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The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We spoke briefly as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, 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: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children huddled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened 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 walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass whipped and strained, while corrugated metal broke away and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, 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. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies 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 have not been found. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into questions of conscience, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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