During a Violent Tempest, The Cries of Children in Tents Pierced the Night. This is Christmas in Gaza

The time was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children nestled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass billowed and tore, while metal sheets ripped free and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies 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 remain missing. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, without heating.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor 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 attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become questions of conscience, influenced daily by concern for students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

The current cold season coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism