The Once Refreshing Stillness of Gaza’s Winter Has Become a Haunting Silence

Part of the Series

Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation

Winter at our home in Gaza was always a season of love, warmth and the irresistible aroma of delicious food. Following my grandmother’s timeless advice — “If the cold comes, prepare your fresh olive oil and wood” — our preparations for the season brought us closer together. Winter meant family gatherings and cozy holidays, especially on stormy days when strong winds and heavy rains prompted school closures. The announcement of a holiday was met with uncontainable joy from my siblings, as if each rainy day promised the best moments of their lives.

Mornings were my favorite part of those wintry days. They began with steaming cups of sahlab, a traditional creamy drink, paired with bars of dark chocolate. We would sip slowly, savoring the warmth while watching the rain fall in rhythmic cascades, revitalizing the earth. My grandmother’s garden during these moments was a magical sight. Everywhere, vibrant greens stretched across the soil, and the air was rich with the fresh, earthy scent of damp leaves. Breathing it in felt like filling your lungs with pure relief, a calmness that seemed to cleanse your soul.

The peaceful stillness of these mornings was always interrupted by the cheerful voice of my mother, calling out, “Come over! Breakfast is ready!” Her words carried the promise of a feast: golden, crispy falafel, creamy hummus drizzled generously with olive oil from the recent harvest, and steaming cups of fragrant tea. Olive harvest season had just ended, so the freshly pressed olive oil graced nearly every dish on our table. My father often said, “The taste of olive oil is a well-earned reward for all the care I’ve given the trees and the hard weeks of harvest.”

By afternoon, the rain would usually ease, allowing us to venture into the garden. Oranges would glisten with raindrops like scattered diamonds clinging to their skin. We would also pick spinach, grown lush and vibrant from the rainwater. My little brother Osama had a special connection with the spinach patch, having helped my father plant the seeds. Watching the leaves grow large and deep green filled him with pride. His joy was infectious as he jumped into puddles, splashing water everywhere, and shouted, “My spinach! My spinach! Look how big it is now!”

As dark clouds began to gather on the horizon, signaling the arrival of rain, we would rush home with excitement. My mother, always attuned to the rhythms of the seasons, would start preparing her signature spinach pies. The kitchen would fill with the comforting aroma of fresh dough and earthy spinach, mingling with the rich scent of olive oil as she drizzled it generously over the pies.

What was once a sanctuary of peace and growth has been torn from the earth, leaving only the scars of a brutal assault on everything that was mine.

When the pies emerged from the oven, golden and perfectly crispy, their hot crusts contrasted beautifully with the tender, flavorful filling. Taking the first bite was pure joy — you couldn’t help but smile. Their taste in winter held a special magic, as if the cold air made them even more satisfying.

Night was a time of stories and warmth, a sacred hour when we gathered around my grandmother. The flickering glow of the fire danced across her face as she transported us to a world of memories and history. She would recount vivid tales of our homeland, Beit Daras, painting pictures of its lush fields and the life it once held. Her voice would grow heavy with sorrow as she spoke of the Nakba, the heartbreaking events that forced her and countless others to leave their homes. Through her stories, the past came alive, and the weight of our heritage settled deeply in our hearts.

No evening was complete without the comforting rituals that accompanied her storytelling. The aroma of chestnuts roasting over the fire mixed with the sweet citrusy scent of oranges we peeled with eager hands. The crackle of the fire, the rich flavor of the warm chestnuts, and the bright juiciness of the oranges created a perfect harmony, elevating the moment to something almost sacred.

Despite the relentless siege, we found ways to create moments of joy that briefly freed us from the prison-like conditions of Gaza. Yet, the Israeli occupation views these moments as a luxury we do not deserve, systematically destroying all the beautiful things that once made winter a time of warmth and wonder.

Now, all the joys I once knew have been reduced to ashes. As I write these words, welcoming a new winter, tears fall — each drop a silent testament to what has been lost: my mother, my grandmother, my home and my garden, once full of life and vitality, now reduced to nothing. The rich, green soil that once nurtured beauty has withered away, swallowed whole by the devastation wrought by Israel’s bloody invasion. What was once a sanctuary of peace and growth has been torn from the earth, leaving only the scars of a brutal assault on everything that was mine.

What was once a season of gentle pleasures has become one of unyielding suffering, as each cold day brings with it a weight of loss and grief.

The Israeli occupation has turned winter into a relentless nightmare, replacing warmth with an unyielding, biting cold, and stability with the ever-present fear of displacement. The once vibrant colors of winter, filled with life and promise, have been consumed by the dark hues of blood, destruction and death. What was once a season of quiet beauty has now become a grim reminder of the unthinkable losses we endure.

Winter used to be my favorite season, a time I looked forward to with excitement. But now it has lost all its beauty, transformed into a constant reminder of sorrow and hardship. The chill that once brought a refreshing stillness now cuts through my bones, and the quiet of the season feels more like a haunting silence. What was once a season of gentle pleasures has become one of unyielding suffering, as each cold day brings with it a weight of loss and grief.