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The time was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were hastily covered 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 City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while corrugated metal broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst 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 lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into questions of conscience, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism