During a Fierce Storm, The Cries of Children in Tents Pierced the Night. This Defines Christmas in Gaza

The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time 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 freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets ripped free and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

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 other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by concern for students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, relief groups reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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