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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I pictured children curled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets tore loose and crashed to the ground. 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 relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. 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 continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies 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 are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become moral negotiations, influenced daily by anxiety over 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? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism