🔗 Share this article

It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

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 torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I imagined children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows whipped and strained, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty 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 reveals its full force. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions 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 been rendered homeless. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become questions of conscience, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? 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 donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures 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. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism