The chilling account from a friend displaced from Rafah to Mawasi Khan Yunis paints a stark picture: “I was trying to lift a side of the tent to let the water out instead of pooling inside, but the tent was too weak to hold. The mattress was soaked, the blankets stuck to the mud, and the children woke up terrified and wet. The fear of the water in their eyes was greater than the fear of the planes.” I asked myself, where do I move them to? From tent to tent? The war hasn’t ended, and its curtain hasn’t fallen, yet some still declare victory! I was speaking on behalf of thousands of fathers, not just my family.” This personal testimony, however, is now a collective narrative, echoing the plight of millions in غزة (Gaza).
The Third Year of Devastation: Gaza’s Collapsing Infrastructure
As the war of attrition enters its third year, Gaza has been entirely transformed into a disaster zone. The fundamental infrastructure has crumbled – no consistent electricity, no potable water, impassable roads, and a broken sewage system. The destruction isn’t limited to buildings; it’s a dismantling of the very conditions necessary for life. Millions of Palestinians have been forcibly displaced, many for the second or third time. The tents, once symbols of temporary refuge, have become a permanent, yet precarious, dwelling. These are not tents with foundations, walls, or roofs capable of withstanding the elements. Thousands of children sleep on damp ground, women struggle to maintain a semblance of privacy, and men feel helpless to protect their families, not for lack of will, but because their resources are simply overwhelmed by the scale of the catastrophe. The ongoing collapse of infrastructure, the absence of drainage networks, the tightening of the blockade, and the freezing of reconstruction efforts all contribute to the recurring scenes of loss and indignity within the displacement camps.
The Fury of Byron: A Night of Unimaginable Hardship
The arrival of the Byron weather system brought a new level of cruelty. Torrential rains turned the land into a sea of mud, roads into stagnant pools, and tents into vessels collecting water instead of repelling it. Winds lashed at the tents as if they were silent projectiles. Dozens collapsed during the night, and hundreds were completely flooded. This wasn’t merely a meteorological report; it was a harrowing lesson in the helplessness of being a father facing a storm.
As the rain intensified, I moved around inside the tent, desperately trying to shield the children from the leaks. Lifting a mattress here, covering a gap there, searching for any scrap of fabric to block the wind. It felt like battling a living nightmare. The most agonizing part was the father’s inability to fulfill the most basic function: providing a secure roof over his family’s heads. The situation in مخيمات النزوح (displacement camps) is dire.
The Weight of Fatherhood in the Face of Disaster
The feeling of inadequacy is pervasive. It’s not just about the physical discomfort; it’s about the erosion of dignity and the inability to offer even minimal protection. Each drop of rain feels like a condemnation, a reminder of the world’s indifference. The constant struggle to maintain some semblance of normalcy in the face of utter chaos takes an immeasurable toll.
A Question of Safe Passage and Systemic Oppression
While the world debates safe passages and post-war plans, a single tent remains unsafe, and no one takes responsibility. Does the international community need to witness children drowning inside their tents to acknowledge that the blockade isn’t merely a security measure, but a deliberate policy of starving the Palestinian people and stripping them of their basic means of survival?
The United Nations estimates that over two-thirds of displaced people live in tents without insulating floors, drainage systems, or protection from floods. Others live amongst the rubble of their former homes, finding it a preferable alternative to the exposed conditions of the camps. With continued Israeli restrictions preventing the entry of suitable tents, shelter materials, and blankets, a single rainstorm can escalate into a full-blown humanitarian disaster, posing an immediate threat to life, not only from drowning but also from the diseases that proliferate in stagnant water, mud, and open sewage. The need for المساعدات الإنسانية (humanitarian aid) is critical.
Beyond Sympathy: A Call for Action
What is happening today isn’t simply a refugee crisis; it’s a direct consequence of a systematic policy: destroying homes and preventing their reconstruction, displacing populations and blocking access to shelter, creating a crisis and then managing the global discussion about the crisis. Some want these tents to remain because they justify the continuation of the war. Others prefer to see Palestinians as mere numbers, devoid of names, homes, or memories, making it easier to talk about them than to talk with them.
Yet, these tents, battered by the rain, hold stories that neither the weather nor the war can erase. Stories of fathers concealing their fear, mothers tirelessly drying waterlogged blankets, and children waking from the cold without a tear, because crying in a tent feels like a luxury they cannot afford. While everyone struggles to survive the storm, the larger question hangs over us: how long will Palestinians be forced to live in tents? And how long will the world stand by and watch as these tents are destroyed, collapse, or sink? The tragic cycle seems to repeat itself with the Palestinians, mirroring the النكبة (Nakba), with little change in the conditions of refugee life.
This moment demands more than solidarity; it requires action. We need the immediate opening of safe passages, the unconditional entry of shelter materials, and an end to the blockade that has turned the weather into an existential threat. The dangers looming in the coming hours and days aren’t acts of fate, but the direct result of a continuing war and deliberate policies.
Until then, the Palestinian displaced person will continue to live between the rain that amplifies their pain, a war that refuses to end, and a world that prefers to talk about them rather than save them. We will continue to hold the tent in one hand and our children in the other, trying to convince ourselves that this storm will pass, even as we know in our hearts that the devastation itself will not.