🔗 Share this article

The time was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children huddled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season 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 war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step highlighted 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.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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