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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing broke away and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites 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, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, 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 packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, without heating.

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 profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become moral negotiations, dictated every moment by concern for students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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