During a Violent Tempest, The Panicked Screams of Children in Tents Outside Echoed. This Defines Christmas in Gaza

It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children curled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing ripped free and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water 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 hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many repeatedly. 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, without heating.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Do they feel any warmth? 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 no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. 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, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism