Amid a Violent Gale, I Could Hear. This is Christmas in Gaza

It was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back 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 suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children huddled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal broke away and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. 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 persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are 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 displaced, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into questions of conscience, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, relief groups reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness 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 precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This winter occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism