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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, 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 draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We spoke briefly during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced 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 Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to 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 real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, 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 compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are 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 displaced, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become moral negotiations, dictated every moment by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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