe drought and a grueling economic crisis have left him with a mere 40 hives in semi-arid lands, decimating his honey yield.

Rankus was once renowned for its honey, but was hard hit by fighting between government forces and opposition factions that caused widespread destruction, pushing many residents to flee.

Damiriya can barely afford to tend to his hives, donated by the International Committee for the Red Cross (ICRC) to help Syrian beekeepers.

"If we keep suffering from climate change and rising prices, I might have to abandon my profession," Damiriya said with a sigh.

Since 2011, Syria's war has killed more than half a million people and caused an acute economic crisis, exacerbated by severe Western sanctions.

Recent years have also battered Syria with heatwaves, low rainfall and more forest fires.

'Extreme weather'

A 2019 United Nations report found that fighting had practically wiped out hives, with bombs contaminating the environment and pesticide misuse and a proliferation of parasites speeding up their decline.

Syria used to be home to 635,000 hives before the war, but their numbers had dwindled to about 150,000 at the height of the conflict in 2016, said Iyad Daaboul, the Damascus-based president of the Arab Beekeepers Union.

Today that number has risen back up to 400,000, he said. However, the hives yield only 1,500 tons of honey per year -- half of the country's pre-war production.

Unusually cold springs and drought have had an adverse effect on the flowers that bees feed on.

"Extreme weather conditions have greatly affected bees, especially during spring -- the most important time in their life cycle," said Daaboul.

The number of beekeepers has nearly halved from 32,000 before the war to around 18,000 today, he said.

Another threat to the bees is the forest fires which have become more common as temperatures rise.

Fires "have destroyed more than 1,000 hives on Syria's coastal mountains and stripped bees of large foraging areas", Daaboul said.

'Unusually cold'

Rising temperatures and desertification have taken a toll on Syria's greenery, destroying many of the plants on whose flowers the bees feed and squeezing the once-thriving agriculture sector.

Damascus ICRC spokesperson Suhair Zakkout told AFP that "Syria's agricultural production has fallen by approximately 50 percent over the last 10 years" because of war and climate change.

Despite being one of the countries most badly affected by global warming, Syria has lacked the funds it needs to tackle environmental issues, Zakkout said.

Climate change has devastated farmer Ziad Rankusi's apple orchards, which have also been greatly thinned by illegal logging as people struggle to keep warm during the winter amid recurrent fuel shortages.

Rankusi, who is in his 50s, used to tend more than 1,000 trees on his land, but just 400 survive, and they are drying out in the heat.

"For about five years, we have had unprecedented droughts and desertification, and this year the spring was unusually cold. The fruit perished," said the farmer.

"When trees and flowers disappear, bees can no longer feed. They either migrate or die."



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.