December 1st, 2025

Winter, rain, lighting and thunder!

I imagine these scenes and spell these words with a smile and a little dance.

These are my favourite months!

These once were my favourite months.

But no longer.

And I am sorry: I forgot to say that I am from Gaza

and it is the year 2025.

I live with my family in a tent.

Yes, a tent is my home now.

(And I’d like to just add a small note with low voice:

“Not camping in a tent by choice”).

Imagine winter in a tent set among ruins,

where rats and insects pass unhindered,

and the bare bones of infrastructure

leave our bodies broken and in the cold.

Two days ago, the first rain came to Gaza.

My heart rose, briefly, at the mercy of it––

the sky––once raging orange fire––

is still capable of tenderness.

Then my joy turned to terror again,

and I wished the clouds would close their hands.

I did not prepare for winter this year.

Once, I had walls,

more than one set of clothes,

a door to close at night.

There was light, sweet water, cleanliness, safety.

I used to watch the rain from a window—

Its soft patter summoning sleep like a promise of peace.

Now the rain drowns me.
It tears through the tent
and carries off whatever it wants.
This winter is not the winter I remember,
and I pray to Allah for the sky to stop.
I am drowning,
even though my lungs still fill with air.

My baby, Mohammed, wakes crying
as cold water falls onto his warm face.
Yamen looks at me and asks,
What do we do to stop this?
How do we stop ourselves from drowning?

My husband piles sand along the torn edges,
trying to hold the tent together,
but the rain keeps coming.

The battery dies.
Darkness takes the tent.
There is no light to care for my children,
only water and night.

In these moments, I turn inward and ask myself:
What is our fault?
What did my children do wrong?
What is Gaza guilty of?

The rain that once listened to me from outside my window

answers in suffering.

At night, I wake and pull the tent’s thin flaps closed,
bargaining with the rain.
I wrap my children in my arms,
warming their bodies,
and for a few fragile moments
it seems we will be okay.

Then the water begins to fall from above—
rain gathered and heavy,
pressing down on the tent
the way grief presses on the chest.
I never knew rain could weigh so much!

It pours inside.
I reach first for my university certificate,
proof that I once had a future,
something the rain cannot erase.
In one hand, I clutch it.
In the other, I hold my baby, Mohammed.

We step out of the tent
with nowhere to go,
carrying only ourselves—
and the weight of everything we have survived.

All around me, tents are drowning.
All around me, hands press against canvas,
trying to hold the rain back.

How will I change Yamen and Mohammed’s clothes
when even the spare ones are soaked?
I pray for the rain to stop,
but the rain has learned not to listen.

Here in Gaza,
winter carries suffering
the way clouds carry water.

Mashaallah, I close my eyes
and try to remember when rain was gentle,
when I welcomed its sound.

Now every drop asks the same question:
will I drown,
even far from the sea?

I used to meet water with my whole body—
I knew how to ride it,
how to balance,
how to trust the wave beneath my feet.

This water offers no rhythm,
no release.

Mohammed cries as rain drums against nearby tents.
I return to our wet shelter
and hold my children close.

We are underwater,
still breathing,
still waiting
for the surface.

All I can do in this moment

is hold Yamen and Mohammed

and tell them a story to guide them into sleep.

I tell them about a long time ago,

when the rain was my friend

and we listened to each other.