The time was around 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. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.
While traversing 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 roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children nestled under wet blankets, 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 brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.
As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.
For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.
Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.
But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies 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 have not been found. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.
Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were 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 displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, lacking heat.
As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.
In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.
On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?
Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.
This is not an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.
The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.
This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism
A seasoned software engineer with a passion for open-source projects and tech education.
