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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey 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, only the sound of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children curled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows billowed and tore, while tin roofing ripped free and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. 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 lasting until 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. This year, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims 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 are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, without heating.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism