Amid a Fierce Tempest, I Could Hear. This is Christmas in Gaza
It was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. That wasnât surprising. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if heâd have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.
A Trek Through a Place of Tents
While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children curled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.
As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne 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 Night Escalates
As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass whipped and strained, while metal sheets tore loose and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.
During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called âbad weatherâ. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.
Al-Arbaâiniya
Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arbaâiniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.
But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.
A Life in Tents
Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.
Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, lacking heat.
The Weight on Education
In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.
In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practicesâprojects, due datesâbecome questions of conscience, shaped each day by anxiety over studentsâ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.
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 while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?
The Humanitarian Shortfall
Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.
This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.
A Preventable Suffering
The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.
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
