The small space where the Mariam’s family kitchen supplies were kept, flooded with water after a heavy November rain. Photo: Mariam Mushtaha

Before October 7, 2023, winter had always been my favorite season. Every year, I waited for it with excitement. As the weather began to change, my mother would ask me to reorganize my closet, to pack away my summer clothes and bring out the winter ones. For many, a tiring and boring task; for me, one I eagerly awaited and truly enjoyed. I luxuriated in it, turning on a podcast or some music and slowly folding my clothes.

Then, with my mother and sister, I’d go shopping to buy new pajamas and thick blankets: exciting preparations that marked the start of winter as the weather changed and the rain started.

While many of my friends missed school to avoid getting too wet or too cold, I couldn’t agree with them. Walking in the rain brought me inexplicable joy. It was an experience I never wanted to miss—even if it meant coming home sick.

At night, I’d close my curtains, wrap myself in my thick red blanket and sit on my bed, with a hot chocolate or tea, to watch a movie or TV series. 

When the war on Gaza erupted, my love for winter and rain faded. Packing our belongings to flee is extremely difficult in any weather, but it’s worse in heavy rain. My brother once dropped his blanket on the rain-soaked ground while loading the car, and I saw his helplessness, knowing he had no choice but to carry it, drenched and heavy, because without it, he’d have nothing to cover himself.

In the early months of the war, we managed to avoid living in tents, seeking shelter in homes, schools, and hospitals during our displacements in Gaza City.

In August 2025, though, the Israeli cabinet announced its decision to occupy Gaza City—my home town. In Israel’s plan to depopulate Gaza City, it started by threatening buildings that were overcrowded with people to push them out. Then after it destroyed most of the towers, it began another strategy: sending in “robtos,” vehicles loaded with huge amount of explosions, to force who remained to leave. The devastating Israeli offensive forced us to leave the city. Our destination was the Al-Mawasi area of Khan Younis. And for the first time, we had no choice but to live in a tent. September 18, 2025, marked our first day.

Before the war, whenever I heard the word “tent,” I thought of camping. I never imagined a tent would become my home. Life in a tent is physical and psychological torture. There is so much to escape from: the insects, the rodents, the scorching and suffocating heat in the day, the biting cold at night.

We never imagined we would soon face something even more intolerable. On November 13, a heavy storm hit the Gaza Strip. Although it was expected, living in tents, we couldn’t prepare for it—we simply had no means to afford proper protection.

The tent camp, flooded with rainwater. Photo: Mushtaha

Cowering inside the tent, we tried to hide from the heavy rain, but the wind was fierce, knocking everything in the tent to the ground. Outside, the table we stored what we couldn’t fit inside the tent tumbled; our cups and plates shattered. The rain grew harsher, and water leaked through the tent. Our clothes were soaked.

The greatest pain, though, was seeing the few belongings we had left—our mattresses, clothing, and some of my books—destroyed by something I’d always loved. I never imagined that one day, rain—my source of peace, comfort, and hope—would become something I fear. Now, it destroys everything I love and brings only distress.

Winter is fast approaching. The last storm already left us exposed and vulnerable. How will we survive the full force of winter, the third for Gaza’s displaced people? How will we endure the vicious conditions?

When the ceasefire was announced, we had hoped to return to Gaza City, where we were born and raised and where we built a life, but our home is shattered by the brutality of war. Home is now just rubble. Renting a house has become unaffordable. Landlords demand high prices that most people cannot afford. Even burned and damaged houses without basic services cost $1,000 a month or more, so we remain displaced in Khan Younis. In a tent.

The closer winter draws, the deeper our suffering becomes. Waterproof tents and tarpaulins are limited and expensive. Their prices fluctuate every day, depending on whether the border crossings are open. The few supplies that do enter are often stolen by individuals who later sell them at exorbitant prices.

My story is only one among thousands. Every Gazan family living in a tent is preparing for winter with fear—because they have nothing left to protect themselves from the cold.

This will be our third winter displaced, our third winter without a home, our third winter fighting the silence of the world. As Gaza braces itself once more, we carry the hope that this will be the last winter we face without walls, without safety, and without justice.

Postscript: On December 11, a harsher storm hit the Strip, deepening our vulnerability. The rain did not stop for two days. 

I saw many tents in our camp destroyed by strong winds, left completely useless. This time, water did not just leak into the tents—it flooded them.

In my camp, many families were left without shelter. Some families departed from the camp and sought refuge with relatives. Others crammed into neighbors’ tents until they could figure out where to go. I also saw people rebuilding makeshift shelters from tarpaulins and scraps of fabric, because the cost of a new tent nowadays is not something all people can afford.

My family lost a tarpaulin to the wind, and nearly lost the tent itself. We have tried to make repairs by adding tarpaulins for more protection, but we are uncertain whether they will withstand the upcoming storms.