đ Share this article During a Raging Storm, I Could Hear. This is Christmas in Gaza The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, though he didnât seem interested. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if heâd have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space. A Walk Through a City of Tents Walking down 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 falling water and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children curled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm. Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm. The Night Worsens During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on broken panes whipped and strained, while tin roofing broke away and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless. For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called âbad weatherâ. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment. Al-Arbaâiniya Locals call this time of year as al-Arbaâiniya; the fourty most severe 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 shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere. But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold. Fragile Shelters Observing the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step highlighted 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 overcrowded shelters. Most of these people have already been uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, without heating. Students in the Storm As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way. In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practicesâassignments, deadlinesâtransform into moral negotiations, influenced daily by concern for studentsâ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection. When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents? The Humanitarian Shortfall Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing. This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out. A Symbolic Season What makes this suffering especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease 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 winter aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism