🔗 Share this article

It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing broke away and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by concern for students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism