đ Share this article During a Fierce Gale, 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. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk 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 was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didnât seem interested. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if heâd manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air. A Trek Through a City of Tents As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children curled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm. Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm. The Night Worsens In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes whipped and strained, while tin roofing ripped free and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless. Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called âbad weatherâ. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment. The Harshest Days Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arbaâiniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere. But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold. Precarious Existence Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges. The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, lacking heat. A Teacher's Anguish 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 profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. 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 practicesâassignments, deadlinesâbecome moral negotiations, dictated every moment by uncertainty about studentsâ safety, warmth and proximity to protection. During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, 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. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising. This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving. An Unnecessary Pain The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. No one should have 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 reveals just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow. This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism