29.12.2025
Tent
In Gaza, fear is no longer a temporary state; it has become a constant part of everyday life. It accompanies changes in the weather, with every passing cloud and every sudden gust of wind. This fear is not merely psychological, it is tied to tangible risks: flooding, the collapse of tents, and the loss of the only available shelter. Temporary tents have, by force of reality, turned into permanent dwellings, yet they offer no real protection from cold or rain. Made of thin tarpaulins, they cannot withstand harsh weather conditions.
For many people in Gaza, daily hope has become painfully limited and simple: that winter will pass without heavy rain, and that the winds will subside. Every rainfall may lead to thousands of tents flooding, and every storm may mean the complete loss of shelter. Under these conditions, people rely on primitive means that provide only the bare minimum for survival. Long nights pass without adequate sleep; children suffer from cold and hunger; families live in a constant state of anxiety and helplessness, with no practical solutions within reach.
Against this harsh humanitarian reality, public rhetoric is repeatedly voiced without meaningful practical response. Those affected are urged to endure and remain resilient, without parallel efforts to provide safe shelter or basic necessities that reduce risk. Words alone do not stop the rain, compensate for the absence of a roof, or protect bodies from the bitter cold. This reality raises a legitimate question about the value of such calls in the absence of the minimum requirements for a dignified life.
The voice of those living in tents is not the voice of a single individual; it is the expression of a collective suffering endured by hundreds of thousands of families. Their demand is not a luxury, but a fundamental right to safety and life. It is an ongoing cry that reflects the scale of a daily tragedy, repeated under tents that do not protect, in an environment lacking security and resources.
In the camps, women make daily efforts to secure whatever old clothes and light blankets they can, items that no longer suffice. Pieces of fabric are washed with great care, and blankets are folded cautiously, as if they were tools of defence against the coming cold. Children play near the tents with bare feet, unaware that the first rainfall could turn their play into a long night of fear and instability.
The need for new tarpaulins and simple materials, such as wood, nails, and plastic sheets, to seal the growing holes in the tents continues to increase. These are repeated attempts, yet insufficient, to confront a cold that seeps into bodies exhausted by fatigue and into souls weighed down by anxiety and loss. The smell of firewood filling the air does not signify warmth as much as it reflects fear of a long, harsh winter.
Some men gather what remains of wood from destroyed homes, while others try to repair old stoves that are no longer safe to use. Everything in this reality is fragile: shelter, health, and even hope. With the first cold wave, collective anxiety intensifies, and simple yet profound questions arise about the ability to endure.
Winter in Gaza does not bring rain alone; it revives memories of safe homes and solid roofs, and exposes the gap between what is available and what is necessary. The sky is heavy with clouds, the ground heavy with suffering, and the tents struggle to endure with what little material remains. Amid all this, eyes remain lifted to the sky with one wish: that this winter passes with the least possible loss and the greatest possible measure of human safety.