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It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. 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 poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a Landscape 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, just the noise of falling water and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children huddled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal broke away and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday 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 ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

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, always damp. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in 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 challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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