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The time was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while corrugated metal tore loose and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement 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, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is now very real. 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, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they persist in learning. 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—transform into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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