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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows billowed and tore, while corrugated metal ripped free and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking 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 lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor 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 cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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