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The time was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I pictured children huddled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call 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 reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, without heating.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become questions of conscience, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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