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It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children huddled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets broke away and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

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 definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams 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 have not been found. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes compromised after 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.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become questions of conscience, dictated every moment by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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