🔗 Share this article

The time was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing tore loose and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. 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 experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams found the victims 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 caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, without heating.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become moral negotiations, dictated every moment by concern for students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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