🔗 Share this article

The clock read around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. 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, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Trek Through a Place 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, merely the din of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children huddled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on broken panes whipped and strained, while corrugated metal ripped free and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

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 remained wet, always damp. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were 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 on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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