Israel’s genocidal campaign has left behind a reality that our starved bodies cannot survive.
Winter came to Gaza last month with a violent storm. I woke up at night to a disaster. Our tent was flooded with water which had transformed our “floor” into a shallow pool. The mattresses and pillows were completely soaked, cooking pots were submerged, the clothes were drenched, and even our bags— which function as our “closets”—were filled with water. Nothing inside remained dry.
As I tried to understand what was happening, I suddenly heard children crying at the entrance of our tent. I opened it quickly and found three children from the neighbouring tents, their lips blue from the cold, with their mother trembling behind them saying, “We are completely soaked… the rain leaked inside and the water reached everywhere.”
The same tragic scene was repeated all around us: women, children, and elderly people sitting in the street under the rain, their bedding drenched and their belongings scattered, while confusion and cries filled the air.
All 1.4 million displaced Palestinians who lack proper shelter suffered that day—people with no protection against the weather or its sudden storms.
For us, it took two full days for our belongings to dry because the sun barely appeared; everything stayed cold and damp. We didn’t move to another place—we stayed where we were, trying to salvage whatever we could, because there was simply nowhere else to go.
Only a week later, an even stronger winter storm arrived with severe rainfall. Tents were flooded again; little children froze in the rain again.
This week, when Storm Byron hit, we were flooded once again. Despite all our efforts to reinforce the tents, secure them tightly, and bring in stronger tarps, nothing worked. The winds were fiercer, the rain heavier, and the water pushed its way inside from every direction. The ground no longer absorbed anything. The water began rising rapidly beneath our feet, turning the entire area into a swamp.
According to the authorities, the strong winds destroyed at least 27,000 tents. These are 27,000 families who already struggled and now have nothing, no shelter, nowhere to hide from the rain and cold.
We are a family of seven living in a tent that is four by four metres (13 feet by 13 feet). Among us are two children aged five and 10 and our grandmother, aged 80. We, the adults, can push through the cold and hardship. But how can the elderly and children bear what we live every day?
We sleep on mattresses pressed directly against the ground, with cold seeping in from below and above, with only two blankets that can’t shield us from the freezing nights. Everyone in the tent has two blankets each, barely enough to offer temporary warmth. There is no source of heating—no electricity, no heater—just tired bodies trying to share whatever warmth remains.
My grandmother cannot tolerate the cold at all. I watch her shiver through the night, her hand on her chest as if trying to hold herself together. All we can do is pile every blanket we have on top of her and watch anxiously until she is able to fall asleep.
Many people in Gaza live in conditions far worse than ours.
Most families who just want a modest tent over their heads cannot afford one. The price of tents can go as high as $1,000; the rent one has to pay to pitch a tent on a piece of land can be as much as $500. Those who cannot pay live in the street in makeshift shelters.
Salah al-Din Street, for example, is crowded with them. Most are simply blankets hung and wrapped around small spaces for minimal privacy, offering no protection from rain or cold. With any strong gust of wind, they burst open.
There are also children living directly in the streets, sleeping on the cold ground. Many have lost their mothers or fathers during the war. When you pass by, you see them—sometimes silent, sometimes crying, sometimes searching for something to eat.
Food prices continue to be high. Nutritious items like meat and eggs are either unavailable or cost too much. Most families have not eaten a proper protein meal in months.
There is no mass campaign to remove rubble or level the ground so people can pitch their tents due to an equipment shortage. No steps have been taken to provide permanent housing for families.
All of this means we now face a terrifying possibility: that life in a tent—one that can be flooded or ripped apart by the wind at any moment—may become our long-term reality. This is an unbearable thought.
During the bombardment, we lived with the constant fear of death, and perhaps the intensity of the war overshadowed everything else—the cold, the rain, the tents shaking above our heads. But now, after the mass bombing has stopped, we are facing the full ugliness of Gaza’s “new normal”.
I fear this winter will be much worse for Gaza. With no heating, no real shelter, and the weather getting worse each day, we are likely to see many deaths among the children, the elderly and the chronically ill. Already, the first deaths from hypothermia were reported – babies Rahaf Abu Jazar and Taim al-Khawaja and nine-year-old Hadeel al-Masri. If the world is really committed to ending the genocide in Gaza, it needs to take real, urgent action and ensure that we have at least the basic conditions for survival: food, housing and medical care.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect media’s editorial stance.
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