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It was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I activated 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? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass billowed and tore, while corrugated metal ripped free and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. 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 “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe 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 unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations 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 are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

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 deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism