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The time was about 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. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid 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 is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims 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. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into questions of conscience, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. 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 destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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