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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell 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, just the noise of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children huddled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in 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 weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations retrieved the remains 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. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

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 hung damply, always damp. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters 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 still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Is their shelter holding? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as abandonment. 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 hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

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. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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