🔗 Share this article

The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing ripped free and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, without heating.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become questions of conscience, shaped each day by concern for students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism