During a Raging Storm, I Could Hear. This Defines Christmas in Gaza
The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if heâd find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.
A Walk 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 falling water and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I activated 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? The cold was piercing. I imagined children curled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.
Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.
The Midnight Hour Escalates
In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass whipped and strained, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.
During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called âpoor conditionsâ. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.
Al-Arbaâiniya
Locals call this time of year as al-Arbaâiniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.
But the danger of winter is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.
A Life in Tents
Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.
Most of these people have already been uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, without heating.
The Weight on Education
Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.
In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practicesâprojects, due datesâbecome questions of conscience, shaped each day by concern for studentsâ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.
When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, 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?
Aid and Abandonment
Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, relief groups reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.
This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.
An Unnecessary Pain
The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness 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 vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.
This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism
