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It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children huddled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows billowed and tore, while corrugated metal broke away and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe 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 unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season 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, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened 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 repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, without heating.

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; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially painful is how preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This winter occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism