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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass whipped and strained, while metal sheets tore loose and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know 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 true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

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; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions 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 seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into moral negotiations, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis 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 improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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