During a Fierce Tempest, I Could Hear. This is Christmas in Gaza

It was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We spoke briefly during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on damaged glass billowed and tore, while corrugated metal tore loose and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by concern for students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied 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 the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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