Alexandrian fragments: On tsunamis and other waves
In 365 CE, following a earthquake whose epicenter was located in Crete, a tsunami hit many areas around the eastern Mediterranean, including the city of Alexandria and (as I expanded on elsewhere) the Lake Menzaleh area, in the eastern Nile Delta. We know about the impact of the tsunami in Alexandria through a passage of the Syria-born veteran and historian Ammianus Marcellinus. Ammianus was alive when the tsunami took place. He also travelled in Egypt and what is now Greece during those years. His testimony is set at the very end of Book 26 of his Res Gestae. It starts like this:
“On the 21st of July in the first consulship of Valentinian with his brother, horrible phenomena suddenly spread through the entire extent of the world, such as are related to us neither in fable nor in truthful history. For a little after daybreak, preceded by heavy and repeated thunder and lightning, the whole of the firm and solid earth was shaken and trembled, the sea with its rolling waves was driven back and withdrew from the land, so that in the abyss of the deep thus revealed men saw many kinds of sea-creatures stuck fast in the slime; and vast mountains and deep valleys, which Nature, the creator, had hidden in the unplumbed depths, then, as one might well believe, first saw the beams of the sun.” (transl. by Jeffrey Henderson in Loeb’s 1940 edition)
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There is now a 400-meter long bridge over Stanley Beach, on Alexandria’s seafront. It was built in 2001 in the context of the widening of the corniche. The bridge is not ugly, but the way it cuts through the small bay, dwarfing the old, heritage cabins that once made the area famous, hurts the eye. Its four towers are painted red and beige and the sidewalk that lines it is peppered with concrete benches decorated with Greek-style wave patterns. Down to sea-level, the bridge’s pillars are hit by aqua waves, whose splash swallows the noise of the speedy cars.
All the Alexandrians I know agree: The corniche is not what it used to be. The seafront is now filled with relatively new hotels and restaurants. Sea views for the middle class. One is called “Waves”. Its patio overlooks the windy sea. On the weekend, families, couples, and friends come to sit under the shade while sipping a limoun, a frappé or a Coca Cola. Shisha on the sea. Sea and be seen.
Twenty years ago, none of these developments existed. Several unobstructed beaches were accessible to the locals. One could go swim, sunbathe, or sit at a plastic table under an umbrella. Now no beach has been left unbuilt. At Montazah, a flyover is being built on the beach. In response to local critiques, a local official celebrated this new enterprise as a double treat: Not only would it relief the fast-growing city’s traffic, but it would also serve as an umbrella for beach goers.
Come and sit in the receeding sands, come and enjoy the rising waters, all in the comfort of a highway’s shade.
The wind blows on the corniche. The sun shines, and the waves break in fierce, white splashes. Whatever part of the shore is not taken over by a restaurant is lined up with huge concrete blocks. Some are already submerged; some serve as beach substitutes for tea sellers, who set up chairs and tables on the wet surface of higher up blocks.
Dumping manmade cubes and tripods in the sea will not make the rising sea recede.
The truth is, she is coming. Like she has before. Like she always does.
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Imagine you’re seated by the corniche, wind in your hair, salty smell in the air, minding your own business, when, all of a sudden, the sea recedes. There, close by, the bottom of the sea is exposed, for everyone to see.
What would you do?
In 365 CE, people did this:
“Hence, many ships were stranded as if on dry land, and since many men roamed about without fear in the little that remained of the waters, to gather fish and similar things with their hands, the roaring sea, resenting, as it were, this forced retreat, rose in its turns; and over the boiling shoals it dashed mightily upon islands and broad stretches of the mainland, and levelled innumerable buildings in the cities, and wherever else they were found; so that amid the mad discord of the elements the altered face of the earth revealed marvellous sights.” (transl. by Jeffrey Henderson in Loeb’s 1940 edition)
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This past winter, I had a zoom chat with Sociologist Amro Ali. As we were talking about the impacts of the climate crisis on Alexandria, and especially the increasing instances of maritime floodings that have taken place these past years, he shared with me an information I had not heard before: Experts predict that by 2050, most of Alexandria will be under water. It is estimated that such a (best case) scenario would force 1.5 of the c.5 million inhabitant of the city built on the narrow strip of rocky land that separates the sea from the (now almost completely drained and built over) Lake Mariut to relocate. In a blog post of his I read after our conversation, Amro writes:
“short of radical adaption measures, it is Alexandria, the only major city in the Mediterranean, that is at the highest risk of being largely submerged by 2050. It is no wonder why popular Google searches for Alexandria in the context of climate change reveal bizarre questions such as “Does Alexandria Egypt still exist?” and “who destroyed Alexandria Egypt?” It is an omen the city can do without.”
As I searched for the scientific literature detailing this dystopian omen, I stumbled upon a page called Climate Central, which provides a ‘coastal risk screening tool’. The tool offers an interactive visual modelling of what the submersion of Alexandria will look like. As I moved the cursor towards 2050, I was stunned: The flooded area looked strikingly similar to that of the ancient lake Mareotis (now the much-shrunk lake Mariut), as you can see on this map made by colleagues at the Centre d’études alexandrines:
There it was: The Land, and the waters, alive, shifting, moving, living, with, without or despite of human presences. The gradual, and increasing, flooding of a large portion of this city of 5.2 million inhabitants as a result of the unwillingness of our global élites to trade profit for long-term sustainability and care for our planet is a human tragedy beyond measure. To me, a specialist of the ancient envrionmental history of the Nile Delta, this unfolding story also echoes the submergence of parts of Alexandria’s royal quarters, as well as of the nearby cities of Canopus and Thonis-Herakleion in the 4th c. CE. While these ancient episodes were not triggered by human actions, but rather by earthquakes, tsunamis, and rising sea levels, one element makes them comparable to today’s threat: The willingness of human communities to settle on highly shifting land, because the benefits of living on these lands are seen as outweighing the risks they represent to human communities.
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On June 22, 2022, UNESCO tweeted the following
The Tsunami Ready page includes a customable worldmap. Elements that can be shown are: tectonic plate boundaries (lines), tsunami sources (including historical tsunami locations, green squares), terrain model for ocean and land, significant earthquakes location (yellow to dark red small dots), tsunami ready communities (large dots), and effects of tsunami (triangles, squares). The world map looks like this:
If one zooms in on the area corresponding to West Asian and the Eastern Mediterranean, the map looks like this:
When I zommed in on the Egyptian portion of the map, I was struck by a glaring absence: no “historical tsunami location” neon green square has been put on Alexandria; same for the Lake Menzaleh area.
Yet as we’ve now seen, a tsunami did happen there. Not only do we know when, but, thanks to Ammianus’ testimony, we know what the aftermath of a tsunami hitting Alexandria did — and therefore would — look like:
“For the great mass of waters, returning when it was least expected, killed many thousands of men by drowning; and by the swift recoil of the eddying tides a number of ships, after the swelling of the wet element subsided, were seen to have foundered and the lifeless bodies of shipwrecked persons lay floating on their backs or on their faces. Other great ships, driven by the mad blasts, landed on the tops of buildings (as happened in Alexandria), and some were driven almost two miles inland, like a Laconian ship which I myself in passing that way saw near the town of Mothone, yawning apart through long decay.” (transl. by Jeffrey Henderson in Loeb’s 1940 edition)
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Fast forward to a day in November 2022. The COP27 is taking place in Sharm el-Sheikh on the Red Sea. There, talks on the risks posed by climate change on Alexandria took place. Down by the Alexandrian corniche, the sun radiates an unusual warmth for this time of year. A collection of dry fishes which proves very popular with children and adults alike is exhibited in Fort Qaitbey. Wooden boat are being built nearby, a little passed the Nautical Greek Club and Azza Ice Cream. The patio at Pâtisserie Délices is full and The Rooftop crowd is cheering Ghana’s FIFA World Cup team. A lively crowd of students hustles and bustles around the area of the now fenced-off Bibliotheca Alexandrina. Booksellers sell books on Nabi Daniel and, as befitted a city that used to host a temple to Bastet, cats are everywhere. Somewhere along the corniche, a couple of fishermen fish, a cotton candy seller sells cotton candy, and friends sit alongside the corniche’s parapet. East of Stanley Bridge, in the curve of the eastbound corniche, right across from Costa, a group of young men practice martial arts. The wind blows as it always does and so do car klaxons.
Alexandria is here, now.
