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The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on 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 are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing broke away and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. 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, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies 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 remain missing. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become questions of conscience, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. 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 exposes just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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