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The time was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday 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 only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children huddled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing ripped free and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, commencing in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into questions of conscience, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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