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The time was around 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, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers 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, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing broke away and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of 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 continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. 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, rescuing five others, 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 finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by concern for students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism