It was about 8.30pm on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. It was windy, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. At first it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent to take shelter, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested in talking. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.
As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices coming from inside them, only the sound of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on the torch of my mobile phone to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.
