🔗 Share this article

The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We spoke briefly while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged 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 Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children curled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on shattered windows whipped and strained, while metal sheets tore loose and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations 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 have not been found. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into questions of conscience, dictated every moment by concern for students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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