In the midst of a Raging Tempest, The Panicked Screams of Children in Tents Outside Echoed. This Defines Christmas in Gaza

It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal ripped free and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims 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 remain missing. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

The current cold season occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism