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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, 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 uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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