During a Raging Storm, The Cries of Children in Tents Pierced the Night. This Marks Christmas in Gaza

It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped 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 Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes whipped and strained, 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.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, commencing in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, 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 rising.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially painful is how preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism