In the midst of a Violent Gale, The Panicked Screams of Children in Tents Outside Echoed. This Marks Christmas in Gaza

The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned 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 only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children curled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass whipped and strained, while corrugated metal broke away and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by 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 witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step highlighted 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 packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? 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 in short supply, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism