In the midst of a Raging Storm, The Panicked Screams of Children in Tents Outside Echoed. This Defines Christmas in Gaza

The time was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek 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, just the noise of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children nestled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal ripped free and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to 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 shows its true power. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies 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. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, 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 observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into moral negotiations, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This winter coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism