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

It was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We spoke briefly during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children curled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on broken panes billowed and tore, while metal sheets ripped free and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with 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, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations retrieved the remains 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 are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. 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, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into moral negotiations, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be 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 increasing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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