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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped 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 City 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, just the noise 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 taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets tore loose and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. 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, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced 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 forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become questions of conscience, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, relief groups reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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