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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children curled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while metal sheets ripped free and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst 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 true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, devoid of warmth.

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 join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. 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—turn into questions of conscience, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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