Amid a Violent Gale, The Panicked Screams of Children in Tents Outside Echoed. This Marks Christmas in Gaza

The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing 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 whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing ripped free and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened 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 destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into questions of conscience, influenced daily by concern for students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially painful is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This winter occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism