In the midst of a Fierce Gale, I Could Hear. This is Christmas in Gaza

The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children nestled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through 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 soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? 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 a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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