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It was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed 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 freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I imagined children curled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, 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. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by concern for students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. On the ground, 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. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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