The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.
While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children nestled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.
Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.
During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on broken panes billowed and tore, 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.
For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.
Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.
But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations 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 damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.
Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.
The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.
Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.
In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.
On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?
Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.
This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.
The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.
The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism
