In the midst of a Fierce Tempest, I Could Hear. This Marks Christmas in Gaza

It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under damp covers, 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 walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing ripped free and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by concern for students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. 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 precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism