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It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We spoke briefly during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children nestled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on shattered windows whipped and strained, while metal sheets tore loose and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are faces I recognize; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into moral negotiations, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This winter coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism