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The time was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening 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 merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a City 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 roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children curled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked 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 stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass whipped and strained, while corrugated metal tore loose and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations 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 remain missing. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, 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, in darkness, without heating.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing 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 learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This winter aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism