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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened 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 Walk Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children huddled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into moral negotiations, influenced daily by concern for students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. 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 destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

The current cold season occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism