As winter descends on the Gaza Strip, its bitter chill seeps into the remnants of a coastal enclave Israeli airstrikes have torn apart. More than a year of war has reduced once-bustling neighborhoods to skeletal remains, a maze of crumbling walls, and mounds of scattered rubble. Families huddle beneath makeshift shelters patched together from scraps, what little protection they have against the biting wind coming from the coast.
Arwa al-Astal, 26, crouched low inside her tent, working quickly to press scraps of fabric over a gaping hole. Outside, the wind howled, battering the makeshift shelter that had become her family’s feeble fortress. Yet, it wasn’t just the wind she feared. The cold also seeps in, piercing layers of worn clothes and threadbare blankets, and the ever-present threat of bombings. Her children gathered in the corner, shivering and clinging to each other. “The closer winter gets, the more terrified I am of losing my children,” she said.
“Wind Here Is Too Strong”
Each passing night is as much a battle against the elements as it is a fight against the overwhelming sense of helplessness. Recently, Arwa’s husband placed sandbags and rocks around the edges, but the gusts found their way in, shooting through every crack and gap. Sometimes, she and her husband jolt awake, grasping at the tent poles as the wind threatens to tear apart the tent. “Sometimes we wake up at night to hold our tent down,” she whispered. “But it’s never enough. The wind here is too strong.”
Inside, Arwa’s children stirred restlessly. There was no gas for heating, no electricity to offer a moment’s reprieve from the chill. When it rains, the water finds its way in, soaking their clothes, bedding, and the few possessions they have left. She often wraps her arms around her youngest, her body the only warmth she can offer. “I try to use my own body heat to keep them warm,” she explained.
But it was a battle she was losing. The dampness clung to their skin, and each drop that seeped through the tent felt like an assault.
Resilience Amid Scarcity
Nidaa Aita, 31, moved with purpose through a small cluster of women, the hum of voices and faint clinking of makeshift tools echoing in the dimly lit room. She had faced displacement before, but this time, she resolved to create hope amid the wreckage. Before the war, she had established “Umm Al-Joud Kitchen,” a project of empowerment for women. Now, as scarcity and uncertainty close amid winter’s harshness, Nidaa has turned her attention to a project called “Needle and Thread.”
Women worked tirelessly, cutting thermal blankets and threading needles, determination marking their faces. In the absence of electricity, they had rigged a sewing machine to a bicycle, pedaling to create enough power for each stitch. “We are a people capable of achieving the impossible,” Nidaa said, her voice steady as she supervised.
Buttons made from date pits and shells clinked into metal bowls, each one a testament to resilience. These creations were more than garments; they were shields against the biting cold and a symbol of survival. Yet Nidaa knew the demand for their work far outstripped the scarce resources available. The small income generated offered a glimmer of hope but was not enough to meet the overwhelming needs.
Loss and Fear
Rasha Abu Jazya, 40, sat on a worn piece of tarp, her four children bundled under a shared blanket, their eyes wide with a mix of fatigue and fear. The school-turned-shelter in Khan Younis had become a maze of makeshift beds and whispered prayers. When Israeli airstrikes targeted a nearby building, chaos erupted. “We spread tarp sheets and sleep on them,” she said. “I and my children tried making a tent from cloths we collected,” she recalled.
Her voice cracked as she described the cold rain that soon seeped through, soaking their clothes and mattress.
It was in that storm, as they scrambled to secure their fragile shelter, that Rasha’s youngest clung to her, eyes pleading. “Mom! Protect me,” she whispered. Rasha’s heart fractured with each repetition, the sense of helplessness embedding itself deep within her.
“It left me with the feeling of inability and sadness as I could not protect my children,” she said, eyes distant, remembering how even aid distributions became arenas of desperation and violence. “People panic, and they start fighting over the aid supplies. Sometimes, people even stab each other to get a piece of aid.”
Emotional and Physical Hardship
Arwa’s exhaustion was a reflection of every mother’s anguish. “My emotional health is deteriorating every day,” she admitted. The constant anxiety, the gnawing fear — each night spent clinging to hope for a dawn that brought anything other than bombs and bitter wind. “It makes me feel depressed and angry. I don’t feel like I can be the mother my children need or the wife my husband needs.” Her eyes, weary and red-rimmed, betrayed the weight of failure she felt pressing down on her. Yet, every morning she forced herself up, driven by the instinct to protect.
The hunger, the cold, the relentless cost of surviving war — Arwa and her neighbors fought battles without weapons. “There’s no milk for babies, no flour. One packet of flour costs 200 shekels,” Arwa said, her voice tight. The scarcity was an everyday wound, deepening with each moment spent searching for food and water that never came. “Sometimes, I sit beside my baby and cry because I feel so helpless.”
“Bring Hope”
Nidaa’s hands were steady as she fastened a button on a newly sewn coat, glancing up at the women who worked alongside her. They were exhausted but smiled faintly at each stitch completed. Their hope flickered in shared glances, in the warmth that radiated not just from their work but from knowing they weren’t alone.”I started working on myself to bring hope to those around me,” Nidaa explained.
Meanwhile, for Arwa, hope means more than survival. Hope is a prayer for a return to the life she once knew. “I want the world to know that we are human beings. We want to live, just like everyone else,” she said. The world beyond the battered tents and cold nights seemed distant, but she clung to the belief that they, too, deserved peace.
Rasha, too, allowed herself to remember, if only for a moment, the home she had left behind. Worse still, she cannot start to rebuild her life as long as the war presses on. “Every time I settle and start from scratch and buy goods,” she said. “I leave them behind and flee out of fear for my children’s lives.”
