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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I pictured children curled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on shattered windows whipped and strained, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims 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 are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into questions of conscience, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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